The Tower

by Gregg Hurwitz

  5

  JONSTEN’S death came on Allander’s tenth day in the Tower. Prior to that time, Allander had been largely ignored by Spade, who had been too preoccupied with the cell above to notice him. Shortly after the incident, the guards had arrived to view the scene. They reprimanded Spade, showering him with obscenities and turning a hose on him. Spade merely laughed and flexed in the water’s spray. “Whatcha gonna do, put me in prison?” he taunted.

  After the guards cleared Jonsten’s mangled body from his cell (the warden decided to leave 11B vacant for the duration of Spade’s sentence), Spade focused on the small, shivering prisoner across the Hole.

  “So … you’re the clown boy. We heard about you. Heard you all in the news and on the TV. I remember that. Young boy gettin’ fucked in the ass, and not even in prison. We were waiting for you though.”

  Allander said nothing, remaining collected and distant.

  “Let me ask you, child. You glad you don’t live upstairs from me?” Spade tilted his head back, indicating the bars, which were still caked with blood and hair despite the hosing. “Guess I’m not too good a neighbor.” He laughed his deep, booming laugh and climbed into bed.

  Allander awoke to a tapping on his forehead. His hands moved over his face in a rush and he realized it was wet. He looked through the ceiling and saw Claude Rivers standing directly above him, his legs slightly spread so Allander was gazing up at his crotch.

  Claude held his shirt, which he had doused in the toilet. He twisted it, forearms cording with muscles, bringing down another slow series of drops on Allander’s head. Allander stood up, rubbing his forehead. It was sore, as if the water had worn a groove in it.

  Claude watched him with interest, but said nothing. Allander crossed his unit to the vents. Overhead, Claude slowly shadowed his movement. He paused, wringing his shirt again, bringing a few plump drops down on Allander’s head. Allander looked up at him, but no change of expression flickered over Claude’s face. His eyes were light and wide, like holes through his head. When Allander went back to his bed, Claude did not follow.

  Allander fell back into an uneasy sleep. When he jerked awake later, it was pitch black. He sat up in his cot quickly, glancing through the bars of the ceiling, but it seemed Claude was asleep.

  The Hatch was open and the noises of the guards on duty drifted in. It was a moonless night and Allander peered around his cell, trying to adjust to the lack of light. He had the sense that something was in the cell with him, something was watching him. Finally, his night vision eased into effect, and he could see Spade’s enormous meat-cleaver hands around the cell bars.

  Allander sat up and stared across the Hole at Spade’s cell. Spade’s eyes slowly emerged from the darkness, then his white teeth flashed in a smile and Allander sensed a reflection from his skull. In that faint light, Spade looked as if he was made of only two hands and a floating head; the rest of his body faded into the black cell.

  His voice came low and he articulated each word fully, playing with it in his mouth before releasing it to the air. “Welcome back, my child. Welcome to the cage. At first I didn’t think you belonged here. But now I’ve seen you sleep and I know. I know you do. No one in here sleeps, and it’s not the sound, it’s not the—” he gestured grandly—“ambiance. And it sure as hell’s not our consciences. You see, those of us in the Tower, we ‘Boat Pokey boys,’ we’re different. We’ve seen too much to sleep. We know too much to sleep. What do you know, my child? What do you see?”

  “Nothing,” Allander said. “I don’t see anything.”

  “BULLSHIT!” Spade boomed. The word echoed through the Tower. No one yelled for him to shut up, and the lapping water outside filled the silence. His voice dropped back to its deep whisper. “I see you turning and rolling and panting, and it’s not from jackin’ off. What do you see in your dreams, my child? What do you see in your heart of hearts?”

  Allander remained quiet.

  “Is it the clowns? The ones you’re always drawing? There?” He pointed at Allander’s drawing. Allander glanced over at it, amazed that Spade could make it out through the darkness.

