Fifty Mice Part 3

VAUGHN?.

Or Manchurian Global, the shadowy government contractor, some covert study thats gone off the rails, a secret experiment Jay doesnt even remember he walked in on, and- -no. Hes pretty sure he knows what it cant be, but not what it is.

He doesnt like to look backward; Jay has never really cared where hes been. He prides himself as always forward-moving: here, in the moment: unbeholden to an immutable and, by the way, completely irrelevant past. Gone. Done. How to remember what he did six months ago, six weeks ago, six days ago, at a specific time in a specific place-it seems impracticable. Time flows, life pa.s.ses, memories are compromised by distance and the distortion of perspective, mood, focus. You look in the mirror and you see not your face as it is, but your face approximated by the millions of times youve seen it before, tired, hungover, happy, broken, sick, young, younger, the baby, the boy, the survivor, the man, staring back at you, reversed, reflected, ever since you first were aware it was your face, the sum total of yourself, not even close to what another person looking at you would see.

Not to mention the hard fact that you might not want to remember that person you were before.

For a long time after Public retreats, Jays motionless on his hospital bed, eyes closed but wide awake, struggling to determine what he could possibly know, or have seen in the past year, that would be of value to federal law enforcement. So, yeah, a good guess might be Manchurian G., something to do with his old job, or the behavioral research Vaughn does; something perilous that Jay has seen without knowing hes seen it.

There is, however, the dead girl in the photographs. And Jays conviction that there is no Venn intersect between that girl and Vaughn.

He wonders: What was Vaughns point about those fifty cloned mice?

How many images do we process, in a single day? How many people do we encounter?

How many times waking in the night to the touch of breeze across his face and the soft darkness and the fear and indecision and the certainty of an interlocutor; that reflexive spike of terror tethered to another time, a different breach. Was that important? Was that part of this?

The more he tries to remember, the more jumbled the memories get. Last years birthday. Christmas. March Madness, he lost fifty bucks on his office pool bracket. The faint impression Stacy leaves in the covers of the bed, the tendrils of her perfumes. Her closet packed with clothes and shoes she never wears. The sound of January rain on the French doors, the leak down the wall.

His fathers face, alive, asleep, dead.

His sisters empty bed that next morning when they took him back to get some clothes.

His mothers vacant stare.

There was that night he saw the motorcade, leaving Westwood, when was that? May? Every intersection blocked on the west side. Getting out of there was a nightmare. The pooling streetlights, the spectral gauze of marine layer off the Pacific, and the brittle gleam of motionless traffic. It might have been a shutdown for the President. The blacked-out windows of all those long limousines. And the homeless man with the megaphone and the red tinfoil cape who brought it all to a standstill, screaming gibberish, until LAPD and Secret Service swarmed him and carried him to a waiting van, thrashing and spitting.

Was there something that night he missed?

His mouth is dry. His fingertips itch like crazy. He rubs them against the clammy palms of his hands, and tugs against the handcuff, and then sinks into himself, frustrated, almost resigned. Everything seems out of his control, and control, for Jay, has always been everything.

Publics boilerplate doc.u.ments wait on the steel tray angled across the bed, and Jay is deciding that he needs to have an attorney look at them when a womans voice startles and observes: "You could have someone review those, but the trouble with lawyers is that they are the most-likely-to-squeal-like-a-squirrel component in all our studies of why witness protection programs get compromised and people were trying to save die."

The brunette from the subway has breezed in, brisk, lively, self-possessed, jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Empty hip holster for the weapon shes left somewhere (for safety?), but shes jangling a fistful of keys and has her own "h.e.l.lO My Name Is" sticker on which shes scrawled in purple Sharpie: DOE.

Unlocking his handcuff, she continues, "Its just, once lawyers get to talking its hard to shut them up. Plus theyre abject cowards, which makes them particularly susceptible to torture." She adds, "Hi," and takes a ballpoint pen from her pocket to put on top of Publics waiver doc.u.ments.

"Hi." Jay slides upright, again, queasy with discomfort, light-headed but starting to shake off the muddle, deadened legs swinging out and dangling over the side of his bed, blood rushing back to his tingling feet, determined to stand up until he feels the air-conditioned air on his a.s.s and realizes hes in one of those backless hospital gowns that n.o.body has bothered to tie. He rubs his wrist and looks up to meet Does implacable gaze.

