Page 22 of Sigma

“It is time to pay your debt,” he says.

His voice is a venomous purr. Accentless, not European, not American, not anything. Flat, impossible to place.

I say nothing. I have a million questions, but I know how this goes—this guy is a lackey. He knows nothing. Won’t answer any questions if he did, and might hurt me to make a point about not asking those questions. So I just stay silent and wait for the instructions.

He scans me visually, then steps toward me. “Arms out.”

I hold my arms out and wait as he frisks me—thoroughly but with professional and impersonal efficiency.

He gestures for me to enter the elevator, which I do; he turns the key to send us to the exit. The doors open—the guards are still there, clearly watching me for instructions. The man ushers me to the door. He even holds it open for me, but holds my arm to keep me in place.

“Get on the elevator,” he instructs, eying the four guards. “Ride up.”

They look at me, and I nod. “Do as he says.”

The guards take the elevator up, and once they’re gone, he gives me a gentle push out the door.

There’s a long black limousine waiting. Utterly ordinary, a Lincoln limousine such as you’d hire from a service available anywhere. He opens the door for me, like a proper driver.

I do hesitate now, just for a moment.

Would you get in?

If it was your daughter?

I got in.

5

A Gilded Cage

Ihave no concept of time.

There’s no light in my little prison, and when a man arrives—after an eternity, or a few minutes—to bring me food, there’s no light beyond the door, either.

The door clunks, and a light turns on overhead, a dim yellow/amber can light recessed in the ceiling, dull but still bright enough to blind me, momentarily. The door opens, and a man steps through—he’s short, dark-skinned but not black; he’s wearing a bandanna around his face, covering his mouth and nose, so all I can see of him is his eyes. He has a red plastic cafeteria-type tray in his hands. On it, a bottle of water, a Styrofoam clamshell container, a package of plasticware, and a cup of chocolate pudding.

I wait, but all he does is set the tray on the floor.

I wait, but he doesn’t leave. “Eat food all up,” he says, in a thick accent I place as possibly Indian, “all finish, you hit on door.” He slams his fist against the door twice, hard. “So. Yes?”

I nod. “Okay.”

He frowns at me. “Eat all up the food.”

Strange injunction. I shrug, make a confused face. “All right. I will.”

He nods once, and steps backward out of the room. The door closes and the lock thunks. The light stays on, mercifully.

The clamshell contains a salad surprisingly with a piece of grilled chicken and a small plastic ramekin of oil-and-vinegar dressing. It is, against all expectations, delicious. I wonder at the command to eat it all, repeated twice, as if my preferred tactic would be a hunger strike. Like that’d do anything but hurt me and make me foggy-headed when I need above all to have my wits at full capacity.

The pudding is too sugary for my taste, but simply to avoid any unnecessary drama with the guard or whoever he is, I eat it all. I’m hoping to conserve the water, however, since the passage of time between arriving on the ship and now was marked mainly by my increasing thirst.

I pound on the door twice, and it is opened immediately. I back away. The same man enters, picks up the tray, but pauses when he sees me holding the half-finished water bottle.

“Finish,” he says, pointing at it.

I frown. “Can’t I save it?”