"When the Shielding Act was first introduced, no one knew whether it was a blessing or a curse. The debates were fierce. But one thing the government kept insisting on—over and over—was that the criminals selected for shielding bracelets posed no threat to society, that they would never endanger public safety." Jason Mercer took a slow drag of his cigarette. "But Gordon Chase? He started out as a small-time con man who romanced women out of their savings. One year wearing the bracelet, and he'd learned to kill. If the public had found out about that, what would they have thought? Could the legislation have survived?"
"You're saying the government covered it up?"
"It wasn't just Gordon. Over those early years, there were a number of similar incidents. That's why the law kept getting revised—patch after patch after patch."
"So what happened to those people? How did the government handle them?" I asked the question, though in my gut, I already knew the answer.
"The information I got was that they were rounded up and confined to a single location. Where exactly, I never found out. Sounded like a mess. Quite a few died. Some lost their minds entirely and were committed to psychiatric hospitals. But those were just the early years—first two, maybe three. After that, the information dried up. I lost access. So I always assumed Gordon was either dead or institutionalized by now. Never imagined he'd still be alive and kicking."
"Then those eleven blank years on his assessment record—he was probably locked up in that facility the entire time."
"Makes you think. That might explain why he's become what he is today. He got off easy, if you ask me. But I'm telling you—leave this alone. You got what you came for. Your curiosity's been satisfied. Walk away, just like everyone before you. And whatever you do, don't go looking for him. Take it from someone who's already got a crack in his skull from asking too many questions—you don't want to know what that feels like."
As the sun dipped below the mountainside, Jason invited me indoors for supper. I didn't refuse, and we talked about many things over the meal—though I kept the conversation away from Gordon Chase. By the time I drove back to Saden, it was past nine at night.
This trip had yielded far more than I'd expected. I lay in bed at my hotel, weighing two options: take tomorrow afternoon's train home, or go back to that cabin in the woods and try again. At the very least, I should see where and how Gordon actually lived. I hadn't even set foot inside his cabin yet—could I really close this evaluation file based on secondhand accounts and the testimony of one man with a scarred skull? I stared at the ceiling, caught between choices.
Right at that moment, my phone buzzed. It was Yvonne.
"Nathan, are you still in Saden?"
"I am. What's wrong?" I couldn't guess why she'd call, though I suspected she wanted to confirm whether I'd heeded her advice. If so, she'd be disappointed.
"You still haven't given up on Gordon Chase, have you?"
"I want to give it one more shot."
"Ugh, I figured as much. Did you make any progress today?"
"Nothing concrete. I'm planning to go back to his cabin tomorrow." I decided not to mention Jason Mercer. No point giving her more to worry about.
"Nathan." I heard a long pause on the line. Knowing Yvonne, this meant she was gathering her courage for something difficult to say. "I called because I hoped you'd already be on a train out of there. But since you're not going anywhere, there's something I need to tell you. I hope it helps."
"What is it?" I sat up straight, instinct telling me this could be a pivotal lead.
"After we spoke yesterday, I couldn't stop thinking about Gordon. And I remembered something—five years ago, when I went to Saden for his evaluation, I ran into a man in town. A logger, someone who spent a lot of time in the woods near Gordon's cabin. He told me he'd seen Gordon a few times—regularly enough to recognize him. And he said that once, when he was passing close to Gordon's cabin, he looked through the window and saw a woman inside."
"A woman?"
"Yes. A woman. At the time I couldn't verify whether he was telling the truth, and honestly, I was too afraid to go to the cabin myself." She paused again, and I heard her let out a quiet sigh. "Deep down, I knew he was telling the truth. I was just too scared to confirm it. Maybe I had no business calling myself an evaluator in the first place."
"Yvonne…" The words stuck in my throat. I honestly didn't know what to say.
"Nathan, if you're really going to go to that cabin, go when Gordon isn't home. Or bring several people with you. Five years have passed. Maybe that woman is long gone. Who knows?" She gave me more warnings and precautions, but my thoughts were still fixed on what she'd revealed. A woman living with Gordon Chase? The case was becoming more tangled by the minute.
