P Deutermann - The Moonpool

He looked down that long bony nose. “Sort of?”

“I’m an investigator for hire, Special Agent. Until I spoke in detail with Dr. Quartermain, I could not know that what he wanted me to do involved either incident.”

“Do you remember what I said as I was leaving your rented house?”

“Interfere and disappear.”

“Yes, indeed. Guess what?”

“I give up.”

“You will be detained at this facility until further notice. You will be allowed no contact with the outside world until further notice. If you cooperate with the established regimen of detention, you will be given certain privileges, such as an operating television, this room instead of a rubber room in the psychotic isolation cells down in the basement, access to library materials, unfettered exercise outdoors within the confines of the grounds and the rules, and even some choices of meals. The converse to all that is also true.”

“What about my dogs?”

“Your shepherds. Right. We have contacted your associates and asked them to come retrieve your dogs. One-” He fished out a notebook and read his notes. “One Anthony Martinelli is coming down tonight to retrieve them and return them to your home in Triboro.”

All of that left the obvious question unspoken.

“We told him that we had received a call from you asking for one of them to come retrieve the dogs. That you did not sound as if you were under duress but that you would be out of pocket for some time on your new assignment and, for reasons known only to you, could not take the dogs.”

I wanted to ask him if he thought Tony really believed that bullshit, but thought better of it. The two guys in military fatigues were standing at parade rest, looking bored. The one guy had reduced the hood to a compact orange wad.

“Do you understand what I was telling you about privileges, Mr. Richter?”

“What I don’t understand is how you think you can abduct me, transport me to some American version of the Lubyanka, and hold me incommunicado ‘until further notice,’ without a hint of a criminal charge or even a Miranda. Since when has the Bureau been doing this kind of shit to American citizens?”

“Since the passage of the Patriot Act, Mr. Richter.”

“That’s for baby-burning Islamic terrorists.”

He stood up. “I’ll get you a copy of the act, Mr. Richter. You might be surprised when you read the whole thing, and even more surprised if you read some of the action memoranda flowing from said act. Few people have actually read it, I’m told, including an embarrassing number of congresspersons.” He looked around my new home. “In the meantime, please behave. This is as good as it gets. The alternative accommodations are reportedly unpleasant.”

“Reportedly? This isn’t your fun house?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Richter. You’re now in the hands of the Department of Homeland Security. Your Bureau does not indulge in detention facilities. Gentlemen, would one of you please swipe your magic card?”

There was a pamphlet on the bed, along with a green mag-stripe card. The pamphlet spelled out the rules in straightforward, military language. The bathroom was shared with the room next door. Swipe the card-if the bathroom was available, the door would unlock. Take the card with you, because if you didn’t, you’d be in there until the cleaning crews showed up. Detainees would be served three meals a day. Breakfast would be at 0730. Lunch would be brought in at 1130. Dinner at 1730. Exercise periods would be scheduled by the guard force.

The second page had more rules. My official status was detainee. In case I was wondering. Each detainee was restricted to his or her room for twenty-two hours a day. There would be a two-hour exercise period within the grounds. There were rules for the time one spent outdoors: Detainees had to stay thirty feet away from any perimeter fence. There was a white chalk line on the grass indicating the thirty feet. Detainees could not speak to any other detainees while out on the grounds. Detainees would wear a hood the entire time they were outside of their rooms, including during exercise periods. The fence around the grounds was under continuous surveillance. There were guard dogs involved in that surveillance. Detainees would obey the instructions of any and all guards, but would not speak to guards unless the guard spoke first. Deadly force was authorized throughout the facility. Enjoy your stay with us.

I tried the card on the bathroom door and got lucky. Then I came back to my new room and tried the bed. It was a bed. There were no clocks on the wall, and the television, mounted high on one wall, was silent. I got up and turned out the overhead lights. The windows revealed that the building was near a river, but I didn’t know which river. The trip from downtown Wilmington had taken at least an hour. There were lights on the building shining down onto the grounds. I could actually make out those chalk lines against the perimeter fence, but there was a jumper barrier ledge under my window, so I couldn’t see directly down into the exercise yard.

Terrific, I thought. Then I was startled by two loud raps on the door. I waited to see what would happen. Two more raps.

“Well, come right in,” I called, turning on the bedside lamp.

“There’s a hood in the closet,” a voice said. “Put it on.”

I looked and found it. Same haute couture orange, much lighter, and this one had eyeholes. I put it on, turned on a reading lamp, and told my caller to come in again, wondering how much I looked like a Klansman.

The card lock beeped and a major of Marines stepped through the door, along with two new escorts. The major turned on the overhead lights. He was an extremely fit white male, dressed in pressed and stiffly creased cammies, highly polished boots, and a Marine-green utility cap. He had either gone completely bald or had shaved his head. He wore a large gold ring on his left hand, which I presumed was the source of the raps. His two escorts looked just like him, only much younger. They wore black leather gloves, which made them more menacing than the previous two escorts. I wondered if things were finally going to get physical.

The major looked at me and then consulted a clipboard. “Mr. Doe,” he said. “I’m Major Carter. I’m the OIC of this facility.”

“My name isn’t Doe,” I said. “It’s-”

“It’s Doe. Actually, J. Doe Five-Seven. That’s what it says here on your entry paperwork, and that’s all we need to know. I’m here to explain a few things to you.”

I perched on the edge of the bed, feeling more than a little ridiculous in my orange jumpsuit and KKK headgear. “Go right ahead, Major.”

“Thank you, Mr. Doe. As you can see, we are United States Marines. Temporarily, this facility is a military reservation, so military law applies.”

“I thought this place was a state loony bin.”

“And you would be correct about that, Mr. Doe. It has been used for that purpose, but it was decommissioned sometime after 9/11. Now it is a federal loony bin. My federal loony bin, to be specific.”

“I guess I’m a little surprised to see Marines.”

“Marines go where they’re told to go and do what they’re told to do, Mr. Doe. Now, speaking for myself, and probably for my two escorts here, we’d all rather be back in the Happy Valley participating in Uncle George’s Assholes for Allah program. That’s like our Toys for Tots only lots more fun. But, sadly, we’re here instead. And so are you.”

“Who put me here? Can you tell me that?”

He sniffed and glanced at his clipboard. “The Octopus put you here, Mr. Doe. That’s what we call the Department of Homeland Security. Tentacles every fucking where. Black ink billowing out in noxious clouds if anyone gets too close or pokes sticks at it. Big, round, intelligent eyes. And an even bigger beak in the middle.” He looked back up at me. “This would be the beak, Mr. Doe.”