Monster (Gone 7)

And quite trapped, Dekka thought, which was probably your point.

The convoy parked and Peaks showed Dekka into one of the buildings, a charmless, two-story elongated rectangle that must once have been an army barracks. Building 104, according to the stenciled number.

They climbed stairs, Dekka banging her cat carrier while Peaks helpfully shouldered her bag, to reach a doorway halfway down a gloomy hallway. Inside was a small one-bedroom apartment, with a kitchenette and, oddly, a grand piano that filled a third of the main room.

“I don’t play,” Dekka said.

“Oh, that. Yes, we had a Romanian gentleman staying here, a concert pianist. You’re welcome to tinkle away, you have no immediate neighbors.”

“Swell.” Dekka set Edith Windsor down and turned to Peaks, anxious to get rid of him and use the bathroom. “Food?”

“You’ll find everything you need,” Peaks said. “Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll send someone for you at seven a.m.”

“The hell you will. I’ll go at nine a.m., and that’s my best offer.”

Peaks smiled and nodded. “Fair enough.” He left, pulling the door behind him.

Dekka stood in the silent room, so like a bargain hotel, she thought, one of those places with the word “suites” in the name. She tested the door: it was not locked, which was reassuring. She raised the blinds and looked out on a view of bulky air-conditioning units and a bit of parking lot, which frankly was no worse than her own apartment’s view of a Dumpster and part of a smaller, dimmer parking lot.

In the cupboards they’d stocked E’s favorite cat food, along with snack foods that were suspiciously familiar. They were making no effort to hide the fact that they had spied on her and entered her apartment to gather information. They even had the Peet’s Sumatra coffee Dekka liked but usually could not afford.

There was a small but new refrigerator with milk, sliced honeydew melon, sliced cheddar cheese, Genoa salami, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale . . . My God, Dekka thought, they’ve even stocked the freezer with Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked. It was as if they’d moved her own refrigerator to this new place, minus the spilled maraschino cherry juice and the withered carrots.

Dekka fed E, who stared balefully at the food, then stalked off to find . . . yes, there was a cat box with fresh litter. Of course there was—Peaks and his people had thought of everything.

Dekka unpacked her duffel bag and regretted that she forgot to pack her favorite ratty chenille robe, but in the closet there was a brand-new version of it hanging.

“Okay, then,” Dekka said. She popped open a beer and drank half of it in one long swig.

“Wi-fi?” She opened her laptop and waited while it searched for a wi-fi signal. It found one labeled “Guest—DT,” which was not password-protected. She signed on with no trouble, checked a few favorite sites, and then opened her email and typed:

I am being held prisoner by DARPA.

She typed her own email address as the destination, then hit send.

She was not surprised when the email sat spinning in her “out” tray for a long while before the system gave up and suggested she try again later.

“Uh-huh. Later. Right.”

She had internet access but could not email, and was fairly certain that she could not text, DM, or even leave a blog comment. She was connected but cut off, able to see but not speak. She tested her Netflix and iTunes accounts; both worked fine. Then she tested her ability to upvote a post on Reddit, and once again: nope.

Download yes, upload no.

She considered looking for the cameras they had no doubt installed in the little apartment, but this was a DARPA facility, and this apartment was obviously built to hold people under observation, so Dekka accepted the reality that she would likely never find their surveillance equipment.

Instead she pushed back from her laptop, stood in the center of the room, and said, “Fine for now. But where’s the thermostat? It’s hot in here. And I need to know my bike is safe.”

There was no answer for a long minute. Then a voice that came from . . . well, everywhere . . . said, “Climate control is on the wall to the left of the closet. Your motorcycle is safe in the main lot with the cover on.”

“Thanks, fairy godfather,” Dekka said.

She showered—they had her favorite brand of shampoo, not the cheap stuff she usually bought but the nice stuff she occasionally got discounted or damaged from work. She dried with very nice towels, put on the robe—it was identical to hers except for the lack of chocolate stains and the hole she’d burned with a dropped joint.

She had another beer and considered. Normally she might talk to the cat, but not with people listening.

Not the worst situation I’ve ever been in. Not by a long shot.

And that thought called up a wave of memories, some still so raw after four years that she had to squeeze her eyes shut and search for safer territory.