“Get that gurney out,” one of them barked.
The other one said, to the same third party, I suppose, “Get all the IV bags we’ve got.”
They laid me down on what felt like the softest bed ever. The momentary pain that flashed up my arm when they started the drip faded away as the cool rush burned up my arm and trickled down into my chest.
“Wow,” I slurred. “You guys put some great stuff in there, didn’t you?” I laughed and flopped my head over the other side. Cassie stood there with a concerned look. I tried to wink, but my face didn’t feel like it was working right. The expression she gave me in reply was somewhere between a smirk and a grimace.
“Did we win?” she said. I gave her a thumbs-up.
“Deus ex machina,” I intoned. “Mystical ass kicking.” After a beat, she smiled and laughed. The IV must have been helping — I was starting to be funny, again.
A hint of movement over Cassie’s shoulder drew my eyes. I stiffened in terror. At first, I thought that my mind was playing tricks on me. I hoped that I was seeing things, but Mother’s face was unmistakable, even alternately lit in red and blue by the strobing emergency lights.
She’d come to join Melanie and the Edimmu, but she was too late, or we’d won just in time. I groaned and tried to sit back up, but I suddenly felt even dizzier. My body was numb, refusing to respond to my desire to move. “Cassie,” I croaked. “Cassie.”
One of the paramedics said, from somewhere above my head, “He’s crashing — get him on board, now!”
I wanted to scream and shout, to tell them that Mother was right there, but I didn’t have the strength to form the words. I reached out and tried to point, but my hand just flopped uselessly on the end of my wrist. Cassie took my hand and told me it was going to be all right, but she didn’t understand.
Mother saw the move and smirked. She kept her hands tucked into the pockets of the long coat she wore and gave me a nod of greeting. Before I could manage to say a word, she stepped backward and disappeared into the crowd.
Pushed well beyond any limit I might ever have imagined that I had, I sagged down on the gurney and into blissful unconsciousness.
Right about the time that I was using a Taser on one of Melanie’s goons, the head of Rockville Correctional was making a hasty return to the prison after leaving for the night.
Gary Dooley had spent almost a decade as a member of the Indiana State Police before a drunk driver ran him over during a traffic stop. He suffered horrendous fractures in both legs as a result of the accident. The process of healing from multiple surgeries and the subsequent rehabilitation took just under a year.
While the doctors pronounced that he was as good as he was going to get, Gary was still having issues meeting the physical demands of his job. A pronounced limp made running difficult, so his time on the road was over.
Qualifying for an early disability pension before he was forty, he was at a crossroads. If he didn’t take the disability, there was always the option of an administrative position in the department. Somehow, though, the idea of working as a desk jockey alongside the men and women he used to consider his equals struck him as embarrassing. One of his brothers-in-law had some connections in the Indiana state government. A few phone calls and interviews later, one of those connections offered Gary a position supervising the corrections officers at Rockville Correctional. For the most part the inmates were well-behaved. As a side benefit, the job didn’t offer many opportunities to get run over.
Fifteen years later, he’d put in more time for the Department of Corrections than he had his previous job when things had gone to hell there.
Sitting behind the wheel of his car, he studied the halo of vehicles surrounding the prison — his prison, now. Gary wondered if this evening’s situation wasn’t the universe’s way of telling him to pull the pin again.
The various emergency vehicles had parked closest to the fence and had parked in such a way to keep the second layer of vehicles — press, for the most part — back out of view. The fence was still up in the front but at the corner of one of the dormitories Gary could just make out the sag of chain-link where someone had cut through.
He’d turned in for the night when his phone started ringing. The officer who’d gotten him on the phone had been just on the edge of hysteria. It took Gary a few minutes to calm him down enough to get the story out of him.
A group of external attackers had raided the prison, of all things. After that, the story got a little shaky, so Gary cut the call short and headed in to see for himself. The sideshow outside of the prison was a little daunting, but he supposed that was a good thing if they had an open breach in the fence.
