No Man's Land

by G. M. Ford

  “Sorry,” Corso said.

  “Gwnagetout ahere,” said the old lady at the keno machine. On his way by, the guard fixed Corso with his most baleful stare. Corso kept his hands in sight as the cart continued up the central aisle.

  “I’m tellin’ you, buster,” the old woman rasped, “get lost.”

  Corso peeked out into the aisle. Driver and Kehoe were nowhere in sight. He held his breath. Took his time looking around, then stepped fully out into the aisle and craned his neck. Gone . . . both of them. When he turned back, the old woman was missing too.

  He resisted the urge to run and instead followed along in the wake of the cash cart until he got to a serious casino thoroughfare, where he turned right, then right again, and left, trying to lose himself among the hoard of blackjack and craps gamblers. His chest felt like he hadn’t taken a breath in an hour. He inhaled half a dozen times, then took another moment to compose himself. For the first time in nearly two days, he wondered what he looked like. The thought caused him to run his hands through his hair and make adjustments to his clothes.

  He was about to consider what came next when a powerful hand clamped onto his shoulder. He stood paralyzed, waiting for the soft sound of the knife puncturing his coat, the prick of the sharpened tip on his skin and the feeling of cold steel as it entered his body. He tried to shout but nothing came out. His mouth hung open as he turned his head.

  25

  “The logo’s crooked,” Melanie said.

  She was right. The American Eagle looked like it was battling a strong wind.

  “Goddammit,” Marty yelled. “Fix that friggin’ bird. You got any idea what it cost to FedEx that thing from L.A.?”

  “Are we supposed to guess?” asked Sheldon, the stagehand who’d flown in with the eagle. “Is this like the jellybeans in the jar kind of thing?”

  “Me first. Me first,” taunted another. He brought a single finger to the cleft in his chin. “Nine hundred fifty bucks.”

  Marty thought about opening his mouth but changed his mind. They were in a race against time, trying to turn the Musket Community Center into a replica of the American Manhunt set in Santa Monica. Bad enough they had to borrow a desk from the local real estate office. In just over an hour, people were going to begin arriving for the purpose of turning the room into a bake sale for the local Cub Scout troop. No time for banter.

  The makeup people were smoothing Melanie’s hair around the mike cord. The lighting crew were taking a final reading, G.M. Ford shouting numbers at the impromptu control board they’d set up out in the center of the space.

  “Time to do it people,” Marty shouted above the din. “Unless you want old ladies with brownies walking onto the set, we better get going.”

  “Oooh, brownies,” said Sheldon. “I like ’em gooey.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” Marty growled.

  Sheldon arched an eyebrow. “Careful now,” he chided. Marty smiled and turned to Melanie. “You ready?”

  She gave him the okay sign with her fingers.

  “Places,” Marty yelled.

  The lights dimmed, leaving Melanie and the desk and the logo alone in the glare. Her eyes followed the green lights on the lone teleprompter. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Melanie Harris.” Saucy tilt of the head. “Welcome to another Special Edition of American Manhunt .”

  A five-second vamp on the theme song and a camera pan gave Melanie a chance to arrange her notes and Marty time to switch cameras. Melanie counted to five in her head, adjusted her focus to the right and waited for the light to change from red to green.

  “Once again, this is Melanie Harris with a special Tuesday night edition of American Manhunt , live from Musket, Arizona, scene of this week’s prison riot where fifty inmates and seven staff members lie dead in America’s the most violent and deadly prison uprising ever.”

  Back to front-on camera angle. “If you joined us last night, you saw the spine-chilling beginning of this prison uprising as inmate number one o nine five six three, identified as Timothy H. Driver, a multiple murderer from the State of Washington, murdered the operator of the prison’s control pod and took over the prison. For those members of our audience who were unable to join us last evening, we are going to run the clip at this time. Because of the graphic nature of this footage extreme parental caution is advised.”

  Marty made the “cut” sign across his throat. Everyone relaxed.

