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…
"Why didn't you try to get me out of China?"
These were the first words Jack had said to Heller that hadn't flown freely from his mouth. His chest had seized up painfully and his throat had felt narrow and swollen as he squeezed the question out in a near whisper. He knew Heller needed to hear this, and he was even slightly curious about what the response would be. But there was part of him – a timid little voice in his ear that he couldn't shake or ignore – that wanted to pretend that the past twenty months hadn't been real, that he hadn't really been left to suffer in that awful place until he became useful again. Deep down, he was afraid that if he acknowledged what he'd been through out loud, he'd somehow speak it into existence, and he'd be back in his cell again and oh God, I can't go back there, please don't let me go back there, I'll do anything–
"I did try–"
"NOT HARD ENOUGH!" Heller's voice had broken through the haze of panic and allowed anger to take over again, and it blazed stronger than ever. Jack didn't want to hear excuses. He didn't want to hear a politician dodging and weaving and deflecting blame and telling him sob stories about how hard it was to get anything through in Washington. He wanted a straight answer; he wanted ownership. Jack remembered how he'd felt when Tony was in prison, how he'd made it his life's mission to get him out, how he hadn't slept at night for seven months because he was so ashamed that he was free and his friend was not, how hard he'd worked to be strong for Michelle in the midst of his own crippling guilt, how he'd almost turned down Heller's job offer because he wanted to be there for Tony when his sentence ended. Not an hour had gone by while Tony was locked up that Jack hadn't thought of him. Heller, it seemed, had forgotten all about Jack after mentioning him once or twice in meetings and being met with something less than hearty enthusiasm. Heller had been more than willing to forget everything he knew about Chinese prisons and what went on there, and how much worse it would be for a knowledgeable intelligence agent who had invaded Chinese soil and was complicit in the death of a Chinese national.
"You had the political power," Jack continued. The man had been secretary of defense when Jack was taken, sixth in line to the presidency, second-in-command of the entire US military, one of the highest-ranking members of the cabinet; he could have managed a prisoner trade if it had mattered to him. Why hadn't it? "Was the timing not right? Was it a little too complicated? Or" – to use the phrase Heller had probably heard in his meetings, or maybe even uttered himself – "was I just an acceptable loss?"
…
With every button his left hand pressed, Jack's right fist closed tighter around the receiver, his knuckles whitening so that the dark bruises that crowned them faded from view. The knot in his gut tightened with every wheezing breath, and he was afraid he would keel over and vomit all over the checkered tile floor. Finally, he heard the always-cheery voice of his father's secretary on the other end, abating some of the pressure in his stomach.
"Linda, it's Jack," he croaked. "I need to speak to my father – it's an emergency."
"He's talking to a client now, but I'll get him… are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Dammit, his father was in a meeting. That didn't bode well. Phillip would have more than enough reasons to rake Jack over the coals as it was.
The moments spent listening to the shuffling sounds as Linda got Jack's father on the phone were agonizing. Jack was torn between wanting her to hurry up so that he could go home and wanting to freeze time because far worse things were on the way.
Jack flinched as though he'd been slapped when he finally heard his father's exasperated voice in his ear: "Jack, I told you not to call me at work."
"Dad, it's an emergency," Jack pleaded, willing him not to hang up. "I… I'm in jail."
"You're what?"
"It's not what it sounds like," Jack rushed to explain. He'd known his father would react this way, of course, but that didn't make it any less unpleasant. "I was out with Marilyn and some guy was creeping on her… I punched him. I was protecting her. I'd do it again if I had to. But right now I'm in trouble, and… I need you to come bail me out."
The sharp breath of air Phillip sucked in hit Jack's ear like a club, and he moved the receiver an inch further from the side of his head, knowing his father well enough to anticipate the loud tirade that was coming his way.
"Jack, do you have any idea how bad your timing is right now? This is the busiest day I've had in years. I'll be at the office well into the night. You think I can just drop everything and go God knows where to pick you up?"
Dammit, does he really want to hear me beg? Fine. "Dad, please… I don't have anyone else to call. I need you. Please don't leave me here." His father's irritated sigh told him he was making no progress. Damn, this was humiliating; out of the corner of his eye he could see the police officer smirking slightly. "Can't you send someone?"
"Who? Sam went home for the day. Your brother doesn't have his license yet. I can't very well uproot half my company to find you some makeshift chauffeur. You're just going to have to clean up your own mess for once."
Jack was speechless. For once. As if you've ever helped me with my messes. You've only ever made them worse.