With a sigh, he got out of his car and shuffled across the parking lot. Before he could reach the main entrance, one of the supervisory COs pulled away from a knot of uniformed onlookers. He recognized half of them as his own people, while the others seemed to be a mix of State troopers and local SWAT. He eyed the close-cropped hair on a couple of the troopers and wondered if he’d ever looked that young.
Gary didn’t see the third-shift COs much other than in passing, but he recognized the one that came to see him now as Carl Blake. Blake was one of the good ones — you had to be, to get the late shift and the requisite bump in pay. Lower head count meant more responsibility. The newbies and lackwits got stuck on days where more experienced guards could observe them. “Carl,” Gary said by way of greeting. “What have we got?”
The look on the other man’s face took Gary by surprise for a moment. He looked almost scared, which shouldn’t have been possible for a guy well over six feet tall with shoulders that seemed just as wide. “Supe, I don’t have the words. I think — I think you just have to see it, sir.”
Gary frowned and worked on his lower lip a bit. He’d quit smoking long enough ago that the physical need was gone, but he still chewed gum to keep his mouth occupied. He checked the pockets of his coat for a pack, but came up empty. Lip it was, for the time being. “All right,” he agreed. “Where was the breakout?”
“Dorm three, Supe,” Blake replied. “We got to take the long way around.” He moved away and cut across the lawn in the direction of the sagging fence. After a moment, Gary started after him, though he was growing more confused with every step.
“Why aren’t we going through the main building?” Gary demanded.
Blake swallowed audibly. “The fire jammed the doors off of the entrance corridor. We’re going to have to get some heavy equipment in there to cut them open, or something.”
Fire? Cut them open? Gary frowned, opened his mouth to demand a more thorough explanation, but just as quickly closed it. Blake was a sharp guy. If he was reticent to give the whole story without Gary seeing things for himself, there had to be a good reason. He owed the man that much trust, at least, before jumping on him with both boots.
As they rounded the corner to the back of dorm three, Gary couldn’t help his involuntary gasp of surprise as he got a better look at the breach in the fence. The gap was a neat circle, though the loose links dangled here and there and made the perceived image look not-so-smooth.
The charred grass in front of the hole testified to whatever had cut it. In some places, mighty gashes slashed through the ground itself between the breach in the fence and the prison wall. It was the modern — kinder, gentler — age of corrections. They didn’t have guards on watchtowers keeping an eye out for escapes any longer — but they did have roving patrols and security cameras. His eyes traced the route of damage and stopped short on a pair of blanket-covered forms. Empty shell casings twinkled under the sodium-vapor security lights and formed a corona around the collapsed bodies.
Blake followed Gary’s look and muttered, “We saw them cutting the fence on camera. Called the Sheriff’s department, rerouted the patrols and even sent some backup. There was at least a dozen of them, Supe.”
Gary blinked. “A dozen people cut a hole in the fence and took down two armed guards?” He sho
ok his head in disbelief. “Who would a dozen people be trying to break out—” He trailed off as the realization hit him, because, in the end, there was only one inmate that might inspire that sort of thing, wasn’t there? “What happened next, Blake?”
“They hit the patrol first. I was in the control office, coordinating the response, so I couldn’t hear what was going on. But the dogs didn’t like it. They pulled away and ran hard and fast. Hell, they’re still curled up on the opposite end of the complex. Just growl and shiver at anyone who tries to get close to them.” The big man shuddered. “I don’t know they didn’t get any of them, Supe. It looked like something out of a movie — hell, you can see the brass. But they took down Owens and Clark, and then they, well.” He sighed and turned to point at the wall of dorm three.
The attackers had cut another perfect circle, almost exactly in line with the hole in the fence, in the concrete wall of the dorm itself. Unlike the chain link, the edges were perfectly smooth. He could make out the cross section of the blocks and iron bars in the wall’s foundation.
She said in court she was a witch, Gary thought. My God, was it all true?
No. No way in hell. This was something else — terrorists, or something, using high-tech explosives. He turned back to Blake. “What next?”
