The Heart Heist

by Alyssa Kress

  Gary sighed and rolled onto his back. She was gone. As he stared at the ceiling, the continued screams attested to the less pleasant dreams of one of his fellow prisoners.

  Hickey, Gary decided. Hickey'd spent half his life knocking off convenience store clerks as if they were play rabbits in a shooting gallery. He deserved a few nightmares. But then, there were a hundred other candidates for bad dreams sleeping in cages down the corridor; men who'd lived violently, recklessly, and uselessly.

  The screams dwindled down to frightened whimpers. Someone yelled out for the perpetrator of the night disturbance to shut the hell up or some vital part of his anatomy would be slit in two the next morning. The whimpers stopped.

  Not that Gary would be able to get back to sleep. Not now. He threw an arm over his eyes, but that didn't keep out the tower lights, nor did it shut out the crowd of thoughts that hadn't given him a moment's peace since yesterday.

  Ten years. They'd offered him ten years off his twenty-five-year sentence. It was an amazing offer, half of the time he had left to serve. All he had to do was this simple little job for Los Angeles' Department of Water and Power. They would actually pay him ‑‑ ten years ‑‑ just for finding a way to beat the security at their plant outside of a town called Freedom. It was outrageous!

  Yeah. Too outrageous.

  Oh, he wasn't a violent offender like the other guys in Level Four, but ten years was too much of a break to be believed.

  "Say, Gary. You up?"

  The voice was crazy Willie Deere's in the next cell over. Sighing, Gary rolled off his cot. "Yeah, I'm up."

  "Who d'you suppose that was?" Willie asked.

  Gary couldn't see Willie's face, only his hands on the bars; arthritic hands with age spots.

  Yawning, Gary turned and leaned against the concrete wall between them. "Maybe the new kid." Gary knew Willie had his eye on the new kid. The previous morning the old man had managed to pass a pack of real, outside cigarettes to the youth as they'd filed out of the breakfast mess hall. The look he'd given the kid had been full of love. "You know, everyone's trying to get that boy's attention," Gary now told Willie. "You ought to save those cigarettes for yourself."

  Willie sounded injured. "You never know. I might get lucky."

  "You might," Gary agreed, noncommittal.

  "Now you," Willie accused, "don't even try."

  "I like girls," Gary said, remembering the end of his dream. "Girls exclusively."

  "Hmph." Willie's fingers fell over the edges of the bars. "Doesn't matter. Everybody thinks you're my bitch."

  "Yeah, well, ain't that lucky for you. People tend to leave you alone that way." Gary was far less concerned with his reputation than he was for Willie's well-being. Without Gary's protection, the old man would be fish bait. Not that Gary had any particular fondness for the old coot. He simply couldn't stand to see a weak creature beaten by a stronger one. That was all.

  "You're right about that," Willie conceded. "They do leave me be." Abruptly, he shifted course. "You going to tell me who was the man came to see you yesterday?"

  Gary blinked in surprise. He hadn't realized Willie'd noticed his visitor. But then, crazy Willie was often sharper than he looked. "That was Marty," Gary decided to admit. "Used to be my parole officer."

  "Parole officer!" Willie sounded as baffled as Gary had been. A three-time loser with his last burglary rap, Gary was years away from the nearest possible parole hearing. Not that he'd get very far even when that blessed event occurred. Marty, with good reason, hated Gary's guts.

  "What did the guy want?" Willie asked.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Gary carefully considered an answer. It had taken Marty forever to spell out the deal with the DWP, and even longer to get honest about it. "Just a chat," Gary claimed.

  Willie made a disbelieving noise.

  "Go back to bed," Gary told him. "It was nothing."

  Nothing? Not exactly. Meanwhile Gary heard Willie obediently shuffle off to bed. In another two decades, Gary thought, he'd be as old and weak ‑‑ and probably as crazy.

  Oh, that ten year offer was awfully tempting.

  Still wide awake, Gary stalked over to his barred window. With one hand wrapped around a steel post, he looked out across concrete walls and barbed wire. Usually he didn't let himself think about how many years he had left to enjoy this view. Usually he didn't let himself dream about getting out early. He knew that he'd used up his good will with the parole board. Fact is, he'd used up his good will with just about everybody. Objectively speaking, he didn't deserve this chance.