"I'm going back to work, Jack," Phillip said after a few seconds. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."
Jack hung up the phone with forced gentleness. If he was going to be abandoned here, then he would take it on the chin like a man. He'd play the hand he was dealt with as much grace and poise as he could muster.
It was a rough night.
The guards didn't antagonize him; none of the other inmates harassed him or tried to provoke him into a fight. In the morning, he was released and told the charges against him had been dropped. All in all, it was as routine as a night in jail could be. But it was a rough night, nonetheless.
Jack sat awake all night, left hand covering his right to hide the evidence that he'd been fighting. The last thing he needed was more trouble. His tired eyes scanned the cell on a continuous loop, making sure he never let his guard down. He couldn't stop thinking about how he was being punished even though he'd done nothing wrong, how he'd been left to fend for himself by the person who was supposed to love him most.
A memory from his childhood filled his head, one that he hadn't thought about in years. He'd been five years old, or six maybe, and scared of the dark. His father had decided that the way to solve the problem was to have Jack spend some time alone in the attic as an extreme form of exposure therapy. It shouldn't have worked, but somehow it did. After a few minutes of crying and jumping at every noise, his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he'd gotten up and explored every nook and cranny, finally convincing himself that he was safe. Boredom took over from there, until his stomach grumbled and he began to wonder what time it was. He worried that everyone had forgotten about him, had left the house and he was all alone with no way to get out. He'd worked himself up so much that when the hatch had finally swung open and revealed his father, Jack had thrown himself into his arms and hugged him tightly, having forgotten altogether why he had been in the attic in the first place.
This time, Jack thought as he shifted uncomfortably on the metal bench, his reaction would be very different. The phone call had eroded the last of the childlike innocence that had caused him to look at his father as his protector, someone who would always be there for him when he needed help. Maybe that man had never existed, or maybe he'd slowly faded away, unnoticed by Jack's youthful eyes. It was time Jack accepted the role he'd unknowingly assumed long ago – he was his own protector.
No man is an island entire of itself, Jack thought, quoting John Donne, but the words didn't ring true. His mind went to Puerto Rico, technically part of a larger whole but also removed, different, relegated to the backseat. In that moment, he made a decision – he would never fit into his father's world, and moreover, he didn't want to.
…
At the end of his time in China, there was a period – Jack couldn't be sure exactly how long it was with his screwed-up internal clock – when he was left alone for a while. No trips to the interrogation room, no rough awakenings when he fell asleep, no recorded propaganda blasting through his cell at an intolerable volume. Just bowls of rice and small cups of water pushed through the cat flap by a hand he couldn't see. He later figured the Chinese hadn't wanted to bring him home with fresh wounds all over his body. Not that it took much imagination to look at his patchwork of scars and work backwards, but maybe they'd counted on him asking for some privacy before changing his shirt. Ironic, really, that they'd thought he was in any shape to make demands after how they'd treated him.
At first the new regime had been a relief. His wounds had begun to heal properly for the first time since he'd left the States. He'd dared to hope, for a short but sweet time, that they'd lost interest and left him to rot in solitary like any other prisoner. But he hadn't really believed it, because if they'd given up on him, they would have no reason to keep him alive.
Soon, the isolation had become a burden. He'd wanted to see the guards he hated so much, wanted Cheng even, because as awful as the torture had been, it had given him a purpose. Without a purpose, he was just a piece of meat decaying in some damp dungeon where no one would ever find him. An island. If he'd been Puerto Rico in that jail cell where he'd spent the night as a teenager, he was Atlantis during that last stretch in China. Alone. Forgotten. Not sure he'd ever existed in the first place.
But he'd kept fighting. He'd conditioned himself to believe that he wasn't the teenager in the jail cell, thrown to the wolves because his father had better things to do than pick him up. He was the five-year-old in the attic, and one day he'd see a sliver of light through the hatch, warm and friendly and rapidly expanding, and this would all be over. He'd begun to think better of his father, because his childhood seemed like heaven compared to China, so he'd even had the thought (though he could never bring himself to truly believe it) that maybe Phillip would be the one to save him. It wasn't that far-fetched, really; Phillip Bauer was a rich, powerful man, with plenty of influence over politicians. Sure, he couldn't negotiate Jack's release as easily as Heller could. But if Jack could hang in there and be strong, he'd thought, someday he'd get the chance to die for something. If not through rescue, then some other way.
He couldn't have been more right. And he couldn't have been more wrong.