I strode to the door and pounded on the glass. Though it didn't budge under the onslaught, my fists boomed with each strike. I didn't shout. If they couldn't hear my pounding, they certainly wouldn't hear my yelling. A long minute passed. Then the intercom above my head buzzed.
"Yes?" a woman's voice. Young. Studiously neutral.
"I want to speak to someone in charge," I said.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," she said, pen scribbling.
I pounded harder.
"Please don't do that." Calm, approaching boredom. Pen still scratching.
I drew my fist back and slammed it into the glass. The blow shuddered through the glass and my arm. The pen stopped.
"I understand you're upset, but that won't help. Violence never solves anything."
Says who?
I turned away, as if backing down, then whammed a roundhouse kick against the side wall. One chunk of plaster flew free, revealing a strip of solid metal. I hooked my fingertips behind the metal and gave an experimental tug. No give. But I wasn't really trying. Now if I ripped away enough of this plaster, I could get my fingers behind the metal and give a real good pull ...
Heavy footsteps clomped outside my cell. Ah, progress.
The intercom clicked.
"Please step away from the wall," a male voice intoned.
He sounded like one of those car alarms from the '90s, where if you made the ghastly error of walking within six inches of some yuppie's Beemer, a mechanical voice warned you to move away, like you might brush against it and leave fingerprints. The last time we'd encountered one of those, Clay had leaped onto the hood of the car, leaving much more than fingerprints. The car owner had been within hearing distance. You've never seen a pudgy forty-something move so fast. Then he'd seen Clay and decided the damage really wasn't so bad after all. Following Clay's example, I did not step away from the wall. I smashed my fist into the plaster between the metal brackets, leaving a nice hole into the adjoining cell.
The door flew open. A man's face flashed into the room, then withdrew. The door slammed shut. A radio squawked.
"Base one, this is alpha. Request immediate backup to cell-block one, unit eight."
"You messing with my girl?" a lazy Midwest drawl asked, voice hissing with static. Houdini. "You sound a wee mite panicked there, soldier-boy. Want me to come down and hold your hand?"
"Reese? What the hell are you doing in the--Never mind."
Click. End of static.
"Cocky bastard."
"No kidding," I said.
Silence. Then "Shit," and a snap as the intercom died.
"Get me someone in charge," I said. "Now."
A muttered exchange, indecipherable through the glass. Then boots stalking away. I decided not to worry the hole in the wall further. Not yet at least. Instead I hunkered down and peered through it. I might have been gazing into a mirror, a reverse image of my own cell. Only this one was empty. Or so it appeared. I thought of calling through the opening, but hadn't heard the note-taker leave, and there was no sense talking to a potential cell-mate while I had an audience. So I waited.
Twenty minutes passed. Then the intercom clicked on.
"My name is Doctor Lawrence Matasumi," a man said in perfectly unaccented American, the region-free tones usually heard only from national news show anchors. "I would like to speak to you now, Ms. Michaels." As if it was his idea. "Please step into the bathroom, lower the seat, straddle the toilet facing the tank, place your hands outstretched behind you, and do not turn your head until instructed."
Somehow he made such ludicrous instructions sound perfectly rational. I thought of a comeback, but squelched it. This didn't sound like a man who'd appreciate bathroom humor.
While I was sitting on the john, the exterior door whooshed open, like breaking a vacuum seal. Footsteps entered. One set of loafers, one set of low heels, and two--no, three--pairs of boots.
"Please do not turn your head," Matasumi said, though I hadn't moved. "Keep your hands outstretched. A guard will enter the bathroom and secure your hands behind your back. Please do not resist."
He was so polite about it, how could I disobey? Especially considering the twin snaps of gun safety catches that accompanied his instructions. Someone walked into the bathroom and grasped my hands, his touch firm and impersonal--just business, ma'am. He pulled my arms together and clapped cold metal bands around my wrists.