"Fortunately, under the U.S. Patriot Act and its amendments and revisions," she tells him, "we are empowered, if we want, to simply dispense with that potential risk factor. Lawyers, I mean. Not that we will," Doe admits, "some of us still believe in the rule of law, that its your right as a citizen to have counsel, although the Supreme Court may have a different opinion soon, and, I know its been said before by my colleague, but: you arent being accused of anything." She finishes her speech there. And waits. Not as pretty as he remembers. Maybe its the cold gray light.

"You can keep me in limbo forever, is what youre saying."

"Forever," Doe muses, still friendly, "is a long time. So. On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out are you?"

Jay doesnt want to answer this. Instead he gestures to her name tag. "Doe?"

"Jane. Yeah." She reads Jays doubt. "Deputy U.S. Marshal. Do you need to see my badge?"

"Thats not really your name."

"Dont hurt my feelings," she says playfully.

"And Public? Stab in the dark: John Q.?"

Doe smiles, big. Shes got one molar capped gold in back. Weirdly blue-collar and endearing. "Exactamente. Good guess."

Jay is not amused. "I might feel better talking to you with an attorney present," Jay says, reaching back and struggling to make a knot in his gown tie. It wont take.

"Yeah? Why? What have you done?"

"You sound like your partner."

"Oh, were not partners," she says categorically. "But I am sorry. For messing with you. Were just attempting to keep it, you know, light. I can only imagine how incredibly strange all this must be."

Jay breathes out, tight. "Just a bit, yeah."

"Although, whats interesting to me is how youre not nearly as freaked out as I would think youd be," she says purposefully, twisting her mouth, wry, and cutting him a curious look that seems to suggest, if hes not diligent, sh.e.l.l get right into his head. Jays pulse skips. She doesnt wait for a response from him, doesnt seem to expect one. All friendly again: "You want some help with that gown?"

"No, I think Im good." Jay lowers himself from the bed unsteadily to the floor, feeling the icy tile on the soles of his already cold feet, and holding his gown shut behind him with one hand.

"Okay."

The bathroom door is in the far corner, twenty feet of open floor, and Jay just focuses on getting there and keeping his backside to the wall.

"You can put your clothes on," Doe tells him. "Theyre hanging on a hook in there."

"Great." He meets her steady gaze reluctantly. Doe worries Jay more than Public; the amiable good nature, the genuine concern, its seductive, and winning, and he doesnt believe it. This woman orchestrated and conducted his forceable abduction only a few hours-or is it days?-ago. "Oh, wait." Jay stops, slide-steps back to the bed, reaches, takes the legal papers one-handed from the bedside table, and flips the pen up off them and catches it in his mouth.

Doe, impressed: "Whoa. He does tricks."

"Boarding school. You learn . . . all kinds of useless stuff." Reversing again, and the same weird sideways shuffle takes him to the bathroom, with Doe, arms akimbo, watching.

"Show me something else."

Jay smiles reflexively as he backs into the bathroom, and thinks: Watch me disappear.

Safely inside, Jay locks the door, leans against it and takes a few deep, ragged breaths. The notion of escape has been dancing in and out of his thoughts for a while now, but he has no plan, no skill set that would suggest he could pull it off. Its a small s.p.a.ce: toilet, sink, and a rust-streaked, cobwebbed shower n.o.body has used in a long time. His eyes slide to his reflection in the mirror over the sink. He sees a pale, stubbled face under bleached, chopped hair and, for a moment, doesnt even recognize himself.

"Everything okay in there?"

Jay stares. Oh, man.

"Did you say something?" The soft slap of her hand on the door. "Jay. Everything okay?"

"Yeah. My hair especially."

"Touch of the dramatic," she says, still trending to cheerful. "Itll grow out."

The glare of the single bulb.

The grating hum of the air-conditioning.

What happens next unfolds in loose fragments that will later defy any rational explanation. The rasping noise brings his eyes to the ceiling above the toilet, and any number of bad action movies where the hero escapes through the ducting.

Gray slacks hurriedly taken from the hook on the back of the door and pulled on; the toilet flushed, seat cover dropped, and Jay stepping up onto it, barefoot, b.u.t.toning his pants, hospital gown billowing open in the air currents from the big latticed ceiling grille for the central air. Jays gauze-clumsy fingertips claw at it, hoping its one of those spring-secured grilles, but, no-s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t-hex nuts hold the vent in place.

He flushes the toilet again.

From outside: "Jay?"

"Nothing, all good," Jay blurts incoherently. Then improvises, "Can I take a shower? Im, like, pretty funky."

