Robert Crane - Untouched

“Just to be clear,” I told her. “This isn’t an ‘all or nothing’ proposition. You don’t get my trust all in one move, but this will help. Be honest with me and you build your credibility.”

“That’s a two-way street,” she said with a flush.

“Which is why I’m going to see your master of mind games.” I stood and looked at Zack, now finally able to do so without profound embarrassment. “Care to show me the way to my mental doom?”

“You don’t have to treat it like it’s some awful, hellish scenario,” Zack said once we were in the hallways outside Ariadne’s office. “This is a good thing for you.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t mean I want to do it.” I was actually more scared that I’d inadvertantly let something slip that I shouldn’t, like the fact that the first man I’d ever killed was a houseguest in my mind, spinning wheels and talking to me. Even for a recent arrival from recluse-hood like myself, that didn’t seem normal. But then, neither did killing people with a touch.

“Life’s about more than just doing what you want to do,” Zack said, terse.

“That’s the story of mine.”

“Right,” he said. “Just try and let Dr. Zollers help you. He’s good; I’ve seen him myself.”

“What for?” Now I was very curious.

“Standard procedure for agents,” he said, just airily enough that I didn’t believe him. “We’re in a high-stress occupation, so before they put us on field duty we get a full evaluation, and the doctor counsels us throughout our careers.”

“What do you talk to him about?”

“Normal stuff. The pressures that come with being on call 24/7, ready to round up and suppress any meta that steps out of line.”

“Suppress?” I giggled. “You mean kill?”

“Or capture,” he said, bristling.

I felt my face fall. “Like Gavrikov.” I thought of that coffin that they put him in, and I felt a familiar kind of sick.

The regret was there, on his face. “Yeah. Like him.”

“Are there more?” I looked at him. “Have you guys captured a lot of metas?”

“Yeah. Our facility in Arizona has a prison where they’re kept. It’s far out in the desert, middle of nowhere.”

“What do they do, these metas? You know, to deserve confinement like Gavrikov?”

“Gavrikov is unique,” Zack said in protest. “Most of the ones we have to confine—and it’s very few, fortunately—are ones that are clear, obvious cases of metas using their powers to commit crimes. They’re strong enough that law enforcement would have a hell of a time catching them.”

“Like Wolfe?”

Zack cringed. “Not that bad. At least, none of the ones I’ve dealt with. Murderers, sure, some major thieves. But every one of them has committed enough crimes that you get the idea that they’ll never be able to live in human society again without returning to the same behaviors.”

“How many crimes is that?”

“Lots.” He looked at me as we exited the Headquarters building, and he was all seriousness. “On average, twenty felony offenses, ranging from burglary to the big ones, the capital offenses, before we catch up with them.”

“Do they get a trial?” Again, I was curious.

“Not really,” he said. “Usually we’ve caught them in the act, and our forensics are better than average. But it wouldn’t matter; when we send them to Arizona, it’s almost always for life.”

“A life sentence,” I mused. “So you guys are the judge, jury, and executioner.”

“It’s not like that.” His voice lowered, and the defensiveness was on the rise within it. “These are criminals that the justice system couldn’t contain if they wanted to.”

“The government doesn’t know about metas?” I shook my head. “They don’t want to deal with them?”

“They know about them,” Zack said. “I’ve heard they have a program in place for dealing with them if they catch them.

“And?”

“It’s less charitable than ours. Our facility can allow even a truly dangerous meta some free rein, because our guards are metas and the staff are prepared. The government facility is a hole in the ground. They go in, they don’t come out, and who knows if they’re alive or dead.” He looked at me. “You don’t approve.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a surprising lack of emotion one way or another. Bet I’d have felt different if I’d been in one of the Directorate’s cells in Arizona. “I don’t have a better solution, but I’m famed for my lack of trust.”

“And?”

“Why would I trust you to faithfully execute a full criminal justice system, hidden where no one can observe or see it?” I shrugged. “I’m not going to get involved—for a myriad of reasons, including the fact that I’m one person, and I have no better solution—but it doesn’t sound like a perfect use of power to me. It sounds worrisome, and seems like it has a high potential for abuse of prisoners and people. Kind of Draconian.”

We lapsed into a vaguely comfortable silence, not saying anything as he led the way across the campus, which was just as well. If I hadn’t been feeling so self-involved and worried about what was going on for myself, I might have thought more deeply about what Zack had been describing. It sounded ugly, but I had no time to worry about it.

He walked me to a building on a side of the campus I’d spent little time on. It was closest to the gymnasium but wasn’t far from a host of buildings I’d never been in. Like the others, it wasn’t marked well, I suspected on purpose. He held the door for me, which was a nice touch. I pretended to be too preoccupied to notice.

The hallways were long, brick, and like everywhere else in the Directorate they had a sterile scent to them. The building was older than HQ, the brick was faded, and it was quiet; only the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights could be heard. I wanted to believe I could hear the beating of my own heart, but I really couldn’t. I was nervous, but not off the scale.

Zack stopped me at a solid wooden door. It had one of those silver name plates over it, and it read: Dr. Quinton Zollers, M.D. I grimaced inwardly. Not that I thought it would be easier, but having a psychologist without the M.D. appellation seemed less intimidating for some reason.

“You’ll do fine,” Zack said. In my nervous tension, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to kiss him or slap him, then remembered that they’d both have roughly the same effect. “Don’t forget about our date tonight.”

I froze. “Our what?”

“You know,” he said, casual. “We’re going to dinner, the movies, mall, all that?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Not a problem,” he said with a genuine smile. “You’ve got a lot on your mind. I’ll come by your dorm at five to pick you up?”

“Sounds good,” I said, relieved that he missed the source of my reluctance. After all, it was infinitely preferable that he thought I’d forgotten our rendezvous than that I was taken aback by him referring to it as a date. Because, of course, he meant nothing serious by it.

He was halfway down the hall and had not looked back when I reached for the door handle and swung it open. I found myself in a waiting room with chairs lined up against the walls and a fish tank in the corner. On the far wall was another door, solid, which I assumed led to the inner sanctum of Dr. Quinton Zollers, who would be helping me diagnose problems I didn’t even recognize I had. I found myself surprised that Wolfe didn’t have a funny comment for this situation, and then wondered if perhaps he was sleeping.

There wasn’t another soul in the waiting room, so I made my way to the inner door and knocked, three sharp raps. A voice boomed out. “Sienna Nealon…come right in.”