The Girl in the Rabbit Hole

  THE GIRL

  IN THE

  RABBIT HOLE

  A Thriller

  By RJ Law

  Chapter 1

  “Have you noticed any insects behaving strangely?” the man asked, his pen tapping the table in consistent rhythmic beats. “Avoiding you, perhaps?”

  “No,” Claire answered.

  “Good,” the man said. “That's different from the other subjects.”

  He scribbled something onto his clipboard.

  “What about sleep? Have you slept yet?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting,” he muttered. “That's 72 hours.”

  He scribbled again and set the clipboard aside. He removed his glasses and placed them flat on the table.

  “And how do you feel?”

  Claire glanced down at her hands. The leather straps had cut flawless red circles into her milky white wrists.

  “I have a headache.”

  “Well, that's to be expected with the dehydration.”

  She looked at the two guards standing by the door, their bodies impossibly large and still, as if they'd been cut all at once from two granite hunks. The man rubbed his eyes and sighed.

  “Let's hurry this along. I don't want to be here any longer than you do.”

  “I doubt that,” Claire whispered to no one in particular.

  “Fine, then, let's proceed.” He put his glasses back on and collected his clipboard. “Any itching of the skin?”

  “No.”

  “What about sudden blindness, visual impairments?”

  “Nothing.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded approvingly.

  “Are your fingernails growing?”

  She looked at her hands.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  She cocked her head to the side and assessed the man before her. He was bald and his Adam's apple jutted forth like a misplaced elbow, its sharp point bobbing with every spoken word. She lowered her head and sucked the saliva in her mouth.

  “Water.”

  The man looked up and frowned.

  “I'm afraid it will be a few hours more at least.”

  “Why?”

  He frowned.

  “Let's continue.”

  The questions came quicker now.

  “Any lesions? Is your stool strangely colored? Abnormal hair loss or growth? Have your feet begun to curl?”

  “No.”

  He released the clipboard and took the pen by each end, his elbows propped upon the table, a look of embarrassment taking root within his pale gray eyes.

  “Have you passed any fluids since the injection? Urine, sweat, anything?”

  Claire shook her head from side to side.

  “None?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at one of the guards.

  “98.6,” the shadowed figure said. “We check hourly.”

  The man nodded and wrote furiously on his clipboard for several minutes, only stopping to brush away a fly which had somehow entered the facility.

  “Well then,” he said as he stood. “I'll return tomorrow.”

  He turned and took a couple steps toward the door.

  “Wait,” Claire said. “I need water.”

  The man stopped without turning around. He looked at the guards and shook his head from side to side. Then he passed through the doorway, leaving her alone with the two hulking men, their stony faces unmoved and uncaring, scars throughout.

  Both stood stoically until the door closed and then each one relaxed. The larger one removed a pack of cigarettes and worked two free. He handed one to his partner and set fire to them both. He looked at the other man and gave him an elbow, a smile unfurling beneath his broad mustache.

  “I can get you water,” he said, as big spindles of white smoke curled from his fingers: the thickest Claire had ever seen.

  Claire stared at the floor, her long hair draped around her sulking head.

  “I'm serious,” he continued. “I can bring you a big cup of cold water. It would take me five seconds.”

  He glanced at his partner and they exchanged smiles.

  “You be nice to me and I'll be nice to you.”

  He approached her from the front and looked down at the back of her neck. The fly circled his head as if it smelled something familiar. He swatted at it and cleared his throat.

  “And, of course, you'll have to be nice to my friend here, too.”

  Claire raised her head and looked up at his face, her mahogany eyes boring forth, jaw undulating beneath the skin. The guard smiled boldly and drew from his cigarette. He started to say something else, but before he could, the door swung open and Demetri entered.

  Both guards looked at their cigarettes and nearly swallowed the smoke in their mouths.

  Demetri waved his hand against the stinking fog and coughed.

  “Outside,” he said without looking at either.

  The two men rushed passed him, heads pointed down, a telling fear within their watering eyes.

  Demetri shut the door behind them and approached. He had a small plastic cup of water in his hand, and he held it so it could not be missed.

  “I'm honestly surprised to find you here,” he said, as he took a seat across the table. “I thought you would have left by now.”

  Claire pinched her eyebrows together and raised her wrists against the leather straps.

  “Please,” Demetri said, as if truly insulted, his black eyes like little holes behind the glasses he wore.

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed, his expression casual, as if he sat across an old friend on the most ordinary of days.

  “So, why are you still in this room?”

  “Where would I go?” she asked. “How would I even know?”

  Demetri frowned, his dark Latin features bold and handsome despite his age.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he said.

  He brought his chair flat and placed the water on the table. He removed his glasses for a moment to massage his nose and then replaced them with care.

  “I come from a place unlike your home,” he said. “It is a choiceless place controlled by cruel men. There, children are made to work like adults. Sometimes with men standing behind them, pistols strapped to their waists.”