  “Bad enough we ran it last night,” Melanie groused. “I don’t see why we needed to air it again.”

  “If you got it, flaunt it,” Marty said without taking his eyes from the monitor. He raised a hand and began to count with his fingers. “Five, four, three, two, one.” His hand dropped like a guillotine.

  “With that ghastly act began a thirty-six-hour period of chaos and death at Meza Azul Correctional Facility,” Melanie said in her voice of doom voice. “Late yesterday afternoon, prison officials reported that three persons were missing from the penitentiary. Two inmates and one civilian.” Melanie read the names and bios.

  Marty’s screen was filled with photos of Driver, Corso and Kehoe.

  “As of late this afternoon, The Federal Bureau of Investigation and the State Police in a seven-state area are conducting an all-out manhunt for the three fugitives.” Lapsing again into her voice of doom, she read the standard admonition to the public regarding the armed and dangerous status of the missing men. “Stay tuned to American Manhunt for exclusive information on Timothy H. Driver, the man who instigated the most deadly prison riot in U.S. history, then managed to disappear like smoke from what was advertised to be the most secure super-max correctional facility in the country.”

  Cut to commercial.

  Melanie sat back in her chair. Makeup rushed forward, dabbing here, patting there.

  “You going ahead with that copy?” Marty asked. Melanie nodded.

  “We’re going to hear about it.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Network’s gonna go ratshit.”

  “I know.”

  “Places,” Marty intoned.

  Again he counted down from five to zero.

  “Welcome back to American Manhunt , ladies and gentlemen. For tonight’s special edition, American Manhunt has obtained exclusive and until this time, confidential information regarding the mastermind behind the uprising and subsequent escape. Initial reports from prison authorities alleged that Mr. Driver escaped from his cell during preparations for a routine medical checkup. American Manhunt , however, has obtained documents proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Driver was being removed from his cell as a result of having demonstrated irrational and disassociative behavior over the previous five and a half weeks.”

  Melanie allowed a pregnant pause, then continued. “What follows, although not graphic in the manner of the earlier footage, nonetheless possesses an upsetting quality that may not be appropriate for some of our viewers. American Manhunt recommends extreme parental caution.”

  Marty watched intently as the scene switched to the interior of the prison. Split screen. One picture from far up in the corner of Driver’s cell, the other taken through the bars from the outside. Driver paced the length of his cell like a caged animal. His sandals and orange coveralls could be seen neatly arranged on the narrow bed. He wore only a pair of brown prison-issue underwear. His body was pale but fit to a degree attainable only by someone with a great deal of time on his hands. His voice sounded as if he was preaching to hundreds of people in a huge room.

  “Everyone contributes,” he shouted. “If not in one way, then in another. You don’t have to agree. It doesn’t have to be okay with you. From the bears to the tiniest of insects. A part for everyone and everyone for his part. Nature cannot be subverted.

  The plan cannot be altered in any way. It’s molecular. Beyond the realm of man because it’s perfect and man is not. Acres of concrete and the weeds will find the smallest crack. No matter . . .”

  Marty cont
inued to watch the monitor as Driver ranted and raved for another forty seconds. He used his fingers to count down from five, then pointed at Melanie.

  “What troubled us here at American Manhunt was the question of how a fine mind like that of Mr. Driver, a Harvard graduate no less, how an incisive mind such as he possessed could be driven to madness by incarceration, when so many other inmates manage to maintain their sanity over considerably longer periods of time.” She gave the audience time to join in on the wondering, then continued. “The answer lies in the privatization of the American penal system and a positively medieval process called Extreme Punishment. Stay tuned.”

  “I can hear the phones ringing already,” Marty said.

  “Nobody deserves what they did to him.”

  “Lot of our viewers are going to disagree.”

