Fifty Mice Part 2

"Oh, that, its . . . for your own protection," Public explains. "I dont have the key on me, or Id . . ." Again the trailing off, the shrug. It all feels too practiced. A voice in Jays head is whispering: You have to get out of here. You have to get out of here. He glances to the open door, and the empty corridor beyond it. Feels the cut of the handcuff against bone. Public says something else, but Jays mind cant process it. He blinks and says, "What?"

"Youre in the program, now."

"Program."

"Witness protection."

Jay hears himself say it once more: "What?"

"Safe. n.o.body can get to you because youre in the Federal Witness Protection Program."

"Im in witness protection."

"Yes."

Shaking his head slowly, Jay, genuinely trying to wrap his mind around it: "Why?"

Public laughs. And the freshet of fear it engenders chills Jay like an ice bath.

Does time pa.s.s? Did his eyes close?

"Jay?"

He feels a gap, empty of sense or sensation, but resurfaces to the man labeled Public still beside his bed, a subtle s.h.i.+ft of light, a distant lonely keening of siren, or alarm, outside this building where hes being held.

"Jay. Hey." Public stands over the bed, a tracing of worry in his expression. "I think I lost you there for a sec."

"I think," Jay says, voice raw, "theres been some kind of mistake here."

"Say again?"

"Mistake."

"How so?"

"In every way," Jay says, and it doesnt sound like him, but his thoughts are at least gathering with more purpose.

Public laughs again. And says, "I know, right?"

"Seriously, Im-"

"-Its okay, its okay," Public says kindly. "Its normal to feel completely weirded out at this point. Even paranoid. Take your time."

Jay asks if hes in custody.

"Protective custody. Yeah, I guess."

Jay rattles the handcuff again, pointedly. "Under arrest?"

"No."

Jay makes another attempt at sitting up, and manages to get his torso roughly vertical, shaking off a swim of vertigo, and discovering that his fingertips are bandaged with gauze and tape, and extremely tender because: "Oh, yeah, hey, we did some acid abrasion, there," Public is saying, "just in case. That weird paresthesia tingling deal youre feeling should be way better by tomorrow."

"In case of what?"

"Also your hair," Public confesses, ignoring the bigger question. Jay reaches up and feels the stubble of a brand-new buzz cut with the palm of his free hand. What do they want from me?

"We restyled it a bit. Do you feel any different? IQ-wise, I mean," Public jokes, "now that youre a blond?"

Jay just stares back blankly. This has got to be like one of those government screwups: families evicted for mortgage default from properties they own, SWAT teams storming the wrong apartment, people showing up to vote and getting told theyve died.

"Somebody broke into my apartment. Couple of nights ago."

"Oh."

"Or at least I think someone did. Is that what this is about?"

Public is expressionless. "I dont know. Is it?" He uses a remote to motor up the back of the bed and make Jay more comfortable. For a long time neither one of them speaks.

"Heres where I am with this," Jay says finally. "I have no idea why you would think I need to be in witness protection. Im completely confused. And a little scared, if you want to know the truth." Hes still hoping that if he stays calm and cooperative, and explains himself, this crazy error theyve made will become self-evident, there will be embarra.s.sed faces, waivers of culpability to sign, sincere apologies, and h.e.l.l go home to deal with the bad haircut and the acid burns.

"I know, right?" Public says.

"So, I mean. How about this: if you could just tell me what it is you think Ive seen, or witnessed . . ."

Public shakes his head. "Better that you tell me. What you think it is."

"But I just explained-"

"-No, see, you have to tell me," is what Public says, firmly, like a parent to a child. "Thats where we are with this. Thats why were here."

Jay closes his eyes. Frustration has shoved his headache down to the base of his skull, where it pulses, almost cold. "Im here," he says, as levelly as he can, "handcuffed to a bed. Like a prisoner."

Public opens his mouth, then closes it, reconsidering what he was going to say. Out in the hallway, old-school linoleum s.h.i.+nes like its been recently waxed. There doesnt seem to be anyone standing guard on the room. If its a hospital, Jay decides, its not a new one, possibly not even a functioning one. And for the first time he wonders if Public is who he says he is.

"Im supposed to have a key," Public says apologetically, sitting down again and crossing his legs. "Okay, look. A lot of people feel the way you do right now, at first. Upside down. Dont know if we can be trusted, or even are who we say we are, which is completely understandable. But over time-"

"Am I under arrest?"

"No, of course not"-but continuing his prior explanation, Public-"what Im saying, over time its just the overwhelming feeling of helplessness-of having to rely on total strangers-"

"Im the wrong guy," Jay tells him. "Im n.o.body: work in a telemarketing office, play a little basketball. My girlfriend thinks Im afraid to commit, my friends-"

Public interrupts, "Jay-"

"I dont have anything to tell you. I didnt do anything, I didnt see anything," Jay pleads.

The briefest cloud of doubt crosses Publics features, then clears. He shrugs. "That contradicts our information."

"Then somebody gave you bad information," Jay reasons. "You know. Or transposed a Social Security number. It happens."

Public nods his inexpressive nod. "Jay, Im a deputy U.S. Marshal and not inexperienced at the acquisition, securing, and unwrapping of confidential informants. Were very, very careful and we dont make those kinds of mistakes, but sure-I totally get where you might be coming from. Your fears, your distrust. And you dont have to say anything at all to us until youre ready."

"No, Im ready. Ask away."