A slight hesitation. "Sure. Whatever you need."

"Thanks."

"Towel?"

"Right. Yes. Thank you."

He steps down, cranks the handles in the shower stall to send a loud splatter of tepid water into the splash trough, and thinks he hears Does footsteps trail out into the hallway.

Publics ballpoint pen, unscrewed, disa.s.sembled, pieces spilling out across the dusty white vanity counter, will serve as a crude tool. In boarding school, Jay had breached any number of off-limits s.p.a.ces using only his pens, scissors, and paper clips. Moments later hes up on the toilet again, using the husk of the pen like a socket wrench to jimmy the hex nuts from the grille. They pop and yield; the vent cover goes gently to the floor. Jay throws shoes and socks up into the darkness, then reaches into the steel ducting, to find leverage and pulling himself up awkwardly into the opening, skin sc.r.a.ping against sharp metal. Two of his fingers are cut and bleeding through the gauze. Steam is billowing up, condensing on the steel. His hips stick. By the width of the waistband of his pants he cant fit. Its so stupid he almost laughs, but his fingers are bleeding, and the hot, damp air is blinding him, his arms are shaking, and some elemental part of him doesnt want to give up to them. He makes one last, desperate pull, twists, and his pants slide off, dangle for a moment from his calves, and then fall to the floor beside the toilet as his pale legs fold up into the duct.

And now he understands just how stupid this was.

Its pitch black in front of him; the ductwork is filthy, the palms of his hands already grimed. Up ahead he can only faintly make out a ghosting of light that spills sideways from a blunt angle of darkness at some indefinite distance (five feet? five hundred?) that must be a bend in the pa.s.sageway, and, beyond it, the next possible means of egress. Hes already exhausted from pulling himself in. Shower steam floods the vent and slicks him. He cant get fully to his hands and knees. Legs sc.r.a.ped raw, no pants, just his sweaty boxers and the flimsy, backless hospital gown, Jay has no way to put his shoes on, so he pushes them ahead of him and starts to slither-crawl away.

The thin metal flexes, of course, and thunders like a kettledrum. So much for the element of surprise. Or any real hope of success. What keeps Jay going at first is just the certainty of the consequences of getting caught, now that hes made his intention to run known. He keeps crawling, mouse in a maze, Vaughn be d.a.m.ned, hoping for that impossible resolution to an experiment with a foregone conclusion.

Mice, Jay muses ruefully. Whose genetic makeup is surprisingly like ours.

At the first intersection he veers right into a slightly bigger, and filthier, ducting, curtained with sheets of lint and cobwebs, praying that this one may lead somewhere promising, but having no confidence that it does.

Hands and knees, now, faster, he keeps crawling. The squeak and thrum of his knees and skin. Somewhere far behind him there is the sound of the bathroom door burst open and he hears Public saying: "How lame is this?" And then: "He is not helping himself here." And, shouting, louder, presumably with his head up in the vent: "Jay?" bent and amplified by unforgiving air duct acoustics. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it."

Doe is also talking, but not to Public, and not behind him, but below him. On a walkie-talkie or cell phone. Coordinating his containment from the room or hallway across which the ducting is taking him.

But now theres no light at all. His eyes try to adjust, he can feel them straining to see anything. Jay is moving as fast as he can, oblivious to any obstruction in front of him, throwing out one hand after another so that at least h.e.l.l touch it before he crashes into a dead end, arriving abruptly at an intersection of three different, smaller ducts, each snaking off into its own dark oblivion. Each too small, as he touches the sharp edges of the openings and makes the quick calculation, for him to continue.

He hears movement and footsteps below him. Doe and Public, strolling, taking their time. He imagines them listening for him: eyes tilted up to the ceiling tiles of a big empty ward. He holds his breath.

"See, a woman would never do this," Doe is saying.

"What-escape from safety?"

Their voices keep moving under and away from him.

"No. Its this: a man crawls back down the umbilical, expecting the womb . . ."

Jays eyes track fits of spark and color that first he thinks are some kind of entoptical floater, but when he moves his head they reflect hard off the galvanized steel and betray a vertical shaft directly above him, with vents leaking daylight in dreamy stripes. Maybe, he thinks carelessly. Hope is for suckers, Nietzsche responds-well, more or less. Jay contorts to a standing position as quietly as he can, and starts to wriggle upward in the vertical shaft, pressing his elbows and his knees against the opposing planes of steel, like a rock climber in a chimney. The ducting groans and shudders on its mounts.