  Another countdown to the final segment. Three, two, one . . . Melanie went through it all. The Randall Corporation. The eight-by-eight white-tiled cell. The unblinking white lights. The cameras. Twenty-three hours a day in a fishbowl. No radio, no TV, one visitor once a month. The early signs that Driver was losing his mind and how the signs were ignored for the sake of profit. A call for an investigation of conditions in all Randall Corporation institutions and an immediate end to Extreme Punishment cells. By the time she finished, Marty’s face was locked in a permanent wince. Cut to commercial, then back to Melanie.

  “This is Melanie Harris for American Manhunt . Join us next time when American Manhunt again turns up the heat on the criminal plague permeating our nation. As of this week, American Manhunt and our millions of viewers at home are responsible for the arrest and successful prosecution of nine hundred and seventynine dangerous criminals. Let’s add these guys to the list. Let’s find these three before the authorities do.” She offered a twisted smile and pointed at the camera. “Until next time,” she intoned. Marty dropped his hand with a slap.

  26

  “You sure your friend ain’t forgot about you?”

  The kid was under twenty, dressed in black pants and a crisp white shirt with SKYWAY VALET SERVICE stitched on the shirt pocket.

  “I’m beginning to wonder myself,” said Driver with a wan smile. “He said he’d be right back.”

  A silver Mercedes coupe slid to the curb. The kid abandoned his post at the key kiosk and hustled around the front of the car to get the door. “Afternoon, Mr. Abrams. How are you today?”

  Mr. Abrams was a big beefy specimen with a pockmarked face and a diamond pinky ring as big as the Ritz. He slipped the kid what looked like a ten-dollar bill and started up the stairs as if his feet were sore.

  “You gonna be going out again today, sir?” the kid inquired, as he pocketed the cash and pulled open the car door.

  “Going to Jersey to see my kids in the morning,” the guy said.

  “You can put it in long-term if you want.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He stood holding the car door open, looking for one of his G.M. Ford two helpers. A minute later a blond kid with bad skin and a wrinkled uniform came running out from among the parked cars with a set of keys circling his index finger.

  Key kid held the Mercedes’ door open as Blondie slid into the seat. “Put it in long-term,” Kiosk said. “He’s not going to be needing it for a while.”

  Driver casually raised one hand above his head, as if he were stretching. Across a hundred yards of parked cars and asphalt, Kehoe stood in the mouth of the parking garage. Overhead, the clouds above were threatening to make way for the sun. Kehoe threw Driver a two-fingered salute and stepped out of sight, into the dark mouth of the garage.

  Driver watched the silver Mercedes skirt the five acres of parked cars and disappear into the garage. A red Chrysler convertible pulled up. And then a blue Chevy Malibu. The kid let the drivers come to him. Filling out tickets and trading them for the car keys. By the time he finished the second car, Blondie was jogging his way across the lot.

  “Where in hell is Bobbie?” Kiosk demanded.

  “He’s on break,” the kid said, handing over the keys to the Mercedes. “I think he went to Arby’s.”

  “Well hurry up, man. We can’t have them piling up out here.”

  “D forty-three,” the kid said.

  Kiosk wrote it down on the ticket, stepped inside the little booth and pulled open the double doors of the key cabinet. Driver was no more than three feet behind him as he hung the keys from a brass hook in the interior. Top row, second from the right end.

  “Guess I should go looking for my friend,” Driver said.

  “Probably better take my bags with me in case I find him.” He held out a five-dollar bill. As the kid stepped to the front of the booth and bent to retrieve the two Nike bags, Driver lifted the set of keys from the hook and soundlessly slipped them into his pants pocket.

  “Feels like you got lead in these things,” the kid said through his teeth as he set the bags on the sidewalk. “Sure as hell wouldn’t want to be carrying them too damn far.”

  “Good exercise,” Driver said with a laugh.

  A pair of quick good-byes and Driver was on his way across the lot, winding back and forth through the maze of cars, parked nose to nose at angles. Overhead, the clouds threatened to split into rays of sunshine. By the time he reached the mouth of the garage, Kehoe was jogging down the ramp in his direction. He stopped and put his hands on his hips. He was out of breath.

