Law America, the Devil's Agent

Chapter 81: Have we all really made it through?

Saturday evening, Philadelphia's Old Town.

Winter nights fall early, and the streetlights come on one by one after sunset, illuminating the wet cobblestone pavement in the narrow alley with a cold light.

Maurice Caldwell parked his car in a roadside parking space a block away from the theater, turned off the engine, and picked up the white envelope with the supermarket logo from the passenger seat and looked at it again.

The envelope had been stuffed into his apartment mailbox three days earlier along with a bunch of GG flyers.

He initially thought it was spam and almost threw it in the trash, but the envelope had his full name printed on it:

Maurice Elliott Caldwell, this is an invitation.

He then opened it and found a theater ticket inside, along with a short note bearing the supermarket logo, its wording concise and appropriate:

Congratulations on winning the first prize in this year's member points reward event:

One VIP box seat at the Royal Theatre in Philadelphia's Old Town.

This ticket is non-transferable, non-saleable, and for personal use only.

He stared at the ticket for a long time.

Royal Theatre, First Class Box.

These seats typically cost several hundred dollars each and need to be booked weeks in advance.

Why would a supermarket give away such an expensive gift as part of its membership reward program?

He called the supermarket's customer service, who checked his membership number and confirmed the authenticity of the event, telling him that he was one of only a few winning members in the entire Philadelphia area.

The customer service representative's voice was very sincere, and in the background you could hear the familiar scanning sounds from the supermarket checkout and conversations between customers.

Morris hung up the phone, thinking he was probably just lucky.

He does indeed shop at that supermarket frequently and is a long-time member.

Since it can't be given away or sold, and I happen to have no other plans for the weekend, I'll go take a look.

He straightened his shirt collar in the rearview mirror; he hadn't been to a theater in a long time.

The Royal Theatre was older than he had imagined, but that old age had a dignified air about it.

The usher, dressed in a black vest, checked his ticket and politely led him through the hall toward the second floor.

He walked up the spiral staircase covered with a red carpet, through several corridors with crystal chandeliers, and was finally led to a heavy oak door.

A bronze plaque was nailed to the door, with several characters engraved on it in cursive script:

Private box (VIP room).

The usher opened the door for him, bowed slightly to signal him to come in, and then quietly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

The private room was bigger than he had imagined.

It wasn't one of those cramped cubicles crammed with two rows of folding chairs, but a wide, semi-circular space with leather armchairs and backrests higher than his shoulders.

At the very front is an arched brass railing, beyond which lies the dome of the theater lobby and the densely packed seats for ordinary audience members below.

The VIP box has a great location, right in the center of the second floor, offering a prime view of the stage.

But Maurice's attention did not linger on the box's decor for long.

Because the private room was already occupied.

Several people had already arrived ahead of time.

They were scattered in different parts of the private room, some sitting in the front row by the railing, and some sitting in the shadows in the back row, without speaking to each other.

Hearing the door open, they turned around at the same time, looking him up and down, and he looked them up and down as well.

The lighting in the private room was dim, and only blurry outlines and the general shape of faces could be discerned.

A middle-aged woman wearing gold-rimmed glasses sat in the front row, on the left.

A slightly balding man sat in the back corner, wearing a dark hoodie.

There was also a man who looked to be in his early thirties sitting on the far right, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on his upper arm.

There were seven or eight people in total, ranging in age from their twenties to their thirties.

There were men and women, white people and ethnic minorities, but without exception, they all exuded a sense of vigilance and restraint in their demeanor.

Morris frowned slightly, as if he vaguely remembered their faces.

But he didn't dwell on it; he simply sat down in the middle seat by the aisle.

He nodded to the person next to him, and the other person nodded back; neither of them spoke.

A strange atmosphere permeated the private room—a natural silence like that between strangers, or a quietness suppressed by something.

Several people's gazes swept back and forth across the faces of the others, as if they were trying to recognize something, but they weren't sure.

Morris felt the same way.

He felt that the bald man's profile looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place where he had seen him before.

The woman with the gold-rimmed glasses—a certain expression on her face stirred something within him, as if he had seen her somewhere long ago, with her head bowed.

He didn't continue thinking about it. Because he hadn't allowed himself to think about that place for a long time.

The lights in the theater lobby began to dim slowly, the noise from the seating area gradually subsided, and the stage curtain slowly opened in the darkness.

Morris turned his attention to the stage, adjusted his posture, and prepared to enjoy this unexpected weekend performance.

This is a play set in 19th-century Britain during the industrial era.

It tells the story of an orphan named Oliver who grows up in a workhouse in Victorian London, is sold into a funeral home, escapes to a den of thieves, and suffers all kinds of bullying and betrayal, but never gives up his longing for kindness and a sense of belonging.

Shortly after the start of the first act, a group of children dressed in tattered clothes appeared on stage.