". . . but a woman, a woman confronted with this cold, dark, narrow pa.s.sageway to G.o.d only knows where . . ."

Doe and Public, walking back.

"Hows that divorce going?" Public ribs.

A burst of static from a walkie-talkie, high above; a huge grille has been pulled and the purplish-pale and square-haired head of a uniformed cop appears, leaning half inside, with a flashlight, sending an optimistic flutter of beams down the sides of the air shaft, but never quite reaching Jay.

". . . a woman sees it for what it is. She knows its hopeless, because its exactly like her last four relationships. Dark, narrow, and humiliating dead ends."

Public laughs.

The flashlight retreats and the cop disappears and Jay is left slipping, groaning, his greasy sweat-streaked skin burning as he tries to hold himself up with only the friction of his limbs against the sheet metal. Hes about ten feet up; falling down is not an option. He has those queasy gym-cla.s.s b.u.t.terflies hed get rope-climbing when he was finally able to go all the way to touch the ceiling. But a frantic twist and shimmy brings him up to the next junction, where he can find purchase on the horizontal shaft there and slowly pull himself to relative safety. But now what? This duct is smaller than the lower ones, and he can only wiggle forward, on his belly, arms flippering to propel him, his lower legs barely clearing the angle of the up shaft. Thump thump thump-thump thump-thump. He struggles over a series of interchanges, sc.r.a.ping across seams. All the fight is out of him, a weird aimless momentum keeps him moving forward: escape imitates life. The duct snakes left, snakes right, and executes a sharp L-turn, each new pa.s.sageway growing narrower and tighter than the last.

He feels a zephyr on his face, and smells fresh air. The tunnel ahead slopes away dramatically, curving down and twisting. Jay stops and contemplates the drop. Its not viable. No way can he control the descent, and he doesnt know what lies ahead. It could be another vertical, down which he would plunge headfirst. And probably die.

s.h.i.t. He has to go back. Backward. No turning around. An access panel pops open behind Jays feet, and the flush-faced cop jabs his crew cut into the ducting, jack-in-the-box, flashlight beam aimed right at and blinding Jay as he looks back into it.

"Yo."

Jay, spooked, reflexively pulls himself away from the pop-up cop, forgetting the steep drop ahead in the ducting, and then as gravity wraps its heavy arms around him he tries to catch himself, but the sweat-oily palms of his hands find no purchase on the air duct steel, and his weight pa.s.ses the tipping point and Jay plummets down the duct, a fleshy toboggan, helpless, into utter darkness. It happens so fast he barely registers the abject terror that, later, he will always feel when he remembers the fall. Theres just the vague, disembodied feeling that this probably wont end well. His nerves and senses are seared by the dull shriek and agony of his skin skidding on metal. A square of light hurtles toward him, breakneck, hardly the glow at the end of the tunnel that near-death stories always go on about, but maybe death comes at you in an angry rush, or maybe its just daylight through the metal screen crosshatching of a rodent guard affixed inside an exterior vent.

Bigger and bigger and bigger as he plummets toward it, holding in its tracery sky, clouds, and that bright flare of sun into which Jay literally explodes, hashing his face and shoulder as the grille tears loose, and he tumbles out and drops, mostly naked, scared, heart pounding, hips and shins raw in the fresh air, legs and arms whirling without purpose. Later h.e.l.l be told he fell thirty feet into a dumpster filled with trash bags that saved his life, the cardboard and loose garbage erupting as it swallowed and cushioned him.

He doesnt remember it.

He remembers the narrowing air shaft, the impossible decline, the cop-in-a-box discovering him, a howling tornado of pain, an odd limbo of float, and suddenly not being able to breathe.

The wind is knocked out of him. His lungs heave and spasm, emptied by the impact of the fall. He isnt sure if hes been paralyzed or if its just the dead weight on his limbs thats making it so hard to move.

"Breathe, Jay. Come on."

Someone claws away the collapse and gently lifts him at the waist, easing air back into his empty chest. John Q. Public has clambered up and over and into the bin, dug through for Jay, and found him, stunned, blue-lipped, eyes wide, and: "Alive. Thank G.o.d."

Thank G.o.d? For a moment, Jay wonders if hes misjudged them. Or is it just another indication of how desperately they need what he cant give them? He gasps, gulps air. His arms fold into his chest, weak. Blood beads and runs down his neck from the crosshatch wound that stretches from his right eye and temple to his ear.

"Jay."

"Yes."

"Dont move."

"Im all right."