Again, clouds, this time of impatience. "Therell be plenty of time for that, once we get you somewhere more secure."

"What if . . . I dont want to go?"

Public just shrugs.

"But Im not under arrest."

"No."

"Can I call somebody? I should call my fiancee so she doesnt worry. How long has it been since you took me off the train?"

Public ignores the last part, and says that calling Stacy probably is not a good idea; what the girlfriend doesnt know, the girlfriend cant tell anybody.

Who would she tell? Jay wonders.

"And you have no family," Public adds.

"No," Jay agrees, which is the lie he always embraces, but now hes curious about just how much Public knows, and where the U.S. Marshals, if thats who they are, are getting their information.

"So," Public adds, in case Jay didnt pick up on the significance of the statement, implying: Jay wont be missed.

"What will you tell Stacy?"

"Its all been taken care of."

"What does that mean?"

"No worries. Were very thorough."

"And what if I want to talk to an attorney?"

"Jay, youre not under arrest. Youre in protective custody."

"Abducted and held against my will," Jay tries to say, in the most matter-of-fact way, but knows it comes out brittle. And he no longer cares. All the stories hes heard about people convicted of crimes they didnt commit, who spend nearly a lifetime in prison before somebody proves them innocent. Hes Alice, down the rabbit hole, and the drug they gave him has made him pretty f.u.c.king small.

Public shrugs. "It may be that you simply dont fully comprehend the potential fragility of your situation outside of our aegis. We have to be careful during this transition. We would be callous if we let you go."

Jay stares at him. The man is grandstanding, smug. Jay takes a deep breath, exhales. It doesnt help. "Aegis. I dont even know what that means," Jay says bleakly.

"My point being, you could be in danger, from the people who would be most impacted by what you know. Or saw."

A current of fresh air brushes Jays skin, from an open window or door somewhere in the building. Again, a vague urge to just run away from this rises. But how? He asks: "What if you arent what you say you are? Or what if you are, but youre lying about what you want? I mean . . . what if youre the danger, youre the people most impacted by what I know?"

"Ill concede that point," Public says. "How can you trust people who grab you off a Metro train and jack you with tranquilizers and tie you to a bed?"

"I dont know what you want me to tell you," Jay says, the broken record. "I dont know what you want."

Public is patiently agreeable. "If I were you, I would take that position. Under the circ.u.mstances. So, like I said, go slow. I would." His calm is absolute, and Jay can see that theres no shaking it. "But here." Lifting a battered briefcase from under the chair to his lap, Public pops it open and removes two dossiers with blown-up photographs clipped to them. On the first: what look like crime scene photos of a young womans body, naked, murdered, twisted across a wet tile bathroom floor.

"We want to know what happened to her," Public says.

Jays mind reels over the stark, disturbing images of the girl. He feels sick. Thoughts tumble too fast for words. The cold fear crawls through him, his breathing shallow, his voice a thousand miles away.

"You dont know her?"

"No." He doesnt. He didnt.

"Never seen her?"

Thats a trickier question, one that freezes Jay, and one that Public lets slide, or answers for him, resigned to Jays intransigence: "No. Sure. Okay." Tucking the crime photos away, Public looks up and openly studies Jay for a moment. Trying to read him? The second folder has a sheaf of doc.u.ments, reports of some kind, with snapshots clipped to them, hastily taken images of a sulky, angular young woman with black eyes and a crooked smile, and of a grim little girl who looks nothing like her.

This file Public doesnt explain, or share.

"In a couple of days," Public, conversational, "well be moving you to an interim temporary-permanent situation"-he waves at the folders-"where youll be sequestered for a few weeks of debriefing while we grow you an acceptably secure, permanent location. And help you adjust to your new life."

Jay wants to say so many things he cant speak. The relentless impulsion of what is happening roils him. A corkscrew of college philosophy cla.s.s surfaces out of his imbroglio, namely Nietzsche: the irrationality of something isnt an argument against its existence, but actually a condition of it. He s.h.i.+fts his weight, and unintentionally his trembling wrist rattles the handcuff, and he wonders how fast, after being drugged silly, he would be able to run, if the opportunity presented itself. Public tosses a sheaf of legal boilerplate onto the aluminum bedside tray and swings the tray across Jays lap.

"Power of attorney. If youll just"-he proffers a pen-"put your Sam I Am here and here, after youve read the fine print, well need to secure your personal effects and resources yadda yadda ASAP since, for all practical purposes-you no longer exist." He shuts the briefcase and stands up.

"I dont want a new life," Jay says emptily. No longer exist. He wonders if that will be such a change.

Public smiles, avuncular. "Everybody wants a new life."

"Oh," is all Jay says. He cant keep the panic down. The room spins. "I really need to use the bathroom."

Public, chagrined: "Right. Sorry. Ill have to . . . get somebody." Public hesitates, then takes his briefcase and starts walking out.

"What if I refuse. What if I say no?" Jay calls after him. Its his last stab at resistance. He doesnt expect it to work, but it feels right to say it out loud.

Public turns around but continues backpedaling toward the door, Fred Astaire. "Wed have to kill you," he says, and allows the requisite deadpan, then cracks the requisite smile, and admits, "Just kidding," making a gun with his thumb and finger, pointing it at Jay, pulling the trigger, and slipping into the hallway.

Shoes squeak on the industrial tile, trailing faint echoes as Public goes away.

Jay closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

4 .