Whisper (Whisper #1)(3)
“Let’s go,” grunts the pincer-grip guard.
And just like that, it’s as if that flash of beauty never happened.
We walk for two minutes, three minutes, four minutes and more, until we come to another dead end with a door, but this one is open. My non-gripping escort reaches out to rap his knuckles on the entry, and a commanding “Come in!” beckons us forward.
We step into some kind of office. There are no adornments on the walls, no framed accreditations or photos. There’s not even a bookcase. The room is without personality; perfectly functional, nothing more. A large mahogany desk takes center stage, but even that lacks the usual disordered chaos. No loose papers, no wayward pens, not even a coffee mug. The only disturbance on the otherwise-pristine surface is a touch screen tablet, powered up and emitting a soft glow.
A wave of apprehension overcomes me, and I look away from the tablet to meet the gaze of the man seated behind the desk.
“Jane Doe.”
His voice is as gravelly as his salt-and-pepper hair. Appraising eyes take me in, from my bedraggled hair to my bare feet. He tilts his head slightly, a muscle tenses in his jaw and he waits.
I don’t know if his words are a question or a statement. Either way, I see no point in responding. He’s wrong — and he’s right.
A silent beat passes as he continues to stare me down. I maintain eye contact even though I want to look away. Something tells me it’s important to hold his gaze.
Finally, he nods and turns to my guards. “Release her. And leave us.”
I can feel pincer-grip’s surprise. And his hesitation.
“But, sir —”
“That’s an order.”
The guard’s grip instantly disappears, while my other escort releases me from the handcuffs.
I move my hands around to my front and rub my wrists, while the two guards step back through the door and close it behind them. Only then does the gravelly man stand and walk slowly toward me.
He’s taller than I expected and, despite his hair color, his face shows only a few wrinkles, suggesting he is younger than I first believed. He’s immaculately dressed in business attire — including a sapphire button-up shirt underneath his blazer. He wears no tie, but his lack of regulation Lengard military uniform still puzzles me. I’m not the only person at the facility with clothing restrictions; all the people I’ve encountered here have been color-coded based on their position. The guards wear gray; the doctors, scientists and other evaluators wear pristine white; and the physical trainers wear a brownish-beige. There are no striking colors, no eye-catching shades of beauty. The inhabitants are nearly as whitewashed as the walls. But this man’s blue shirt — it’s almost hypnotizing.
I should have been watching his progress across the room rather than noting his clothing. Before I know it, he’s standing directly in front of me.
“Jane Doe,” he says again.
And again I don’t respond.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”
I want to ask why. And I want to ask why he waited. But I stay silent.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your real name?”
A stuttered breath is the only response I give him. It’s been so long since anyone has asked me, since anyone has tried to find out who I really am.
“No? Nothing?”
He continues to wait, and only a slight tightening of his features reveals his frustration when I remain silent.
“I guess ‘Jane’ will have to do, then. For now. I’m Rick Falon.”
He holds out his hand, and I look at it with trepidation.
Rick Falon. I’ve heard the guards whispering. I know exactly who he is.
Maverick Falon.
Director Falon.
The man in charge of Lengard.
“I understand that you’ve been down here for some time, but social courtesies haven’t changed much since your arrival,” Falon says, wiggling his fingers pointedly.
Feeling unbalanced, I slowly reach forward until my hand is clasped in his grip. He gives me a firm shake before releasing me once more.
“There now. It’s good to see you haven’t forgotten how to act like a human being. Vanik’s reports imply otherwise, but I know he tends toward the dramatic.”
I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond to that.
“Have a seat, Jane.” Falon gestures toward one of the chairs facing his desk, and he moves to retake his original position. “We’ve got lots to discuss.”
I don’t want him to notice my confusion, so I’m quick to follow his instructions. The plum seat is plush, and my tense body sinks deep into its softness.
When I look up, Falon is watching me. He appears pleased by what he sees, like he can tell that the chair has magical properties that are soothing the ragged edges of my tension.
“‘Subject Six-Eight-Four,’” Falon recites, picking up his tablet and reading directly from the glowing screen. “‘Allocated ID: Jane Doe. Date of birth: unknown. Current age estimation: eighteen. Parents: none listed. Other relations: unknown. Recruitment status —” he lifts his eyes to me “— transfer.’”
He lowers the tablet but holds my gaze. “I’m curious, Jane. Our records show that you were transferred to Lengard after a short stint at a psychiatric institute that you reportedly checked yourself into.”