The Premise

by Andy Crossfield

  Prior to the privatization, the prison was one of the newest in the Nevada penal system, and had been enlarged because of the consolidation and closing of older facilities in southern Nevada. It held 4,227 inmates, ranging from Supermax to Minimum Security in a variety of clustered buildings all surrounded by an imposing double fence with a killing ground between them.

  The administration buildings were closest to the road, situated away from the factory clusters, and had their own stringent security to navigate. Above the entrance was a sign that read:

  "Visitors Should Understand The Potential For Becoming A Hostage When Entering A Prison"

  "Great," Mark thought.

  Inside the door sat two guards at a desk in front of a long corridor. Beside the desk sat a walk-through metal detector and a bench for removing shoes or clothing if necessary. A set of lockers sat against one wall in front of the desk along with another sign:

  All Visitors Must Empty Their Pockets And Place All Belongings In A Locker

  There Is A $25 Charge For Lost Keys

  Parents Of Small Children Will Change Diapers In The Presence Of The Visiting Room Officer

  That last sentence got Mark smiling for the first time that morning as he contemplated the exciting workday life of a visiting room officer.

  He walked to the men seated at the desk and showed his ID, signed a log, emptied his pockets into a baggie, and picked a locker as his own. He put the key securely in his pocket and strode through the metal detector.

  Buzz.

  Damn, wouldn’t you know it? Mark swore under his breath. He took his belt and shoes off and tried again.

  No buzz. One of the guards began examining his shoes inside and out for any tampered area that could hide a shiv Mark guessed, or maybe contraband. The guard even put the shoe to his nose and sniffed. Just another perk of the job. Mark smiled for a second time at the thought.

  When the guards were satisfied they were just shoes and a belt with a metal buckle, they allowed him to dress and one escorted Mark down to Hank Caswell’s office.

  First floor offices usually don’t offer dramatic views, the exception being Ramy’s office, which overlooked a slope and the tree-filled courtyard below. Hank’s office overlooked a sunken exercise yard for the Supermax inmates and provided anyone in his office a voyeuristic experience because of the one-way, bulletproof glass. There was a balcony beyond the glass, protected by the latest in fiber optic sensors and coils of always-reliable concertina wire, that was hung from the ledge below.

  Hank Caswell was on the phone, but ushered Mark in with a quick hand motion. He stood to greet Mark but immediately sat back down before Mark could cross the large room to shake his hand. This left Mark standing awkwardly halfway between the door and Hank’s desk. Unsure if he had actually been invited in, or whether Hank had just stretched his arm, Mark noticed there were no chairs or other places to sit in the large office. He began to realize this guy Hank was all about control.

  Hank was an imposing man. About six-three, Mark guessed, having only seen him stand for a second or two. Broad shoulders, with a square head and jaw, Hank looked like the epitome of a drill sergeant, with a commanding voice and, judging from his conversation on the phone, an attitude to match.

  Hank kept his hair closely cropped in what looked like a crew cut, although the top had balded front to back, leaving him with whitish wings on either side of his head.

  After a minute or so, Hank ended his call and busied himself making notes in some sort of journal. Mark then noticed his desk was clean except for a phone, his journal, and a black 45 caliber Berretta in a holster. No computer or laptop of any kind. No photos of family. No file cabinets, potted plants, or other trappings accumulated by the CEO of a large and prosperous company. The office size was magnified because of its emptiness. Just Mark and Hank and his desk in 400 square feet. It was created to be imposing.

  Mark was determined not to say the first word. He had learned somewhere back in negotiation training whoever talked first in an encounter like that lost, but Mark definitely felt the pressure to speak, or clear his throat, or something to ease the tension of the moment. Still he resisted. For a full five minutes, Hank kept writing, not looking up, not acknowledging Mark’s presence in the room. Mark had been standing at the same spot he had occupied when Hank sat back down, and his stance was getting older with each passing minute.

  At last, Mark saw one of Hank’s shoulders dip. A sign of Hank's realization that Mark was winning the first round. With that, Hank looked up, smiled at Mark and leaned back in his chair. Hank seemed to fill the room and size Mark up at the same time. Still Hank kept quiet. The test of wills was getting old. Mark too, resisted speaking. Hank set his jaw, and Mark could see his temples flexing even from across the room. Mark did not move his gaze from Hank and maintained a frozen half-smile.

  All of Mark’s intuition told him this was the right course of action, but he began to feel more and more ridiculous standing there like some sort of statued street performer who prayed for someone, anyone, to walk by and throw a dollar into his pail so he could move again. It seemed Hank was fresh out of singles.

  And then, with a burst of movement, Hank raised his hands and slapped his palms on the armrests of his chair and stood. He walked around his desk and moved to the middle of the room where Mark stood, still motionless, still silent. As he came closer, Mark detected Hank’s faint frown at the prospect that Mark was not going to give in, not even going to speak first. No victory for Hank in this round, none at all.

