Chapter 5
ROGUE
Fischer is in one of the utility rooms, which is what we call this particular place.
Calling it a cell would require us to admit we occasionally detain people, and we’re not about that.
Normally, if someone in the Rot does something egregious, we just kick their ass out.
That’s worse punishment than anything else, including being locked up in a room here.
But at the moment, we need Fischer around.
So he’s got a room with a cot, a lamp, a small table, and a door that locks from the outside.
The funny thing is, these are fancier digs than a lot of people in the Rot have.
He’s seated at the small table with a book open in front of him. Looks like he found the one mental escape available to him in a room with no windows and no other distractions. He looks up when I come in, his expression giving me nothing.
He's good at that. I'll give him that too. It's been a big morning for giving people credit.
I pull out the chair across from him, turn it around, and straddle it with my arms folded across the back. I don't say anything right away. I look at him and he looks at me, and we have a brief silent conversation about who's going to go first.
So I do.
"You've got a visitor," I say.
His head tilts slightly in curiosity, possibly a leftover from his former nice-guy persona. "I don't know what that means."
"Sure you do." I lean forward on the chair back. "Someone's been in the east corridor since early this morning. Standing very still, watching foot traffic, asking questions about a man named Fischer." I pause. "By name. Not Tommy, but Fischer. Interesting huh?"
It goes without my saying that nobody in the Rot calls this man Fischer.
He's Tommy, and has been since before most people arrived here. The only people who know Fischer is here and what his real name is are the people he used to work for, at least whoever’s left outside these walls. Well, and us guys now.
Still no reaction. His hands are flat on the table, one on each side of his book. Then one lifts to slowly turn a page and he sighs, like he’d really appreciate getting back to his reading. It's impressive, honestly. I've rattled harder men with less.
"He knows you're here," I say. "Or he strongly suspects. Either way, he’s been sent by someone, which means the people who sent him know you’re here too, which means whatever you thought you were safe from…" I gesture vaguely around us. "Well, it ain’t working."
And there it is.
It's small, the crack. A lesser observer might miss it entirely.
Fischer's eyes move, briefly, just once, a quick involuntary shift to the left before he pulls them back.
His right hand, the one that just turned the page, closes slightly.
Not a fist. Just a tightening. His jaw stays level, his face stays composed, but underneath the composure, I know without a doubt something has changed for him. Something big.
He knows what it means that someone came looking.
He knew this was always a possibility, in fact I suspect he's been waiting for it.
Not hoping for it of course, but living with it the way people live with their worst-case scenarios.
The fact that it's here now, hanging around the Rot looking for him, has hit Fischer, although he’s trying hard to play it cool.
I let him work through the fact that his days of playing the nice guy Tommy, Rot hardworker and friend to all, are rapidly coming to a close.
But I don't push. Don't ask the obvious question, don't lean in, don't give him anything to react to.
I just sit there with my arms on the chair back and wait, because I've been doing this long enough to know that silence is the most underused tool in any room.
I fucking love silence. People can defend themselves against questions, against accusations, against pressure and persuasion, and the full weight of someone getting up in their face.
But they can't defend themselves against quiet. Quiet just sits there, and like a void, eventually gets filled, usually by someone babbling some shit they should have kept to themselves.
Fischer is all over that void, God bless him.
"How long has he been here?" he asks. His voice is level and I can see he's proud of that.
"Since early morning."
"Has he made contact with anyone?"
"At least one of the hub workers. Like I said, he asked about you by name." I watch his face. "He's patient. Well trained. Not in a hurry."
Fischer absorbs this.
"You know who sent him," I say. It’s not a question.
He doesn't answer.
"You don't have to confirm it," I say. "To be honest, you kind of already did."
Fischer looks down. Something moves across his face, briefly, and then it's gone and the composure is back, all smooth and practiced.
I get to my feet. "We're watching him, but he doesn't know that. So for now, nothing changes. You stay here, go on about your business, and don't do anything that signals to anyone that anything is different." I look at him. "You understand what I'm telling you?"
"You're telling me I'm safer in here than out there," Fischer says.
"I'm telling you the people outside the Rot walls don't care about safe," I say. "But we do. For now. So yes, you’re safer here. I think you already know all that."
I leave him with that as I pat him on the shoulder on the way out.
The door clicks behind me. Fischer didn't deny knowing who sent the man. He just went quiet, which from a man who chooses his words carefully, is the same thing. He knows what’s up. He also knows he’s pretty much screwed.
Which also might mean Fischer did not misspeak when he mentioned Vi’s father earlier, indicating the man could still be alive.
Now she wants answers. We all do.
I head down the corridor, in the direction of her room, with the vague feeling that I'm walking toward something I'm not ready for.
I go anyway.