They were thin and bony, standing in two rows under the dim light, holding up empty bowls of porridge, pleading in trembling childish voices: "Sir, I want some more."

The singing was soft and thin, like a flock of fledglings that had been starving for too long making faint begging sounds in their nest.

Morris's fingers slowly tightened on the armrest of the seat.

The woman in the seat next to him, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, lowered her clasped hands and pressed one hand against her knee, her knuckles turning slightly white.

In the second act, Oliver is sold to a funeral home, where he sleeps among coffins, is humiliated and mocked by older students, is whipped with a belt by his master, and shivers in the cold winter night, huddled between coffins.

The stage lights were as cold as frost, casting that small, thin figure as a lonely shadow.

The bald man in the back row pulled his hood up.

His movements were very light, as if he was afraid of being noticed, but the thin cotton cloth could not hide the slight trembling of his shoulders.

He gripped the edge of his hood with one hand and clenched his other hand tightly on the armrest, his knuckles thick and red, as if he were choking someone unseen.

Morris did not notice that he was crying.

He didn't know when he started crying.

By the time he realized it, the first tear had already slid down his rough cheek and landed on the back of his clasped hands, cold and unfamiliar.

He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes hard with his palm, but then a second and a third drop came out, as if some valve he thought was rusted shut had been forced open from the inside by something.

On stage, the orphan huddled in a pile of coffins and the boy huddled in the corner of the dormitory bed in his memory began to overlap and merge in his blurred vision. The dormitory with the curtains always drawn, the bed sheet that was repeatedly soiled, and the shadow that would appear at the corner of the corridor after every weekend service.

He hadn't thought about these things for many years.

Or to be more precise, it took him many years to learn how not to think about these things.

At the end of the first act, Oliver is falsely accused of theft and dragged away in front of everyone. His piercing cry echoed for a long time under the theater's dome before fading away.

The lights went out, the curtain fell, and the intermission announcement rang out in the silence.

But no one in the private room got up. No one went to the restroom, no one went to the bar to buy a drink, and no one took out their phone to check messages like the other ordinary audience members.

Everyone remained silent in their seats.

Some people were wiping their fingers repeatedly with their heads down on tissues, while others buried their faces in their hands, their shoulders shaking silently.

Some people were sobbing softly, some were angrily pounding on the armrests of their seats, and some were muttering a name in a hoarse voice. The name wasn't that of any character in the play, but rather a real person's name, which had been suppressed for so many years and was being squeezed out of their throats for the first time.

The man in his early thirties sitting on the far right suddenly stood up. His movement was so sudden that the chair bounced back behind him and hit the wall with a thud.

He walked quickly through the narrow passage between the seats toward the door of the private room and yanked open the heavy oak door.

The light from the corridor streamed in from outside the door, illuminating his tense face and a young man standing in the doorway.

The man was wearing a well-fitting charcoal gray suit, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed and confident, as if he had been standing there for a long time.

A gentle yet confident smile graced his face, his silhouette clearly outlined by the corridor lights from behind.

It was Link.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was clearly enunciated in the quiet box: "The play isn't over yet; leaving halfway through isn't a good habit."

I think if you keep reading, things might take a turn for the better.

Are you really going to choose to leave now? Besides, are you really capable of leaving?

The man who opened the door was Matthew Benson.

His eyes were red-rimmed, and his nostrils were still twitching slightly from the anger stirred up by the drama.

He looked Link up and down, and growled in a low voice, barely suppressing his anger: "Can't get out? Are you threatening us?"

Sir, I don't care what your reason is.

This show made me feel physically uncomfortable.

If you are a theater staff member, a security guard, or any related person, please let me go now.

Several people in the back row also stood up and whispered in agreement.

Some people grumbled that the arrangement of this private room was too strange, some questioned who sent these tickets, and some were muttering curses as they packed their coats, preparing to leave together.

Morris also stood up.

His eyes were still red, and his fingers still bore the wet marks from wiping away tears, but he didn't speak. He just stood there, looking at the Chinese man at the door.

He was filled with fear—

The fear of having old wounds touched by strangers; and also anger.

The anger of being forced to confront what you least want to face.

But at the same time, there is also an inexplicable curiosity and doubt:

This person's appearance is too strange, too strange to be a coincidence.

He wanted to know who this person was and why he was standing here tonight.

Link did not respond immediately.

He waited until all the complaints, questions, and curses subsided, until the box was quiet enough to hear the conversations from the audience during intermission in the distance, before he spoke.

His voice was strong and confident: "Sir, I am not talking about leaving this theater."

I'm talking about another place.

That was a nightmare, that was hell.

Morris's mind went blank for a moment.

Countless people looked up in bewilderment, all staring intently at Link.

Then the name that they had suppressed for so many years, that was desperately suppressed every time it surfaced, rose from the deepest part of their memory.

Everyone's face turned pale and contorted instantly.

"Sacred Heart Elementary School. Has everyone come out yet?"