  He cleared his throat and put his hands together, his forearms resting on the table, a stern look in his cold, hard eyes.

  “I was born into this place a fatherless child. My mother looked over me and my brothers and sisters as best she could, which was to say inadequately. I spent much of my time taking things that were not mine, a common thing in this place. Even at a very young age, children must learn to steal if they hope to survive for very long. Those who do, do. Those who don't.”

  He shrugged and turned his palms upward.

  “One day, I took something from a soldier. A gold pocket watch that looked very important. Very valuable. Having a practiced hand, I easily lifted it from his jacket and casually made my way through the crowds. Simple as always. One of a thousand times.”

  He leaned forward in his chair.

  “Except this time, another man had seen me. This man, a colonel of the army. As I cleared through all the humanity, there he was to snatch my wrist with his gloved hand. I looked up and saw his face, entirely marred by scars, a thick black beard snarling in all directions. Then I saw the butt of his rifle as it came into my face, and then darkness.”

  Claire looked down and shook her head slowly.

  “I don't care about any of this, Demetri,” she said.

  He gave a patient smile and continued.

  “When
I awoke, I found myself shackled to a stone wall in some sort of dungeon cell. On this damp wall, a very colorful algae grew to make a stench that nearly choked the oxygen from the room. This I remember the most, even more than the beatings, which were substantial and severe. For five years, I lived in this place, without any way out. Without any sort of hope.”

  He frowned and looked thoughtful.

  “And each day, I became more trained, and with time, my obedience became ordinary. A thing that was taken for granted. And with this apathy came opportunity. More than enough, in fact. And yet, despite these possibilities, I remained a prisoner, because of fear.”

  He pointed a finger at her.

  “Men of power know this one true fact: that more than knives and guns and bombs and steel walls a hundred feet thick, fear is the one true controller. And so it was with me. Until one day, when I finally took my opportunity and freed myself.”

  He folded his hands and bit his lower lip.

  “I had to kill three people to do it, one an old woman who happened across my path at the wrong time. I had never dreamed myself capable of such things. And yet, there I was with a blood-soaked shirt and gore and death in my wake. And do you know what caused me to risk my life and my soul on that one particular day and not the others leading up?”

  He waited for a moment, as if he thought she might answer, and then he removed his glasses once more and studied her with his naked eyes.

  “Because one of the guards I trusted very much told me I would be subject to heinous things if I did not. You see, the bearded colonel who took me by the wrist so many years before had made regular visits throughout my stay. And, each time, he brought some new misery with him. Miseries which left me broken and scarred for weeks following. And this guard told me with earnest words that this bearded colonel meant to visit again in one day's time to make a toy of me in such a way that would have surely left me dead.”

  He shook his head once.

  “And that was when I acted.”

  Claire looked up and his eyes sunk deep within hers.

  “You see, for five years I remained paralyzed with fear. And had my hand not been forced, perhaps I would have died. Or, perhaps I would remain in that place, still alive, even today.”

  He smiled and put his glasses back on.

  “Thankfully, we will never know.”

  He stood up and dusted his slacks.

  “For one hour, you'll find yourself undisturbed,” he said, his eyes serious and bold even behind his glasses. “Then, the guards will return to do as they please. I will not stop them. The cameras will be off.”

  He collected the cup of water and looked it over. He took a small sip and set it on the table.

  “Of course, that will all depend on whether or not you still occupy this room.”

  He turned and took two steps toward the door.

  “Wait,” Claire said. “Please don't do this.”

  Demetri smiled and put a finger to his lips.

  “Sometimes, you cannot win,” he said. “But you can still decide how you will lose.”

  With that, he exited, leaving the door open and unprotected, the hallway outside bright and white and smelling of disinfectant.

  Claire bit her lip and wrestled against the straps, their edges biting down on her flesh, blood trickling from her veins and splattering brightly atop the tile floor. From the corner of her eye, she saw the fly land on the table and rush forward, an invisible trail of filth in its wake. It stopped immediately before her and pawed at itself before taking flight once more.

  Down the hall, voices murmured, the guards chuckling to themselves, foul plans rooting within their twisted minds. She glanced at the clock, its pace the same for everything in any circumstance: the guilty, the innocent, animal, insect and man. She took several short breaths and reengaged the restraints. But even after 15 minutes of fury, they remained as they had been: firmly fashioned around her bloody wrists, the leather thick and without seams.

  She dropped her head to sob, and when she did, the fly landed on the nape of her neck. Without thinking, she jerked her head back and whipped her hair around. The insect took flight and orbited her head a number of times, its buzzing made loud by the hollowness of the room. In a rage, she shrieked and jerked at the leather straps, the chair squealing against the bolts that held it to the floor.

  All the noise brought laughter from down the hall, and now the guards whistled and made crude comments, one shouting the time every five minutes.

