Exile Hunter (10 page)

Patricia, for her part,
chose Warren repeatedly over the smartly dressed, well-mannered,
fine-featured Hawken boys, and this endeared Patricia to him even
more. Unlike so many of the giggling, fidgeting, flighty girls of her
age who moved about in packs, here was someone strong enough to break
from the herd, make her own choice and stand by it. Even more, she
seemed to accept him exactly as he was and never seemed to tire of
him, even when he ran out of things to say. Though Warren had long
enjoyed the love of parents, grandparents, and a younger sister, no
one else’s attention meant as much to him as Patricia’s.

At that time, Warren
knew nothing about Patricia Eaton’s family, wealth, or social
status. Having grown up in a middle-class neighborhood where most
families shared similar levels of education, income, and standard of
living, it had never occurred to him to ask. And, in a similar way,
having spent her entire young life within a prosperous enclave where
lot sizes started at two acres, children and teenagers attended
private schools and lived much as she did, Patricia had assumed that
Warren’s home life was much like hers.

The second semester of
dance class passed in a blur. Though Warren would remember little of
it years later, one occasion stood out. The class had just completed
the segment on swing dancing and the students were practicing swing
moves to Bobby Darin’s “Dream Lover,” laughing and blushing as
they executed tuck turns, swingouts, and slingshots with gleeful
abandon. The next song was Paul Anka’s dreamy, “Put Your Head on
My Shoulder,” which was one of Warren’s top ten dance tunes and
always sent a chill up his spine, not least because his father’s
rules governing proper dance form banned the move described in the
song’s title.

A few moments after
they had caught their breath from the swing dancing and joined for
the slow number, a tall, broad-shouldered boy with shaggy blond hair
hanging over his ears tapped Warren on the shoulder to cut in.
Despite his annoyance at the intrusion, Warren allowed it, having no
other choice in the matter, since his father insisted that he set a
good example of correct dance etiquette. As he walked off to the edge
of the dance floor, however, Warren looked back over his shoulder in
time to see Patricia send him a consoling look that warmed his heart
with a devotion beyond anything he felt a right to expect. Though his
parents called it puppy love and told him it would pass, Warren had
never forgotten that look and had drawn upon it for solace countless
times when down on his luck or feeling sorry for himself. To him,
that memory was a goose that laid golden eggs, an inexhaustible
source of comfort known only to him.

Sadly, his dance class
relationship with Patricia ended even before the school year did.
Three weeks before the final session, Patricia’s mother died of
cancer and Patricia stopped attending. Not long afterward, she left
for summer camp and on her return had only one week to shop and pack
before travelling to Boston for boarding school. Though Warren left
messages for her and she returned his calls twice to leave messages,
both messages were brief, regretting that she had no time to see him.
When Warren described the situation to his father and asked his
advice, the response was to forget her and move on. There was nothing
to be done, his father told him. The two of you live in different
worlds. Don’t go where you don’t belong. Hanging on will just
make you unhappy.

Warren didn’t see
Patricia again for nearly four years, and their reunion was far from
the joyous occasion that he had hoped it to be. The encounter
happened without warning, on a bitterly cold March night during
Warren’s junior year as a scholarship student at Exeter. A
classmate from Concord, Massachusetts, whose sister was a day student
at Concord Academy, had invited him home for the weekend. A dance was
being held that night at the Academy, and the sister invited both
boys to attend.

At seventeen, Warren
had recently entered his young fogey stage, determined to assimilate
among his upwardly mobile classmates bound for Harvard, Princeton,
Dartmouth, and Penn. His preppy dress code, horn-rim glasses and
rigid, condescending demeanor identified him as an aspiring elitist
bent on seeking fame and fortune through the relentless pursuit of
excellence and contacts.

An hour or so after the
dance was scheduled to begin, Warren and his classmate entered the
school cafeteria, which was cleared of tables and chairs for the
occasion. Before long, the classmate peeled off to greet a
long-legged blonde in a delectably clinging dress, leaving Warren on
his own. After scanning the room, he approached the refreshment
table, where a couple, clad completely in black, cast a reproving
look his way as if to put him on notice that his preppy attire did
not conform to Concord’s more artistic norms of dress.