  Gary smoothed his fist down the cold steel bar. Maybe that's what made him so jumpy about the deal. It was too good to be true, too good for him.

  His lips pursed. On the other hand, the deal wasn't without its drawbacks; serious, dangerous drawbacks. Could be those ten years would turn out to be cheap pay. Gary shook his head. Could be? Probably! Hell, he'd be a fool to get involved with this DWP job. 'Security' work. Right.

  He'd say no. The whole deal was screwy. But he'd play along for the moment. At least until tomorrow.

  Some of Gary's disappointment eased as he thought about the morrow. That's when he was supposed to meet the mayor of Freedom. Freedom was the little town beside the DWP plant. Apparently the mayor was in a big to-do about a prison convict polluting her town. Wanted to meet the monster.

  Gary would have declined the invite, but Marty'd let slip that the mayor was a she. Well, hell. It had been five long years since Gary'd been near one of those. He might as well get something out of this.

  Smiling, he strolled back to his cot. Oh, with his luck this she-mayor would turn out to be some middle-aged harridan, shaped like an army tank and with a face to match. Ironsides with a downy black moustache.

  Marty'd told Gary to make nice to the woman. He'd said the whole deal was off if Gary couldn't convince the old battle-ax to keep her mouth shut about the job. Gary fell back on his bed and laughed silently up at the ceiling. It was too much. Those fools were depending on him for public relations?

  Ah me, ah my. Still chuckling, Gary closed his eyes. But he knew sleep wouldn't come. The DWP deal was screwy, the system was stacked against him, and he distrusted every last one of them...but he couldn't get those ten years out of his head.

  Maybe they were worth the risk.

  Outside the window, the lights still blazed over the yard. Gary closed his eyes. If he concentrated very hard he could almost bring his earlier dream back to mind. He couldn't remember what the girl had looked like, but he could remember the way she'd felt. He could remember the way she'd touched him. Gary'd had plenty of women dance in and out of his life, but none had touched him like this. So soft, so gentle.

  It was just a dream. He knew that. But, like the ten years, it haunted him all the same. As he lay on his bed, his eyes closed, he wondered. What if life could be more than a series of screw-ups? What if it didn't have to hurt? Oh, it was a stupid notion, probably ridiculous, but maybe, just maybe, it was true.

  This job could be a chance to find out.

  It could also be a chance to find out he was dead wrong.

  It was wishful thinking against reality. A false freedom against a hated security. Gary knew which way the thing should tilt, but it didn't. It hung in even balance.

  Balance. Gary opened his eyes. That was the key. So far, the pros and cons of the thing were in perfectly equal balance. But it would only take one straw to shift the balance to either side.

  A strange peace settled over him as he came to this realization. One straw was all it would take. Gary's eyes drifted closed. His tense muscles relaxed.

  Give him that straw, be it ever so flimsy, Gary decided, and he'd take the damn job.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two hundred miles from home, Kerrin eyed the uniformed woman who'd just finished frisking her. She had to remind herself that coming to prison had been her very own idea. No one had ordered her to meet this man. As a matter of fact, she'd had to
twist a few arms for a chance to do so.

  "Okay, you're clean." The uniformed woman informed Kerrin of this fact while consulting a clipboard. "You're here to see Number 406651?"

  "I don't know his number." Kerrin waved a hand in the air. That hand was starting to shake. So far she'd passed armed guard towers and electrified fences. She'd had her purse confiscated and her belt and shoes removed.

  Level Four. Maximum security. It's what the sign on the gate had said and apparently they weren't kidding.

  More than ever, Kerrin couldn't believe the plan of the DWP. That they would hire a thief, a convicted felon ‑‑ and put him to work in Freedom!

  "I suppose my pass would have his number," Kerrin explained. "But the woman at the reception desk took it. His name is ‑‑ "

  "Never mind." The woman disregarded Kerrin's ignorance, took a pencil from behind her ear, and made a notation on her clipboard. "This way."