  In the drawing, an enormous clown loomed over the horizon of what appeared to be a medieval castle on a hill. The clown had dismantled one of the castle’s towers and held it menacingly in its spidery fingers. Its long fingernails were wrapped around the tower, and a small maiden, hanging from a window, shrieked for help. The clown had a large, painted grin on its face. Its expression was that of a fat child about to indulge in an ice cream cone. The artwork was spectacular; the intricate details betrayed the labored minutes Allander had spent hovering over the paper.

  “No,” he replied.

  Spade drew air in loudly through his teeth. “Clowns to the left of me, rapists to my right, here I am, stuck in the Tower with ya’ll.” He laughed. “Tell me, my child, why are you too good to talk to the rest of us murderers and molesters?”

  Allander did not reply.

  “I know your story. We all know your story. You’re probably the most famous one in here. All the attention you got in court because of your—what’d the judge call it?—‘environmental conditioning’?” He sounded out the syllables of “environmental,” making it sound like en-vi-ron-mental.

  “But you proved them wrong, didn’t you, child? When you look inside, you know, you know like we all know. You know that even if you missed your childhood”—he paused, searching for the right word—“honeymoon, you know you’d still be a twisted, sick motherfucker. Now don’t you?”

  “How should I presume?” Allander chuckled softly, as if to himself, running his hands through his hair. He lifted his head, and for the first time, Spade caught a glimpse of what was behind his eyes. It made even him draw back, ever so slightly.

  Allander continued quietly, but his voice warbled as if under great strain. “You think you can measure the range, the depth of my sickness?” He shook his head slightly. “I don’t think you want to walk that landscape.” His eyes darted back and forth, flashing over Spade’s face, trying to gain entrance to his mind. He pried at it through Spade’s eyes, his nose, his mouth.

  “You wish what? You wish to explore the common bonds we share as outsiders in our society?” He waved an arm in the air for emphasis, his voice drenched in sarcasm. “Well, then, that much we have in common. Hooray for your insightfulness. But I’m afraid that’s where our similarities end. You’re a beast who beats the walls of its prison, but what would you do if you were free? What heights, pray tell, are you just waiting to scale?” Allander shook his head, making sounds of disappointment deep in his throat. “I must confess, darling, I find you a bit tiresome.”

  Spade’s upper lip withdrew disdainfully from his teeth, and he scowled as his fury bubbled to the surface. “YOU MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK I AM? WHO THE FUCK YOU’RE TALKING TO?”

  Allander remained completely still. “Evidently not.”

  Spade inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling like a mountain in an earthquake. “I owned faggots like you on the outside. In the slammer, I bent men twice your size over the bathroom sink and fucked them. Because you’re protected from me by this”—he motioned to the bars around him—“you think you can step up to me. You know, you know better.”

  Allander paused and gestured with his eyes, indicating the space above Spade’s head. “I’m afraid I don’t have Jonsten’s delicate temperament.” He thrilled at the “I,” as if arriving at it after a long and tedious journey. “And, forgive me if I’m incorrect, but it seems that you can’t touch me in here, not even through a ceiling, which makes those muscles of yours about as useless as your sluggish brain.”

  Allander let his last comment sink in before continuing. He spoke clearly and firmly, pausing dramatically between each word. “I can and will talk to you however I want, whenever I want. Remember, we’re … locked in.” He moaned the last words, raising his eyebrows and wiggling his fingers in mock horror.

  He laughed once,
sharply. “You pose no threat to me standing safely under lock and key across the way.” He crossed to the front of his cell and slid his arm slowly through the bars in Spade’s direction. “At arm’s length, if you will.”

  Spade exploded in rage, his magnificent roars shaking the Tower. Backing up, he threw his full weight against the unit door, banging the bars with his shoulder. He continued to hurl himself against the steel bars, reaching through and straining to reach Allander’s extended hand.

  Acknowledging at last the futility of his efforts, Spade overturned his bed, hurling it against the wall with one arm. He sank angrily to his haunches, glaring across the Hole at Allander.

  “Keep it the fuck down down there!” one of the guards shouted into the Hole.

  “Yeah, you shut the fuck up, nigger,” Cyprus added from below.