  She settled in her chair and cried dryly, her body aching for water the way the drowning ache for air. But even as she cried, the clock kept ticking, its gentle racket like a train whistle inside her head.

  She thought she might take her own life if given the power, but this was a wasted thought. And more came with it: her childhood, her father's face, a boy she once loved. And time held its pace through it all, unmoved by the problems of men, the clock on the wall tracking its progress with gentle, rhythmic clicks.

  At last, she resigned to her fate, her body resting weakly, eyes fixed upon the cup of water. They'd enter the room shortly, she thought. And there was nothing within her to stop them. And no one would be coming to her aid.

  She rested her head against her shoulder, and when she did, the fly set down on her cheek and scuttled over her nose.

  As if poked by something electric, her weakened body jerked to life. She writhed about, but the insect stayed affixed to her skin, its vile extremities tickling their way across this new terrain of supple flesh. At last, something within her broke and she screamed until her lungs ran empty and her mind went black.

  Seconds later, her clarity returned, the fly within her right hand, the leather confinements broken atop the floor. She looked at her free hand as if it had just grown from her wrist, the wounds gone, faint bruises where there had been open sores not minutes before.

  She glanced at the clock, but the time was gone. In a panic, she gathered the other strap into her free hand and pulled. With little effort, the thing came apart like something made of paper. She held the fragments and studied them, her face pallid and awestruck.

  Suddenly, footsteps gathered outside. She stumbled from the chair, her body wavering atop infant-like legs. But before she could take even one step, the two monstrous guards appeared in the entryway, their jaws made unhinged by her inexplicable freedom.

  For what seemed like several minutes, she stared at them and they at her. And then all three looked at the cup of water.

  In a panic, both men raced toward it, their hands reaching out, eyes wide as dinner plates. But before they could close the distance, Claire threw herself forward and bent over the table. She gathered up the cup and brought it to her lips, even as one of the guards took her right arm and twisted it backward.

  By the time it reached her mouth, the cup had nearly emptied, but for a few drops which splashed onto her face and slipped between her open lips. Soon she was on the ground, the two men restraining her, one clubbing her face with what seemed like a two-ton fist.

  But even as he whaled away, she felt a growing heat within her body. And soon, she was on her feet, one of the great, giant men cowering against a wall, the other clutching a useless arm that now bent in all the wrong places.

  “Please,” the other guard said, as he pressed his body flat against the wall. “I'm sorry. Just go, please.”

  She approached him and bent low, taking his bristly jaw in her small, delicate hand. And then his screams invaded the halls and traveled deep and far throughout the facility, where Demetri sat at his desk, sipping coffee and smiling.

  Chapter 2

  (9 months earlier)

  Claire Foley slept under warm blankets in a cold room. Below her, floor vents whispered. Outside, the sky grew purple and soft. On her nightstand, an alarm clock threatened to sound in 30 minutes, but this didn't matter much. The birds would cut through everything soon, puncturing the serenity with their thin little cries.

  When the fir
st one came on, she turned over her body and worked the covers between her naked feet. She watched the clock keep time as her mind made the murky path toward full-on consciousness. She reached out into the coldness and flipped off the alarm just seconds before it brought more unwanted clatter. She withdrew back into the warmth and listened to the ballad of tweets and calls, the birds growing ever louder, as if they believed it necessary to coax the sun from its wherever place. At last, she spilled out from the covers and rushed toward the bathroom, the cold tile floor stinging her little feet with every pattering step.

  In the bathroom, she dressed, spread makeup onto her skin and studied in the mirror a young but serious face. She ate little before leaving for work, her car parked along the curb outside, abrasive morning radio voices filling the interior with a twist of the ignition key. She zipped onto the freeway and off the curled exit. She slowed to pay the homeless familiar and the ones that looked new. She cleared security without any eye contact. She slotted her vehicle in the parking space that said staff only without really meaning it. All this she did without thought, as if she'd practiced the sequence hundreds of times before.

  And so it was, because she had.

  For nearly half a decade, Claire had worked at Clairmont University, assisting a brilliant man, while he continued the research of another brilliant man who'd lived many years before. Like most brilliant men, Paul Devaney knew he was brilliant, but he didn't seem to notice that Claire was, too. Or if he did, he intentionally kept it to himself, out of pride or thoughtlessness, who could say?

  Over the course of those five years, Claire worked alongside this disgusting man, while his big fleshy nose squealed like a teakettle with every breath. While she worked, he’d pace behind her, years of abrasion patterns marking the cut of his lazy, scuffling path.

  “No, no,” he'd say. “Do it again.”

  And she always did, while his tiny black eyes burned holes in the back of her head.

  Nearly everyone at the university had contemplated murder fantasies for Paul Devaney; however, most seemed content enough when they learned he'd accepted a job at Viox Genomics, one of the most prominent genetic labs in the country. That was a big day. People passed cute little smiles as they crossed in the hallways: secrets between subjects, better times ahead.