A loud ca-chunk filled the room, and the barred door swung open.
Alex felt her pulse quicken as she was led through the doorway. She didn’t have to fake a jump of surprise when the door clacked shut behind them.
They were now in a long hallway that ran vertically along the spine of the building. After turning left, they went halfway down the hall before entering a windowless room, with a front counter area and what appeared to be a storage section in back beyond an open doorway. There were two people behind the counter — a female guard, and a woman in a gray, formless, calf-length dress.
Alex’s escort and the guard exchanged words. The woman in the dress shuffled into the back, and returned a moment later holding some folded gray material. The guard took it from her, opened it up, and tossed it to Alex.
Alex caught it with her cuffed hands, not surprised to see that it was a dress exactly like the one worn by the woman.
Prison garb.
Lovely.
One of her escorts grabbed her hands and removed the cuffs, only scratching her wrist a few times in the process. He pointed at the dress, then at her.
She looked around. “You want me to change here?”
He pointed at her and the dress again.
“I don’t understand,” Alex told him. “You actually want me to—”
“Yes,” a voice said, and they all looked at the prisoner who had fetched Alex’s new clothes. “Change here. Nowhere else.”
Alex’s escort snapped at the woman, but whatever response she gave seemed to satisfy him. He turned to Alex again, and pointed at her more emphatically, gesturing to the dress.
Still, Alex hesitated.
“Do you want them to hurt you?” the woman asked.
“No,” Alex said.
“Then put on dress. So what, they see you? They will see you every day.”
Alex looked around the room, then turned so her back was to the guards, and unbuttoned her shirt. She thought she heard one of them snicker, but she didn’t look back. When she started to pull the dress over her head, one of the guards shouted something at her.
Alex paused and glanced over at the prisoner.
“Your brassiere, cannot have. They think could be weapon.”
With the dress piled on top of her shoulders, Alex unhooked her bra and did a quick dance of getting it off as she pulled the scratchy dress down to minimize her exposure. This time it wasn’t a snicker, but an outright laugh. She ignored it as she undid her pants and pulled them off.
“What do I do with these?” Alex asked, holding up her clothes.
“Give to me. We keep here.”
Alex handed her shirt, bra, and pants to the woman.
Their task completed, the guards grabbed Alex again and manhandled her toward the door.
“Good luck,” the prisoner called out.
Alex seriously doubted there was such a thing as luck in a place like this.
Several steps later, she found herself in the prison infirmary, where she was given an examination by a man she assumed was the facility’s doctor. When he came to the blood-soaked gauze still taped to the top of her head, he removed it, looked at the wound, and retrieved a set of electric shears.
At first, she was sure he was about to cut off all her hair, but he stuck to the area around the wound. When he was finished, he put in a couple of stitches, covered it with a new bandage, then poked her upper arm with a syringe, and gave her a shot of what she assumed were antibiotics. He dismissed her with a wave, and the guards grabbed her and escorted her outside.
This time they went up a set of stairs to a waiting area on the third floor where a woman sat behind a desk, typing something into her computer. There were plenty of chairs here, but the guards kept Alex on her feet while they waited for who knew what. It was at least five minutes before the woman’s phone rang. When she finished the call, she looked at the guards and nodded.
Tightening their grips on Alex’s arms, they marched her through a doorway beyond the woman’s desk.
The room they entered was larger than some apartments Alex had lived in. There was a desk at the far end, while the area closer to the door was largely devoted to a couch and a set of matching chairs. This was the first thing Alex had seen since arriving here that didn’t seem aimed at destroying souls.
The only person in the room was a man standing straight-backed next to the couch. He was large, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. By the creases on his face and the color of his hair, Alex thought he was about fifty-five, but he looked as if he could handle himself quite well in a fight with someone half that age.
This, she decided, must be the warden. If she needed further proof, the fact that her guards stood at attention once they’d all moved into the room sealed the deal.
The warden walked over and stopped in front of her. Lifting his chin, he looked down at her as if trying to classify what species she was. He unclasped his hands behind his back and swung them around. In one was a small blue booklet — a Canadian passport.
Maureen Powell’s Canadian passport.
The warden took his time looking it over before closing it again.
“Can-a-da,” he said.
Not knowing how else to reply, she nodded. “Yes.”
He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. “Wayne Gretzky.”
“Yeah. Right. Wayne Gretzky.”
“Justin Bieber.”
She nodded and returned his thumbs-up. “Wayne Gretzky.”
“Wayne Gretzky.” His smile lasted a few more seconds, before he folded his arms over his wide chest. “You…no problem. Yes?”
“No problem.”
The smile returned. “Good. You no problem, me no problem.”
“Deal.” She could tell he didn’t understand the word, so she said, “Yes. Good.”
With a nod, he put his hands behind his back and headed across the room toward his desk. Apparently it was the signal that their meeting was over, as Alex was immediately hustled out of the room.
Back on ground level, they took her through two sets of barred checkpoints before reaching a heavy-looking metal door. When one of the guards opened it, Alex wasn’t surprised to find the prison yard on the other side. Walking back into the sunshine, she noticed at least two dozen women wearing the same type of gray dress she was. At least, the dresses had started out the same. Many had been modified — refitted, shortened a bit — while others were simply faded and torn from overuse.
The prisoners noticed her, too, each stopping what they were doing to stare at her. Alex wondered if any of these women was Traz, her inside contact, but for all she knew, Traz could be one of the guards. There was no way to tell until Stonewell’s inside source was ready to make his or her presence known.
The guards led her across a mix of grass and dirt, toward the three buildings in the center of the walled-off yard. Each of the wide buildings was four stories high, built of the same stone that made up the walls, with entry doors painted the same faded white as the one she’d passed through moments before.
As they drew nearer, their course veered toward the structure on the far right, building number one. That was a disappointment. According to McElroy, El-Hashim was in building number two, the middle one, but there wasn’t much Alex could do about that at the moment.
Mounted next to the door of Building One was a dilapidated metal box. The guard in the lead pulled out a key and used it to unlock the cover. Inside was a phone that looked like something out of 1940s Berlin. He picked it up, spoke a few words, and before he could return the receiver to its cradle, there was a metal groan followed by a pop, and the door swung open.
The smell was the first thing to hit her as they entered. A jumble of body odor and spoiling food and human waste permeated the narrow green hallway. The smell seemed to be leaking out of the walls themselves. She blinked several times, and had to work hard not to gag.