“Best see it before I say. But you might want to cover up your nose and mouth, sir. The stench is indescribable.”
Blake led him to the edge of the opening cut into the wall. Gary resisted the urge to run his hand across the smoothly-delineated curve of the wound that seemed to violate every known law of nature. This was no typical, thin residential wall. This was an inner and out layer of cinder block built on a lattice of I-beams. It was strong enough to stand up to military-grade hardware and something had gone through it like a hot knife through butter.
Gary steeled his nerves and stepped inside.
At first, the difference in the interior was such that he thought that Blake had misspoken, that this wasn’t one of the dormitories. But as he looked around and picked details out, he realized that he’d been mistaken.
The room was about fifty feet square, with a high ceiling and plenty of light. To ease observation for the closed—circuit cameras mounted in overhead armored bubbles, each ‘room’ had a low block wall perhaps four feet in height. This provided the inmates with an illusion of privacy while making it easier for the CO’s to keep an eye on any troublemakers. It had always struck Gary as ironic that the arrangement looked for all the world like a cubicle farm in an office, just without the thin partitions. The prisoners kept their sleeping areas impeccably clean. The last time he’d walked through one of them on an inspection, the gleaming, glossy white paint on the walls had nary a scuff mark.
No more.
The fire had scorched the entire room black. Wave marks of ash splashed here and there against the walls, as though the fire itself had been some liquid lapping up against the barricades. Gary grimaced as a whiff of the sickly-sweet smell of burned meat and scorched paint touched his nostrils. He turned to the side and lost his dinner right then and there on the floor of the dormitory. Those floors were white a few hours ago. Now, the concrete was bare in leprous patches where the latex had bubbled up and pulled away in the inferno.
Whatever had happened had come upon the sleeping inmates in the depths of sleep. Melted, sagging bed frames still supported skeletal figures, though here and there jaws hung open in silent screams and fingers reached out in pointless supplication. On the opposite wall, the double doors that opened into the hallway that lead to the rest of the prison struck him as rippled and oddly distorted. He realized with a start that the heavy steel had actually melted into the door frames. Blake was right — they were going to need heavy equipment to cut them open.
One cube stood intact among the firestorm’s leavings. Gary considered stepping forward to inspect it more closely. After a moment of consideration, he decided that it was pointless. He’d been right all along. No tortured corpse occupied Helen Locke’s cell. Her unmade bed looked as though she’d gleefully tossed her covers aside at the moment of her rescue.
Numb, Gary turned and stepped outside. The night air that had seemed biting and harsh when he’d gotten into his car not so long ago was now welcome. He inhaled deeply to try and clear the stench of death from his palate.
Blake gave him a moment to compose himself before he spoke. “What do we do, sir?”
Gary hauled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his overcoat and wiped his mouth before answering. “You call the Governor’s office. I need to call the Bureau of Prisons. Homeland Security, hell if I know. This is way over our pay grade, Officer Blake.”
Chapter 19
There was an inherent discomfort in the small of my back that just screamed ‘hospital’ as soon as I woke up enough to realize that I was in a bed.
In the end, though, beggars can’t be choosers. After the night I’d had, I certainly wasn’t going to complain about an uncomfortable bed. Not saying that I wouldn’t when it came time to pay the hospital bill, of course. If they’re going to charge you so much, the least they could do is give you a halfway-decent mattress.
I was halfway toward making the decision to try and go back to sleep when someone cleared their throat. Tired or not, I figured it would be rude to ignore a visitor, so I cracked open my eyes and looked around the room.
Not going to lie, I was half hoping that Cassie was the visitor. Alas, I was not to be so lucky. As I sat up in the uncomfortable bed I met the steely gaze of Sheriff Wilson Hockers.
Well, there are worse ways to wake up. The Sheriff and I were never acquainted before my dad died, but the crag-faced lawman was a cuddly little teddy bear compared to a possessed coed and a pack of clones.