  Still in her stocking feet, Kerrin padded after the woman down a long hall. She mulled over the kind of men they kept in a maximum security prison. Dangerous. The worst. Killers, sex offenders, psychopaths. Kerrin's heart began to pound with a combination of anger and fear.

  The hall was absolutely bare except for a number of heavy, steel doors. The guard's shoes rang a lonely echo before she stopped outside one of the steel doors. After making another notation on her clipboard, she unfastened a large set of keys from her belt.

  She stopped, though, on the verge of sticking the key into the lock. Straightening, she fixed Kerrin with a peculiar smile. "Say," she asked, "wanta have a look at him first?"

  Kerrin swallowed. "You mean one-way glass?"

  "That's right." The female guard's smile turned sly.

  Kerrin was tempted, sorely tempted. But she couldn't help thinking that to spy on the man would be...dishonorable. Silly, perhaps, but she shook her head. "No, let's just get this over with."

  Looking disappointed, the female guard shook out her keys. "Well, if that's the way you want it, then here ya go." She stuck her key into the formidable lock on the door. "Just remember not to get too close. The man hasn't been near a woman in five years." The guard rolled her eyes as she turned the bolt. "It's amazing what they'll try."

  Greatly reassured by this admonition, Kerrin stepped through the opened door.

  There were actually two men waiting in the plain, concrete block room. They both sat at a large metal table. One of them was wearing a gray business suit. He jumped to his feet as soon as Kerrin walked in.

  "Ah, Ms. Horton. How do you do?" He had a florid face under a batch of copper red hair and sported a bright, genial smile. "I'm Marty Simmons."

  As Marty Simmons hurried across the room to greet her, Kerrin's eyes fell on the other man. He hadn't bothered to rise from his seat. Instead his gaze fastened on Kerrin and narrowed. He wore faded blue coveralls with the number 406651 stitched over the left pocket. Despite the loose clothing, she could make out a compact, powerful build. In the man's fingers was a cigarette. He shifted the thing restlessly, dexterously, as though it were a magic trick. But his eyes remained steady; brown, dark, and very intelligent.

  "So pleased to meet you," Marty Simmons gushed, pumping Kerrin's hand. "I suppose they told you. I'm Gary's parole officer."

  "No. No one told me." No one had told her a lot of things, Kerrin thought. God. If the convict had been monstrous, twisted, drooling mad saliva ‑‑ she would have been prepared. But he wasn't. On the contrary, the man was...attractive. His face, like his brown hair, was bronzed by the sun, his features clear and regular, except for his nose. That was gently blunted at the end, as though someone had lightly pressed a finger there while the clay was still wet.

  And he was a man. No doubt about that. Just sitting there, perfectly still but for those restless fingers, he radiated a visceral, sexual quality that stunned Kerrin.

  "True, this isn't exactly a parole matter," Marty continued. His enthusiastic smile started to fade. "But, uh, I suppose they couldn't think of anyone more appropriate to call."

  After her first glance at the prisoner, Kerrin desperately switched her gaze to the parole officer. The prisoner, on the other hand, didn't appear to have any problem staring at her. She could sense his gaze travelling, very slowly, down the length of her.

  "It is a rather unusual situation, isn't it?" Kerrin addressed Marty Simmons. Squirming, she could only guess what the prisoner saw. Her figure wasn't very feminine to begin with and she'd dressed in a primly cut pantsuit with a high-necked blouse.

  Unusual, he seemed to agree as he lifted both hands to take a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. He had to raise both hands because they were joined at the wrist with a metal handcuff.

  Handcuffs!

  Shocked, her gaze crashed into his. His eyes were cold and hard, though something flickered briefly behind them.

  "That isn't nice." The voice was Marty's. He'd turned and apparently caught the prisoner's perusal. The parole officer's smile was now replaced by a far more genuine scowl. "What did I tell you, Gary?"

  Gary's reply was to lift a shoulder. An awkward beat of silence followed.

  "Well," Kerrin said, in what she meant to be a hearty tone. She was shaking, she realized in disgust, physically trembling. It was the handcuffs. Somehow the idea of locking a man's limbs in cold metal disturbed her. Which was stupid. The man was in maximum security. Of course he wore handcuffs. Trying to look confident, she made herself turn to him. "So, you're Gary Sullivan."