  "How are you, Mark?" Hank said, extending his hand and acting like the past five minutes were nothing out of the ordinary. "So glad you could come out for a visit. Let me get you a chair. We had report this morning and I clear them out to make room for the men. Keeps their attention on the business at hand if they stand… know what I mean?"

  Hank gave a sideways glance toward Mark, and Mark could swear he had a look on his face as if to say, "Are you buying this bullshit?" Mark had known Hank Caswell only a couple of minutes, but he knew he was going to be trouble.

  Hank came back from the hall with a straight-backed wooden chair and placed it about six feet in front of his desk. Well out of reach of his gun Mark thought, with another slight smile.

  "Okay, Mark, let’s get down to business. Ramy told me about the trouble you had out there; have there been any developments?"

  Hank sat back in his soft leather chair as if to luxuriate in its comfort, while Mark tried to adjust his tired, stiff muscles to the unforgiving hardness of his straight backed hard chair.

  "Well, I was expecting to get word this morning, but I’m out of cell phone range around here and haven’t heard from the lab. I’d expect you have an office I will be using while I’m here. Perhaps I could get on over there and try to get us a little news on the subject, eh?"

  Mark had decided to begin his opening volley on offense. By assuming cooperation and issuing expectations of just how this visit would play out, Mark hoped to gain the upper hand.

  "Hold on now Mark, not so fast. This will be the only time you visit our fine establishment during your trip." Hank grinned knowingly, speaking with the satisfaction of a gambler with a winning hand, laying down the last of his four aces.

  "I’ve arranged for you to fill an interim spot as a base clinician over at Randall Air Force Base not far from here. We have a contract with them to do the physicals and what not for our inmates. It will be a perfect spot to give you the access you need while maintaining the distance I demand.

  "I’ll have a guard drive you over this morning. Did you stay at the Regal Inn last night? I’ll get Kyle to take you by and collect your things. You can leave the rental car here. You’ll be issued a base vehicle when you get to Randall."

  What Hank was saying still hadn’t penetrated Mark's travel-fogged mind when he continued with a grin that Mark would swear he’d only seen on little boys pulling wings off of flies.

  "I just wanted to meet you and tell you in
person how much we appreciate the work you did on Termes. That little number is adding an extra thirty percent to the bottom line here at Crimson Desert, and I’ll be speaking to Ramy about implementing it in three more facilities before the end of next year. That ought to put a shine on his cockles, dontcha think?"

  Mark didn’t even have time to react. He was surprised at how fast he found himself back out in the parking lot. Hank had moved around his desk, slapped him on the back and guided him to the hall in what seemed one effortless motion. Another second or two spent giving up his rental keys and filling his pockets with his possessions, and he was out before he knew it.

  As he stood there getting his bearings, an unmarked car pulled up fast beside Mark, engulfing him in clouds of choking dust. The driver reached over the seat and opened the passenger door.

  "Hop in, Dr. Moran!" said a friendly voice.

  Mark got in and barely got the door closed before the car sped through the gate and back out on the main road.

  "My name's Kyle Preston, Dr. Moran," said the youthful driver, taking his eyes off the deserted road. "We’ll head back to your motel in Brisbee and then out to the base. Okay with you?"

  "Uh, sure, and call me Mark, please.

  "Things happen kind of quick back there don’t they?" Mark said still reeling from his rushed treatment.

  "Well, depends on which side of the bars you’re on, I guess… I’ve been on both sides you know. Kinda gives me a unique perspective you might say."

  Mark started to ask a question just as Kyle pulled into the parking lot of Mark’s motel, the Cactus Inn. Mark froze in mid-sentence when he saw the sign. He must have missed it last night, maybe because he was too tired to notice, but the name of the motel didn’t register until now.

  A deep shudder went down Mark’s spine at the realization. He tried to remain calm but he instantly was soaked in cold sweat at the thought. Mark knew it couldn’t be a coincidence….

  Hank knew.

  He knew and he was keeping it secret. But like a cat with a cornered mouse, Hank was playing with his prey. He couldn’t resist either… showing Mark he knew. Weaving it in so innocently, waiting for the reaction he knew would only come later.

  Why else would he ask Mark if he was staying at the Regal Inn? The name of the Chicago motel where he had committed his unforgivable act!

  What type of sick bastard pulls your string and doesn’t even care if he is around to see its effect? Only a sociopath. Mark fought for sanity but frightful possibilities kept surging into his mind, branching out into outcomes that were all far from pleasant. The cruel reality of his trap, waiting to be sprung at any moment, smashed his fantasy world of getting away scot-free. The beautiful walls of his fantasy, of having it all without cost, suddenly crumbled away to reveal a cage, …and a master.

  "Are you okay, Mark?" Kyle asked.

  Mark was visibly shaken, pale, and unable to move. His gaze was frozen and unfocused. He was running the probabilities through his mind at breakneck speed. Like a chess master thinking eight and ten moves ahead, his mind was calculating a series of moves that always ended in checkmate.