That night I barely slept, and I woke early. A little past seven, I went downstairs for breakfast, my mind churning with the problem of rounding up a few people to go with me to the cabin. Facing Gordon Chase by myself was out of the question—if something went wrong, there'd be no one to help. I was turning this over in my head when, by pure chance, I spotted Gordon Chase himself, head bowed, walking into the general store across the street, carrying a cloth bag.
I asked around. The locals all knew him. Roughly every two weeks, Gordon came into town to restock. But nobody here had ever exchanged a word with him. They all called him the Mute Old Man.
I watched through the window as Gordon entered the store, handed the owner a slip of paper, and stood there in complete silence—no words, no gestures—just waiting for the shopkeeper to gather the items on his list. I'd never observed how someone under full shielding managed daily life before. At first I was fascinated, but then the realization struck me like a lightning bolt, and I slapped my own thigh in frustration. Right now—while Gordon was in town—was the perfect time to get into that cabin!
Gordon had walked here. It would take him three, maybe four hours to walk back. If I drove there now, I'd have plenty of time to search the cabin thoroughly. I abandoned the rest of my breakfast, jammed a few more bites in my mouth, and was out the door and in the car in under a minute. Having made the trip once before, I found the cabin without difficulty.
The cabin door wasn't locked—just a simple wooden bar. I pulled it, and the door groaned open on rusted hinges, revealing a sliver of dark interior.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" I called from the threshold, testing the air. No response. Had the woman already left? But even a quick look inside would be valuable.
I stepped over the threshold carefully, and unbidden, the image of Jason's scarred scalp flashed through my mind. I felt a sudden chill at the back of my neck. I touched it—nothing there—and quickly checked behind the door. Just emptiness.
I laughed at my own jumpiness, but my body refused to unclench. I fumbled along the wall for a light switch before remembering—this cabin had no electricity. The main room held a table and a few simple pieces of furniture. Beyond was another doorway, leading deeper into the cabin, where the darkness was even thicker.
Then I heard the front door creak behind me. I spun around. Just the wind.
I seriously considered shutting the door to keep the wind out, but that would plunge the interior into near-total blackness. I left it ajar and pressed deeper into the cabin.
The inner room was lined with bookshelves—several rows of them, crammed full. I couldn't read the spines in the gloom, but the sheer number of volumes took me aback. Was this how Gordon Chase held back the crushing weight of isolation—through books? My eyes moved from the shelves to the bed in the center of the room, and what I saw there nearly made me cry out.
A woman was lying on the bed. An older woman, thin and pale. Between the dim light and a visual blind spot in the room's layout, I hadn't noticed her until now. The strange thing was, she didn't speak. She didn't react to an intruder in her home with anger or fear. She simply lay there, watching me with a steady, unnerving gaze that made my skin crawl.
"Hel—hello." My voice came out shaky despite my best efforts.
"You." At least she responded. At least she could speak.
"You know me?"
"You came the day before yesterday. The evaluator. He's not here. You should go." After a few sentences of conversation, some of my fear subsided. At least she could communicate—unlike Gordon, who was trapped in total shielding. Though I really wished the room had more light.
"I'm not worried. I can wait for him. If it's all right, could I open the curtain?" I pointed at a thin drape that let in a sliver of daylight.
"No. I'm getting ready to sleep." Her expression and her voice shared the same flat, affectless quality. I had no idea how to navigate the awkward silence that followed. She watched me, I watched her, and I suspected I was the only one who found it uncomfortable—she seemed perfectly at ease.
"You—" Just when I thought we might sit here staring at each other indefinitely, the darkness receded a fraction. My eyes had finally adjusted to the gloom, and her features came into focus. "You're Joanna Zhang?"
"I am." Her matter-of-fact admission left me even more bewildered. I should have recognized her sooner. I'd studied her photograph at least twenty times over the past few days—she was one of Gordon Chase's original victims from the case file. In the photo, she'd been a woman of about twenty. The person before me was gaunt, pale, and visibly aged.
