Untouched The Girl in the Box - By Robert J. Crane Page 0,25

them has committed enough crimes that you get the idea that they’ll never be able to live in human society again without returning to the same behaviors.”

“How many crimes is that?”

“Lots.” He looked at me as we exited the Headquarters building, and he was all seriousness. “On average, twenty felony offenses, ranging from burglary to the big ones, the capital offenses, before we catch up with them.”

“Do they get a trial?” Again, I was curious.

“Not really,” he said. “Usually we’ve caught them in the act, and our forensics are better than average. But it wouldn’t matter; when we send them to Arizona, it’s almost always for life.”

“A life sentence,” I mused. “So you guys are the judge, jury, and executioner.”

“It’s not like that.” His voice lowered, and the defensiveness was on the rise within it. “These are criminals that the justice system couldn’t contain if they wanted to.”

“The government doesn’t know about metas?” I shook my head. “They don’t want to deal with them?”

“They know about them,” Zack said. “I’ve heard they have a program in place for dealing with them if they catch them.

“And?”

“It’s less charitable than ours. Our facility can allow even a truly dangerous meta some free rein, because our guards are metas and the staff are prepared. The government facility is a hole in the ground. They go in, they don’t come out, and who knows if they’re alive or dead.” He looked at me. “You don’t approve.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a surprising lack of emotion one way or another. Bet I’d have felt different if I’d been in one of the Directorate’s cells in Arizona. “I don’t have a better solution, but I’m famed for my lack of trust.”

“And?”

“Why would I trust you to faithfully execute a full criminal justice system, hidden where no one can observe or see it?” I shrugged. “I’m not going to get involved—for a myriad of reasons, including the fact that I’m one person, and I have no better solution—but it doesn’t sound like a perfect use of power to me. It sounds worrisome, and seems like it has a high potential for abuse of prisoners and people. Kind of Draconian.”

We lapsed into a vaguely comfortable silence, not saying anything as he led the way across the campus, which was just as well. If I hadn’t been feeling so self-involved and worried about what was going on for myself, I might have thought more deeply about what Zack had been describing. It sounded ugly, but I had no time to worry about it.

He walked me to a building on a side of the campus I’d spent little time on. It was closest to the gymnasium but wasn’t far from a host of buildings I’d never been in. Like the others, it wasn’t marked well, I suspected on purpose. He held the door for me, which was a nice touch. I pretended to be too preoccupied to notice.

The hallways were long, brick, and like everywhere else in the Directorate they had a sterile scent to them. The building was older than HQ, the brick was faded, and it was quiet; only the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights could be heard. I wanted to believe I could hear the beating of my own heart, but I really couldn’t. I was nervous, but not off the scale.

Zack stopped me at a solid wooden door. It had one of those silver name plates over it, and it read: Dr. Quinton Zollers, M.D. I grimaced inwardly. Not that I thought it would be easier, but having a psychologist without the M.D. appellation seemed less intimidating for some reason.

“You’ll do fine,” Zack said. In my nervous tension, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to kiss him or slap him, then remembered that they’d both have roughly the same effect. “Don’t forget about our date tonight.”

I froze. “Our what?”

“You know,” he said, casual. “We’re going to dinner, the movies, mall, all that?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Not a problem,” he said with a genuine smile. “You’ve got a lot on your mind. I’ll come by your dorm at five to pick you up?”

“Sounds good,” I said, relieved that he missed the source of my reluctance. After all, it was infinitely preferable that he thought I’d forgotten our rendezvous than that I was taken aback by him referring to it as a date. Because, of course, he meant nothing serious by it.

He was halfway down the hall and had not looked back when I reached for the door handle