  Spade threw water from the toilet over his head, then sat on the cell floor as his breathing slowed to normal. There was a long silence.

  “Perhaps you would have had more luck had you used your head as a battering ram.” Allander smiled, then walked to his bed and peeled the blanket back neatly. “Now, if you could please restrain your impotent rage …” He motioned majestically around his unit and climbed into bed. Rolling over, he turned his back to Spade.

  Spade’s hands clenched and unclenched in the darkness. After several hours, to make himself feel better, he loosened his pants and pissed on Cyprus again.

  6

  THE guards patrolled the top of the Tower, circling endlessly with their guns and cigarettes. Tom Hackett was Maingate’s senior guard; he’d been selected because of his CIA training, and his experience in transporting and subduing prisoners. There are two types of enforcers—those who catch people, and those who keep and control them. Hackett was definitely one of the latter. When the Tower had first gone up, there were few who didn’t suspect he would be called in to run security.

  Toughness was written in every line on Hackett’s face. The ruddy, tan skin of his cheeks drooped into jowls. Along with his pug nose, they gave him the appearance of a kind, but disgruntled bulldog.

  The two guards talked as they circled, sometimes shouting above the roar of the waves, and bits and pieces of their conversation wafted down to the inmates.

  Justin Greener pulled out a cigarette. “Got a light?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Hackett said, reaching for the toolbox. He removed a small cup of yogurt and placed it on the deck, then dug through a pile of tools to find the matches.

  “You eat that shit?” Greener asked, pointing to the yogurt and trying not to smile.

  Hackett stood up, straightening his green slicker indignantly. “Wait till you get a few more years on you and your doctor starts riding you like a bronco, we’ll see what you’re eating.” He lit a match off his thumbnail and held it out unceremoniously.

  Greener surveyed the darkening clouds as he cupped his hands around the small flame. “Looks like rain,” he said, the cigarette jiggling slightly with his words.

  “I told you. Better grab your jacket.”

  Greener crossed over to the small guard station and took a tightly rolled slicker from the wall. The jacket was packed into itself and tied with a cord; he flipped it once in the air casually and caught it.

  “That new kid’s a sick bastard,” he said as he walked back to Hackett, the end of his cigarette glowing in the dusk.

  “They all are,” Hackett replied.

  “No, I mean he’s really psycho. He’s calm as shit, all the time. I guess over at Maingate all he did was read all day and draw pictures.”

  “And kill five people in his two-year vacation over there. That’s why we get him.”

  “What’d he kill, the shrink and some nurses?” Greener tapped the roll of the slicker against his thigh as he leaned back against the railing.

  “No. Try his lawyer, two inmates, and two guards.”

  “This is the prick who killed both those guards?”

  “Yeah. It’s not officially released yet, so it’s still a rumor as far as you know.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a meeting with his lawyer and took him hostage. Held the poor bastard’s Mont Blanc pen to his carotid artery. I guess he broke the light in the room and hid with his hostage behind the door. When the first guard came in—”

  “Gun first?”

  “Of course.”

  Greener shook his head as Hackett continued, “He kicked the door closed on his arm and the stupid bastard dropped the gun. He shot him and his first backup before anyone else got there.” Hackett looked down, studying his shoe.

  When he looked up, Greener was surprised by the sudden intensity in his eyes. “You remember, Greener.” Hackett stabbed his finger in the middle of Greener’s chest. “A veteran never relinquishes his weapon.” They stood silently for a moment.

  “And the lawyer?” Greener asked.

  “You know what always happens to the lawyer.”

  Both men laughed, their breath showing in the cool, misty air.

  “The kid punctured his neck and was drawing pictures on the ground with his blood by the time anyone else showed up. When I got there, he was peaceful and as cooperative as a baby. Came with us, no problem.”

  “When did he off the prisoners?”

  “Almost two years apart. He killed the first when he got there. In the shower. Gave him a forehead to the nose and put it through his brain. Put in seclusion for a week, and he was good when he came out. It really scared him, seclusion.”

  “The other?”