"Why?" The question escaped before I could stop it. I couldn't fathom why a woman would choose to live with the very man who'd deceived and harmed her—or how she could be so calm about it.
"Because I love him."
"After everything he did to you, you still love him?"
"I forgave him."
"But does he love you? Can he even love you?" Her composure was unnerving—it made her seem deranged. Only a delusional person could speak such words with such certainty. "He didn't love you back then. And now, wearing that shielding bracelet, it's even more impossible for him to express love."
"He loves me. I know it. Even if he can't express it, the love is still there."
"You're deluding yourself." A woman's foolish, desperate fantasy of romance.
"You don't understand. When a person has absolutely no one in the world—no one to understand them, communicate with them, or even acknowledge their existence—the despair is absolute. I'm his only connection to humanity. I'm willing to give him everything. I'm his soul's only outlet. So tell me—if not for loving me, what other choice does he have?"
She smiled at my stunned silence. The expression finally brought her face to life, though I wished she'd go back to being blank.
"By the way, I should thank you. If it weren't for the shielding bracelet, I never would have gotten what I wanted."
"So that's why you made him refuse every evaluation—to keep the shielding permanent?"
"Correct. What's wrong with that? He has me. That's all he needs."
"You're selfish." Looking at her smug, unapologetic face, I felt a wave of revulsion. "He should have the right to choose. I'm going to make sure he gets an evaluation. Whether his sentence is reduced will be up to him."
"I! WON'T! ALLOW IT!" Joanna Zhang's eyes went wide, wild, like a cornered animal that had spotted a threat. "Who do you think you are? What gives you the right? No one is going to take him away from me! NO ONE! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Her shrieking was naked, feral rage—nothing like the eerie calm from before. I now understood with certainty that her mind was damaged. Years of living in isolation with a man who couldn't communicate had fractured something inside her. I decided the wisest course was to stay silent and stop provoking her.
"No. You're not going anywhere." And just like that, her voice was calm again, measured and conversational, as though the outburst had never happened. "I've decided you're not leaving."
"You've changed your mind?"
"No. You still don't understand—because you can't leave." Joanna Zhang stared at me with a cold smile. "He's coming back. Right now."
"Don't try to trick me. I saw him in town with my own eyes. It's at least a three-hour walk back."
"Didn't you know? He takes the bus back. By my calculation, he should be arriving any moment now." I knew she might be lying—just saying whatever it took to scare me into leaving. But I had to admit, she'd succeeded. I was terrified.
"So what if he comes? I'll convince him to accept an evaluation." The bravado in my voice rang hollow even to my own ears. Who knew what a man like Gordon Chase might do? Jason's warning echoed in my memory like a death knell.
"I'll make him kill you. How about that? Scared now? I've already killed one person for him. Now it's his turn to kill one for me. That's only fair, don't you think?"
"You? You killed someone?" I stared at her, unable to process what I was hearing. "You're the one who attacked Jason Mercer!"
"I did. What, you didn't know?" Joanna Zhang looked at me the way one looks at an amusing television program. I had no idea what expression my own face was wearing, but the final pieces of the puzzle had just snapped into place. She had attacked Jason to prevent Gordon's shielding from ever being reduced—keeping him locked in a prison of total isolation forever.
"And that's not all. The original case against him cost me a great deal of effort, you know. You should realize—full shielding sentences were extraordinarily difficult to obtain, even back then." She spoke of the terrible things she'd done with the casual ease of someone recounting a shopping list. A deep chill settled into my bones.
"You say you love him—and this is what you do to him!"
"I want him to belong to me forever."
"And you think doing this makes him yours?"
"Doesn't it? Time has proven that I succeeded. If you still don't believe me, wait until he arrives. See if he's willing to kill you—for me."
For the second time, the door behind me let out a long, groaning creak. Joanna Zhang smiled.
A numbness spread from the top of my skull down my spine. One second ago I'd been ready to bolt. Now I couldn't even summon the courage to turn around.
I could only pray, silently, that it was the wind—just the wind, one more time.