Sure, I was a rebel from the perspective of Mother, but that just meant I ate the occasional candy bar and pitched my soy wraps in the garbage can in the cafeteria. None of that merited any prior attention from the law. But where Kent gave me the benefit of the doubt, the Sheriff always seemed suspicious of me, even after all the evidence pointed in Mother’s direction. It would be an exaggeration to say that he ran me out of town after the conviction, but he was a big reason why the place didn’t feel like home anymore.
“Mister Locke,” he said by way of greeting. “Doctors told me you should be fit to talk to once you woke up. Sounds like you’ve had a rough go of it.”
“I get knocked down, I get back up again,” I agreed, in mock seriousness. I felt fairly certain the Sheriff wouldn’t get the reference, but he was astute enough to know I was being flip. His eyes narrowed and I continued. “Did they get the fire contained? Is the rest of the neighborhood okay?”
The tension around his eyes eased. He gave me a tight nod. “Chief Hawkins says the house is liable to be a total loss. Same for your RV and the Hatcher girl’s little car.” He fell silent and just looked at me. If this was just a friendly visit, it was a damn intimidating one.
Legally perhaps, maybe I should have kept my mouth shut, but I hadn’t done anything wrong and I had information that the police needed. “Sheriff, before I passed out, I saw my mother in the crowd around the house. I’m guessing she, or somebody with her, are the ones that set the place on fire.” I got control of my tongue before I started talking about magic books and covens of groupies.
“There’s an APB out for your mother. Seems several unknown subjects broke her out of prison. But I suppose you knew that already.”
“Sure, I knew it, which is why I’m telling you. I didn’t break her out if that’s what you’re implying. I’ve been in Pleasant Prairie all night, having the crap beaten out of me.”
“So, no mention of what the fire department found when they searched your house, then?” He cut himself off on a rising note, as though he were trying to hold himself back from unleashing the full extent of his fury. “Son, I’m more than accustomed to weird shit following you around, but this takes the cake.” He began counting on his fingers. “I’ve got a dism
embered family in a burned-out house. Three bodies with identical finger prints and dental impressions that seem to be using snot for blood. And, to top it all off, a pile of salt with clothes mixed in. I’d ask what you had to say for yourself, but your girlfriend already gave me enough nightmare fuel for the rest of my life.” He clamped his jaw shut and tried to give me an intimidating look.
“Salt, huh?” I replied weakly. “How’d you figure that out — did you guys taste it, or something?”
“Cheese and rice, son, no — we didn’t taste it. This isn’t Mayberry, we do have access to modern forensics.”
“Right,” I said. “Didn’t mean anything by it, I just wondered.” She hadn’t been a pile of salt at first, of course. Until she’d collapsed, that light had rendered Melanie into a glittering statue. A pillar, one could almost say.
He grunted. “Well, I’m assuming that your cell phone and wallet went up in the blaze because they aren’t in your collection of things. Anyone you’d like me to call?”
I blinked. “Kent — Deputy Sikora, if you would. He can get the message along to the rest of my friends.”
Sheriff Hockers nodded. “We have his number on file. I’ll have one of the dispatchers get hold of him. I’m sure if he’s watching the cluster on the news he’s been trying to reach you. You need any police reports or anything for the insurance paperwork, loss of ID or credit cards, whatever, just call down to the station.”
To say I that his willingness to help left me shocked was understating it. I’d have been less surprised if he’d thrown me in handcuffs. The kid gloves treatment was as much disconcerting as it was shocking. Surely Kent’s word wouldn’t be enough for him to treat me so well, but what else could it be? Finally, I decided to jump in with both feet and just ask.
“If you don’t mind me saying, Sheriff, why are you doing all this for me?”
He frowned at me for what felt like an eternity before spitting out a reply. “I don’t know what kind of pull your guardian angels have, boy, but they’ve made it clear to me that you’re an innocent bystander. Bystander or not, as soon as the doctors release you, I want you to get the hell out of my county, and stay out. This is a nice place, and the times that it hasn’t been you and your family are usually involved.”
Fade (Paxton Locke Book 1) Page 15
