Робин Кук - Cell

“After you,” the attendant said to George.

George stepped into the room. It had a bed and a chair and nothing else. No decorations on the blank white walls and no windows. There was a bathroom that had no door. Inside were a toilet, sink, and shower head. The shower was not enclosed and a drain was positioned in the middle of the floor. The word institutional popped into George’s mind.

On the bed were clothes that looked like hospital scrubs. They were a nondescript medium blue. There were also underwear, socks, and slippers. George looked up. In the middle of the ceiling was a small inverted dome of dark glass, which George guessed was a surveillance camera.

Another attendant stepped behind George and used a pair of clippers to cut through the plastic tie binding George’s wrists. When he looked down at his wrists he saw there were deep red indentations but no lacerations.

“Dress,” the third attendant ordered as he pointed to the clothing on the bed.

George finally spoke, attempting to keep his voice calm. “Can you tell me where we are and why we’ve been brought here?”

“You’ll know that in the morning.” The man’s voice was impassive, and he spoke as if to a child.

“I know you said you’ve heard it before, but we actually have been kidnapped.”

The attendant nodded and again pointed to the clothes on the bed. “Please, put on the clothes. And, yes, we hear all the time about being kidnapped. Almost everyone who is brought here says it and, in a way, they are right.”

“What other people?” George asked, although he could only guess. He imagined it was people with serious addiction problems whose families had resorted to forcible therapeutic intervention.

“Please, just relax. You’ll learn everything you want to know in the morning. I suggest you get some sleep in the meantime.”

George tried to ask a few more questions, but to no avail. The attendant merely repeated that George would have to wait until morning for answers. With that, the three attendants turned and left. George heard another resounding click as the heavy door was secured.

He sat on the bed and stared at the door, feeling a twinge of claustrophobia. He got up to test the knob and confirm it was locked. You never know , his brain kept telling him, it just might miraculously open . He gave the knob a twist and jiggled it. It didn’t open. He went over to the wall that he guessed was common with Paula’s room and put his ear against it, but heard nothing. He rapped on the wall. Almost immediately there came a muffled reply. George guessed the wall to be thick and soundproofed. He called out Paula’s name but heard only silence in reply.

Next, he checked the bathroom. He saw nothing he hadn’t already seen when he’d glanced into it earlier. It was remarkably utilitarian with no sharp objects he could use to harm himself. He went back into the main room and sat on the bed. His heart was still pounding from the ordeal of being kidnapped. What the hell was going on here? What other disaster could possibly await him after being arrested, thrown in jail, and now committed involuntarily to a mental health institution?

He lay back on the bed, worrying about what he had brought upon Paula. It seemed to his paranoid mind that any woman he got close to — Pia, Kasey, and now Paula — seemed to suffer some horrible consequence.

Feeling charged up as if from caffeine, he got up and paced the small room. Silently he mocked the attendant’s advice to get some sleep. There was no way in hell he would be able to fall asleep. Then he realized that there were no switches to turn off or even to lower the level of bright light in the room. He wondered if the room was meant for someone on a suicide watch. Vaguely he wondered why he even bothered to wonder. Would he really get all the answers in the morning, or were the attendants just trying to placate him with an empty promise? Then his mind switched to thoughts of whether anyone would look for him. It was another depressing question.

After a time George lay back on the bed. He closed his eyes to the room’s glare, but couldn’t turn off his mind. Could he actually be kept hidden away for an undetermined period of time? Could that really happen in this day and age? Unfortunately, he thought, it was possible. The only person he could imagine might actually look for him was the bail bondsman.

All of a sudden George felt tears well up in his eyes. Covering his face with his hands, he let himself cry for a few minutes before recovering. What pulled him out of his despair was the thought of Zee. As bad as his situation was, George had to recognize he was better off than Zee, who was dead. Or was he?

“Get a grip on yourself!” George said out loud. He stood up and started running in place. He knew he needed to get himself under control and hoped that by exhausting himself he could accomplish it. When he was adequately out of breath, he stopped running and flopped down onto the floor and did a series of twenty push-ups.

Once he was finished with the push-ups, George sat back down on the bed. His breathing was labored, but he felt more in control. He even thought he might possibly be able to relax.

MENTAL HEALTH FACILITY

HOLLYWOOD HILLS, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, JULY 7, 2014, 8:15 A.M.

A loud click jolted George awake. He shot up to a sitting position, shocked that he had actually fallen asleep. The door swung open and three beefy attendants came into the room. One was carrying a breakfast tray.

“What time it is?” George asked.

“Eight fifteen.”

“What about my friend? The woman?”

“She’s fine. She’s breakfasting as well.”

That was a relief, although why he believed the man, he wasn’t sure. “When am I going to learn where I am? And why, for that matter?”

“Eat. We’ll be back for you in half an hour.” They turned and left.

Great! Answers galore , George thought. He looked down at the food: eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee. He was impressed, assuming it wasn’t poisoned or drugged. There was even a copy of the L.A. Times on the tray. How considerate , he thought. He drank his orange juice and picked at the food. He had no appetite. He scanned through the paper and found no mention of a kidnapping or home invasion in Santa Monica, or any follow-up on Zee’s death.

George used the toilet and washed his face, then went to the wall between his room and Paula’s and rapped on it again. There was a muffled knock in reply. He tried again to call out to her but heard nothing back. Without a clock or a watch, he didn’t know how much longer he would have to wait, but soon enough there was a knock on the door, just before it swung open again. The same three attendants stepped into the room.

“Ready?”

George ran through several smart retorts in his mind but held his tongue. He knew it was best not to aggravate his keepers. “Ready,” George agreed. He stepped into the hall with the three attendants following.

Almost simultaneously, Paula emerged from her room dressed in scrubs similar to George’s. Three matrons in white followed her almost in step.

George’s heart lifted. “Paula!”

The attendants made no move to restrict contact between them so he enveloped her in a hug. When she hugged him, he could hear the relief in her voice as she said, “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Are you okay?”

She let go of him and tried to regain her composure. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”

“Same here.”

“What is going on, George?” She looked up and down the hallway and then at the attendants, who appeared to be waiting patiently.

“I have no idea. Hopefully we’re about to find out.”