  He grimly summed up his situation. He was suddenly without transportation to flee, and being ferried to a secure Air Force Base where he would undoubtedly be watched 24/7. His only option was to play the game and look for an opportunity to improve his lot.

  Mark extended the analogy, likening his predicament to an imaginary chess match. His King was not in check, but it could not move in any direction. As in chess, when one's King cannot move, the situation was dire. To avoid losing everything, Mark's only hope was to put debilitating pressure on the attacker, and do so immediately.

  Chapter 9 The Fitful Sleep of the Guilty

  Mark had a hard time breathing or answering Kyle, who was now shaking his shoulder trying to get him revived. He was paralyzed by fear; fear of what Hank Caswell would do next, and by what he already knew.

  Kyle went into the motel office and came back with a bottle of water. "Here, Dr. Moran, how long has it been since you had any of this? This is the desert, sir, you need to keep hydrated or things like this will happen. Seen ‘em a hunerd times."

  Mark took the first sip, then slowly a larger swallow. Gradually he pulled himself together so that he could speak. As he began to recover, Mark reached for the door handle. He got out of the car and walked around to clear his head.

  "Thanks just the same, but I’m not going to fall over," Mark told Kyle, who followed behind with his arms outstretched ready to catch him. "I just got the shakes or something, I’ve never really had anything like it before, but I’m better now, really "

  "It could be the flu going around at the prison, but you haven’t been in contact with any inmates. Still, it had to come from somewhere; maybe you caught it here," Kyle said glancing at the Cactus Inn motel.

  "You might be right Kyle, let’s get me checked out and away from this God-forsaken place before something worse happens!"

  Mark wobbled toward his room and fumbled for his key. His underwear was soaked and uncomfortable, and he quickly changed while Kyle was putting his belongings in the trunk. Mark began to feel better in dry clothes, and discovered he was able to again concentrate on his next move.

  Kyle pulled up to the office while Mark checked out, and then they headed for Randall AFB. On the drive over, Mark began to tally his assets and came up pretty light. He decided what he needed most out here were friends, and Kyle seemed the only likely candidate. Hank Caswell obviously trusted Kyle enough to let him spend time alone with Mark, and maybe even sent him along to report on what Mark said or did. Still, Kyle was the only person Mark knew, and he needed to find out where Kyle’s loyalties lay.

  "So Kyle, you were saying you had been on both sides of the bars at Crimson Desert…. How’d that happen?" Mark asked.

  "Well, there’s not much to tell. I was stupid and didn’t know who my friends were, I guess. I messed up and got five years out at Crimson Desert. When my time was up I had no place to go, so I turned chaquetero."

  "What’s chaquetero?" Mark asked.

  "Oh, that’s just what we call someone who switches from one side of the bars to the other. I became a CO, a corrections officer. From an inmate to a CO…that’s usually the way it works. Going the other way don’t end up too good." Kyle looked at Mark and smiled, taking his eyes off the road again just as a semi roared past, causing Kyle to swerve back into their lane and avoid disaster by inches.

  "Holy shit!" Mark yelled.

  "I got it, not a problem Dr. Moran," Kyle said, though visibly shaken, and now determined to keep his eyes on the road.

  "Like I was sayin’, I got a unique perspective on things, and you know what that is?"

  "No, what’s that?" replied Mark, still shaken by their near collision.

  "It’s that there ain’t a whole lot of difference in being a prisoner and a guard. Now that’s an odd thing, ain’t it? I mean, besides the obvious, you know, being able to leave an all, there’s stress and fear of screwin’ up, and responsibility on both sides of the bars. Staying alive takes a lot of thought when you’re a prisoner, but surviving out in the real world ain’t no easy thing either. Especially on what they pay us. And while a prisoner has to watch his back all the time, the ones with the real targets on ‘em, an' really have to watch their step, are the guards.

  "I mean, don’t get me wrong… I’m lucky to have a job with my record and all. Its just if I didn’t go all stupid back when, I wouldn’t be doing this today, I guarantee you!"

  Kyle looked contemplative; like this wasn’t the first time he had regretted whatever he did to get five years. But there was no turning back.

  Mark was just about to ask what stupid thing Kyle had done when his cell phone began chiming.

  "Oh, I must have a signal again…and a message."

  "Yeah," said Kyle, "there’s good signal around here from that tower up on the ridge."

  "Make that several messages," Mark said as his p
hone alerted to multiple messages.

  Beep

  "Hi Mark, its Colleen, just checking in to see if you’d started looking over my data. I’ll catch you later."

  Beep

  "Hi again, its Colleen, just wanted to know if you had any questions. I’ll be available all week when you need to talk."

  Beep

  "Sorry to bother you Mark, just wanted to confirm our lunch on Friday. Does that still look good?"

  Mark turned his ringer off and his phone to vibrate, and put it on the dash.

  "Geez," Kyle said, "she’s a persistent one, huh?"

  "What?" Mark asked, lost in thought over what he’d gotten himself into.