  “About a month ago, he put a spoon through someone’s eye in the cafeteria.”

  “Why a spoon?”

  “Cuz what do you think, they give ’em knives to cut their prime rib with?”

  “How ’bout a fork?”

  “No forks either.”

  “How do you kill somebody with a fucking spoon?”

  “You hold the spoon end like this”—Hackett prepared his imaginary spoon—“bending it so it sits flush against your palm, with the long end sticking out between your second and middle finger. Then you jab your fist at an angle. Hit the eye. Up and in.”

  Greener whistled. “I don’t even know how they think of this shit.”

  “That’s why you’re out here, Greener, and they’re in there.”

  Hackett turned and started another lap around the tight perimeter. As he passed Greener, he faked a jab at him. Greener, who had been flipping the slicker, flinched to the side. He shot out his hand to grab the jacket and knocked it over the side of the Tower. “Shit,” he said as he watched it drift away, a green spot on the dark water.

  Hackett laughed. “If you’re that scared of an imaginary spoon …” He chuckled again as Greener started to smile.

  “He must be a smart bitch to think that one up,” Greener said.

  Hackett pressed his lips together as he looked out over the rolling waves. “He’s a fuckin’ genius, that kid. Shouldn’t have let him read so much shit at Maingate. They tested him at the ward. Twice. Thought they fucked up the first time. A genius.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Which makes him all the more goddamn dangerous.”

  They stood silently for a while, finishing their cigarettes as the sun dipped to the hazy horizon. A few seagulls flew overhead, then wrangled over some dead crabs that had washed ashore.

  A burst of thunder swept across the gray sky.

  “We’d better get dinner ready now in case we have to close the Hatch on account of rain,” Hackett said.

  “What’s on the menu this morning, boss?”

  “Yogurt,” they both said together, and Hackett reluctantly joined in Greener’s laughter.

  Greener went into the small shed on the roof of the Tower and pulled out the tray with loaves on it, grabbing the pronged metal arm. The arm enabled the guards to deliver the loaves from the elevator, sliding them through the food hole at the base of the door. Maximum distance, maximum safety. It also had a plastic loop that
the guard put around his wrist so a prisoner couldn’t yank it away.

  Greener checked the monitor that displayed the prisoners’ location sensors. Eighteen blinking lights lined up in two rows. One red flashing light after another.

  When he walked out of the shed, Hackett passed him the keys. “Why don’t you grab another jacket out of storage,” he said. “Last thing I need is you getting even more wet behind the ears.” He grinned affectionately as Greener took the keys and hooked them through his belt. “And grab a couple of extras while you’re down there.”

  “All right, hotshot,” Greener said, leaning over to pick up the tray

  7

  HEADING onto the elevator, Greener launched into what had become his customary routine: “Okay, kids, wake up! The menu today consists of, surprisingly, a fucking loaf. We were flying in a new recipe straight from Paris—that’s in France, Cyprus—where they’ve been doing experimentation with escargot soufflés. Unfortunately, the plane crashed, so you get to eat this shit again.”

  “Fuck you, Greener—”

  “Greener, you asshole—”

  He smiled. “The choirboys speak.”

  He placed a loaf down on Level Eleven and, extending the arm, slid it under the door of Unit 11A. Claude Rivers did not stir.

  “Here you go, Van Winkle. Try not to choke on it.” He held the elevator control with its big red buttons in his left hand. It was a remote unit that could fit into a front pocket. “All right, here we go. More four-star dining. Looks like we’ll be skipping Jonsten today.” He shook his head at Spade as the elevator platform settled at Level Ten. “Spade, you sicko. Don’t we feed you enough?”

  “Yeah, fuck you.”

  “Well, it’s good to see your vocabulary’s expanding in here. I’ll put in a good word to your parole officer—oh wait. That’s right. You don’t have a parole officer.”

  Spade sneered, his curled lip rising until its wrinkles met those from his squinting eye. Greener looked over at Allander, who was lying facedown on the floor with the blue blanket draped over his waist. “Hey, Atlasia, you want breakfast?”