The disc jockey cued up
a new tune and dancing resumed. But no sooner had Warren taken a bite
from his chocolate chip cookie than he spotted a tall dark-haired
girl with a dancer’s figure and a bouncing ponytail among the
crowd. He tossed the cookie in the trash bin and moved toward her for
a closer look. Having tracked Patricia for the past two years via
mutual acquaintances and the Internet, Warren knew that she had
transferred to Concord Academy in her sophomore year. But until now,
he had lacked a suitable occasion or method to approach her.

His heart raced as he
realized that the long-awaited occasion had arrived. Without a
moment’s hesitation, he stepped up to Patricia from her blind side
and tapped her gently on the arm. She turned away from the darkly
mature boy beside her and turned around to face the intruder.

“Excuse me, but you
look a lot like someone I used to know in middle school. You wouldn’t
be Patricia…”

“That would be me.
And you are…?” she inquired blandly, with her arm still around
her dance partner’s neck.

“Warren Linder.
Remember Hawken dance class?” he asked eagerly.

She wrinkled her brow
and said nothing.

“Seventh grade,” he
persisted. “Don’t you remember all those retro rock-and-roll
steps we learned then?”

With each phrase, he
waited for her to recognize him.

A sneer formed on her
partner’s upper lip as Warren struggled to break the thickening
ice.

At last, he saw a
glimmer in her eyes.

“Oh, yes! Of course!
You were the one who wasn’t a Hawken student…”

“That’s right. I
went to school in Lyndhurst. My father taught the dance class and you
and I were dance partners. Sometimes.”

Patricia blushed.

“Oh, now I do
remember,” she answered. “You were a fantastic dancer. Especially
the rumbas and cha-chas. Your father used to make us go to the front
and show off sometimes, though I was pretty terrible at it.”

She laughed easily now
and Warren laughed with her. Her date stared at the ceiling and
tapped a foot nervously.

“Yeah, Dad made me
practice the rumba a lot,” Warren added. “After a while, those
Latin beats get into your blood. That Xavier Cugat dude was
definitely some kind of genius.”

Patricia’s date,
clearly growing restless, interrupted to ask if he could bring her
something to drink.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,”
she answered, placing herself between the two males. “Paul, this
is… Excuse me, your name again?”

“Warren. Warren
Linder.”

“Warren, meet Paul.
Paul, meet Warren. And yes, I would so love a glass of fizzy water if
you can find one.”

“Sure thing, I’ll
be right back,” Paul answered, pointedly ignoring Warren as he
spoke but casting a dubious glance over his shoulder before setting
off to the refreshment table.

The music struck up
again and, to Warren’s surprise, it was another of his father’s
classic slow-dance tunes, “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy
Edwards. Warren held out his hand and Patricia took it.

“What brings you to
Concord? Obviously, you’re not a CA student…”

“No, I’m in town
for the weekend with a classmate from Exeter. His sister is a
sophomore at CA. She’s the one who brought us to the dance.”

“And I’m glad she
did,” Patricia replied airily. A long pause followed and Warren was
careful to maintain a decorous distance from her while they danced.

“So you’re an
Exonian,” she resumed. “I guess that means you must be really
smart. I applied there but they waitlisted me. And that’s even
though my father’s an alum and gives them bushels of money.” But
from the way she said it, Warren guessed that Patricia hadn’t
wanted to get in so very badly or her father and the school might
have found a way.

“I remember meeting
your father once,” Warren replied. “It was when he picked you up
after class. I was amazed that he seemed to know exactly who I was,
even before I introduced myself. I remember thinking, that’s pretty
cool for a dad, considering how big a class it was and all.”

Patricia looked at the
floor in embarrassment.

“Daddy always wanted
to meet my friends. He tried so very hard. But my mother got sick
that year. It wasn’t an easy time for him.” Her expression
darkened and her eyes took on a distant look.

At first, Warren failed
to detect the change in mood and talked on.