  "And you're the lady mayor." His voice was low, slightly rasping. For some reason it carried a hint of amusement, as though the fact he'd just stated were funny.

  "I am the mayor of Freedom," Kerrin agreed, and didn't find this fact the least bit humorous. "I suppose you know what I'm doing here?"

  He glanced down at his cigarette and raised his eyebrows. "I was told you had some problems with my future line of employment."

  "I-- Well, yes I do." There was no shame in admitting it. But he made her feel ashamed, somehow. How ridiculous. He was the criminal. "Though the blame really lies with the Department of Water and Power," Kerrin generously allowed. "I don't see why they couldn't have found someone, well, legitimate to do this work for them."

  His dark eyes shot up to her. "Legitimate?"

  "Someone..." not like you. "Someone with credentials."

  A corner of his mouth kicked up. "Honey, I've got the best credentials there are."

  Marty seemed to want to interject here, but Gary silenced him with a brusque wave of his fingers. "You want to hear about them?" he asked Kerrin.

  He was up to something. What, Kerrin couldn't say. She hadn't counted on intelligence from the prisoner's quarter, but it was clear he had plenty of it. Crossing her arms over her chest, she did her best to look tough. "I'm listening."

  "Gary." Frowning, Marty took a seat beside the prisoner. "Remember, we discussed this ‑‑ "

  Gary shook the parole officer's hand from his shoulder. "C'mon, Marty. The lady has a right to know the truth. Just what sort of animal I am." There was a note of asperity, almost bitterness, in his tone.

  "Think ‑‑ " Marty said.

  "Can it," Gary hissed. "I know what I'm doing." He turned back to Kerrin. "Listen. The truth is you have every right to be worried about my imminent arrival in your peaceful little town. Hell, I've got a record as long as your arm, lady. No. Longer," he decided, with a glance at the appendage in question. "Over ten of the past twenty years of my life have been spent in various reformatory schools, jails, and prisons. The last five of those have been right here on a felony burglary charge. If you'd looked more carefully in my file you'd have seen that I've committed over a dozen parole violations in my day. I have 'bad associates' and a 'poor early background.' They call me 'highly antisocial.' The DWP wants someone who'll think dirty, outside the box ‑‑ like a criminal."

  He paused, tilting his head at her. "Credentials. That enough for you?"

  Kerrin, shaking again, thought that the
y were more than enough. How could the DWP do this to her?

  Rubbing his brow, Marty shook his head. "Gary, you know that's ‑‑ "

  "All true," Gary proclaimed. He watched Kerrin shrewdly, odd flecks of red gleaming in his eyes. "So, I get it. I'm not exactly who you want to have living next door to you in Freedom, am I?"

  "Well." Though she was trembling, Kerrin defiantly blurted out the truth. "No."

  "And you see now, that's the thing." Marty, his gaze shifting nervously between Gary and Kerrin, managed to get a word in edgewise. "The plan was for nobody in town to know Gary's, er, true identity. It would have made matters...a great deal simpler."

  This was the same lousy excuse Kerrin had heard from the DWP. Ignorance, according to them, would have been bliss.

  "Er, how did you find out?" Marty asked, apologetic.

  Kerrin's lashes lowered. She hadn't told the officials at the DWP and she wasn't about to tell Marty.

  "Oh, it doesn't matter." Gary, his elbows propped on the table, sucked in a breath through his cigarette. Balancing his chin on his knuckles, he blew out a quick stream of smoke. "There's nothing she can do about it anyway."

  Marty looked alarmed, but Gary ignored him. He glanced up at Kerrin, faintly challenging. "Is there?"

  "So you know about the DWP," she observed. "Their threats."

  Gary shrugged. "It's obvious they have something on you."

  "They'll pull out of town if they don't get their way in this."

  "Ah." There was a hint of amusement around his mouth as he took another drag. "I'm flattered."

  He would be, Kerrin thought. "The DWP said they'd close their plant in Freedom if you can't assure them it's safe. They said they'd build another one. Elsewhere."

  "Your town would die."

  Once again, he was right on the money, but Kerrin stifled her chagrin. She had to concentrate here, focus.