  “You get the keys?” he wheezed out.

  Driver patted his pants pocket. “Right here.”

  “Silver Mercedes?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Kehoe grinned. “It’s up on the roof.”

  “Let’s went.”

  Three minutes later, they crested the ramp and stepped out into the suddenly bright sunshine. Both men’s faces wrinkled to a squint. Kehoe indicated they should take a left, then a quick right. The Mercedes was backed into the slot. Driver pushed the keyless entry button. Kehoe slipped around to the left and dropped into the passenger seat. He craned his neck and watched Driver open the back door and set the Nike bags in the floor cavities behind the seats. Any questions he might have had were immediately answered by the rush of zippers, the snap of metal parts, and the quiet sound of skilled hands assembling well-oiled weapons. He watched in silence as Driver loaded both guns and laid them out across the backseat using the towels to cover them. The Nike bags he dropped on top of the towels.

  Kehoe nodded his grim approval. “Where we headed?”

  Driver got in, fastened his seat belt and turned the key. The engine sprang silently to life. “Nearest beauty parlor,” Driver said Kehoe folded his arms across his chest and scowled. “What’s that shit about?”

  “We need a makeover.”

  Special Agent Rosen dropped the file folder on the desk. “Kehoe hasn’t had a letter or a visitor in the better part of seven years.”

  Somebody gave a low whistle. “Talk about being alone.”

  “You go down for life without, the phone calls taper off.”

  “We followed up on everybody who’s been in touch with him, no matter how long ago,” said a younger FBI agent in a chocolate brown suit. He began to leaf through a sheaf of paperwork held together by a black spring clip. “His mother, Gladys Alma Kelly, stopped writing in eighty-five. Died of congestive heart failure in eighty-six. She was forty-nine. His half sister, Dorsey Anne Clements, was shot and killed outside a bar in Lake Ponchartrain, Louisiana, in nineteen ninety. The case remains open.” He rustled the papers again. “The only visitor he’s ever had was a guy named Harvey Gerald Raynes. Visited him twice in ninety-two and twice in ninety-three. His letter in ninety-eight was the last one Kehoe ever got.” He pulled it out and slid it onto the table for anyone who might be interested. The big guy with the square head and the Arizona State Police uniform picked it up for perusal.

  “Raynes was a cellmate of Kehoe’s from his days in the Mississippi system. He went down again in ninety-nine for armed robbery and aggravated
assault. Was beaten to death by a fellow prisoner in November of ninety-nine.”

  He pointed his palms at the ceiling. “That’s it.”

  “What about this Corso character?”

  “Corso’s a famous writer. Been on Leno half a dozen times. More or less a recluse. Lives on a boat. Moves around so the press can’t keep track of him. His tax return for this past year shows he made just over three million after taxes. He’s got quite a bit of family in south Georgia. We’ve got people on the way and wiretaps ready as soon as they arrive, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He keeps in touch, but hasn’t been there in the better part of ten years. We’ve got the Seattle office working his ex-boss at the Seattle Sun. One Natalie Van Der Hozen. Wiretaps are probably not going to be forthcoming. We’ve already been denied twice.”

  “Why’s that?” Rosen asked.

  “Lack of probable cause,” said Brownsuit.

  Rosen shook his head. “That whole Pacific Northwest is a pain in the ass that way. And Driver?”

  “That’s our best bet. Gets a constant stream of letters from his mother in Prineville, Oregon. When he first went down he got letters from shipmates and other navy personnel, but those quit after a couple of years. Nowadays it’s only his mother.”

  “How we doing on that front?”

  “The Portland office is working with both the Oregon State Police and the locals. We’ve got a local wiretap warrant and will have people on the scene within the next couple of hours.”

  Rosen nodded his approval. “Good,” he said. He turned to the state policeman. “What are we doing to protect the highways and byways? These skells have already killed a couple of merchants. We need to bring them under lock and key as soon as possible.”