“I also remember that
night because I’m pretty sure it was the last time I saw you,” he
said. “I called your house a few times but they always said you
were away.”

By now Patricia’s
discomfort was unmistakable.

“Yeah, I was away
quite a lot after Mom died,” she continued. “I’m sorry you had
trouble reaching me, though it doesn’t surprise me…”

Before either of them
could speak again, the song ended and was followed by a tune with a
lively rock beat. They stepped away from one another and Patricia
stole a look at the refreshment table for signs of Paul.

“How about another?”
he invited.

“Uh, sure,” she
answered as if distracted. But as they danced, Warren noted that she
had stopped smiling and no longer made eye contact. Instead, she
seemed to be casting meaningful glances toward her girlfriends, who
glared at Warren and spoke to one another in hushed tones.

Moments later, Paul
returned with a glass of sparkling water in hand and tapped Warren on
the shoulder.

Warren turned around to
respond.

“Song’s almost
over,” he said quickly. “Give us another minute, okay?”

But as soon as he
turned his back on Patricia, she strode off toward the door with Paul
in tow.

Warren stood with mouth
agape as they left him alone on the dance floor. His face flushed and
he realized that he had not handled the situation well at all.
Patricia had probably not thought of him in a very long time. More
than that, perhaps the special bond that he had nurtured in his
memory all these years had been an illusion, the relic of a puppy
love that only he recalled. But then, perhaps he had just caught
Patricia at a bad time. Maybe he still had a chance with her if
circumstances changed. As he walked back to the refreshment table in
search of his host, he decided to think about it again later, once
the hurt was gone.

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.
Ralph
Waldo Emerson

LATE SEPTEMBER, SOUTHERN VIRGINIA

Linder awoke with a
racing heartbeat and a headache that hammered at both temples. He
opened his eyes and perceived through the blur that he was lying on a
cot in his new prison cell. He lifted his head by degrees and felt
his gorge rise to a level just short of vomiting. A moment later,
when attempting to swallow, it occurred to him that his parched
throat, cracked lips, headache and racing pulse were highly unnatural
and were more likely the result of drugs administered during a
rendition flight than the symptoms of any illness.

Linder raised his hands
to his eyes and noticed that the skin was raw and abraded where his
wrists had been shackled. As if summoned by the sheer act of
attention, a deep soreness manifested in the muscles of his lower
back, legs and shoulders, which ached as if from a strenuous workout.
Suddenly he remembered having awakened en route while strapped to a
stretcher with a silky hood over his head that made it difficult to
breathe. In a fit of panic, he had struggled against the straps that
bound him to the stretcher and screamed until his consciousness left
him again.

Linder had little idea
how long the journey had taken. On the morning after his conversation
with Bednarski in the Embassy cellar, he had devoured a breakfast of
highly spiced Lebanese meat pastries that he might have suspected
were drugged had he not been so hungry. Twenty minutes later, as he
paced back and forth the length of the cell, he felt light-headed,
then nauseous, and suddenly saw the floor rising up to meet him.

By close examination of
the new cell and overhearing a guard release a stream of all-American
profanity upon dropping a meal tray in the corridor, Linder surmised
that he had landed in one of the DSS’s interrogation centers or
transit prisons, most likely in Northern Virginia or Maryland.

The cell was about six
feet by ten, windowless, with walls of unpainted gray concrete and a
floor of beige composite resin. Its only fixtures were a steel door
fitted with a spyhole and food delivery slot; a flickering
fluorescent panel far overhead; a Third-World toilet consisting of a
porcelain tile with a hole and raised footprints to either side; and
a sheet-steel prison bunk bolted to the floor, with a thin
vinyl-covered polyester mattress and a threadbare acrylic blanket on
top. The cell smelled of a powerful disinfectant and was so chilly
that Linder shivered in his thin cotton coveralls.

Linder crossed the cold
concrete floor in his bare feet and lifted the hinged door to the
food slot, where he found a foil-wrapped meal bar and a battered
plastic water bottle. While he nibbled guardedly on the bar and
sipped at the water, he tried to recall the main principles of the
standard DSS interrogation system that he had studied early during
his training.