by Joe Hart
Sullivan’s unease deepened and he reached out to grasp the arms of the chair. “What is it?”
“The prison boat was found this morning, half sunk where it had been tied up last night. Officer Bundy was on his way to town to report our phone outage and to radio the necessary authorities about Agent Stevens, as well as your, um, incident this morning, when he found it.”
“Sunk,” Sullivan repeated. “Sunk how? The storm swamped it?”
“That’s what we initially thought, but then we found this nearby on the ground where the boat was beached.” Andrews opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out an evidence bag. A black handgun poked at the confines of the sack, and Sullivan leaned back in his chair, the strength going out of his arms and legs.
“There were also a few spent casings on the ground, and after further inspection we saw that the hull had been shot several times, along with the motor,” Andrews continued. He set the bag with the gun onto the top of his desk, and the sound it made filled up the entire room like an echo in a tomb. “I’m gauging from your reaction that you recognize it?”
Sullivan barely comprehended the warden’s words. As he stared, the rest of the room dimmed, with the darker clouds outside closing in over the sun or the implications of what rested within the plastic, he didn’t know. All he could do was look at the gun on the desk.
Barry’s gun.
Sullivan licked his lips, which had somehow become numb in the last few minutes, and glanced up at Andrews, whose fingers were steepled before him.
“Sir, I know Agent Stevens personally, and he would never do anything like this, I assure you,” Sullivan said, finally finding his voice.
Andrews seemed to consider the words for a moment before turning toward the windows again. “And how do you know this?”
The question caught Sullivan off-guard. “I know him. He’s a good man with a family. To be honest, sir, he wanted to leave the prison as soon as possible.”
Andrews flapped a hand in Sullivan’s direction. “It’s David, enough with the sir shit. Makes me feel old. So what do you make of this?” he said, motioning at the gun.
Sullivan looked at the weapon on the desk. He searched for something that would signify it wasn’t Barry’s gun, but he saw nothing but familiarity. How many times had he given Barry a hard time about carrying a 1911-style pistol? Several references to the Untouchables had been made at the office, and Barry merely laughed them off, claiming the weapon was a flawless piece of machined death. Sullivan could almost hear his friend chuckling at the jokes and see him tucking the heavy handgun into his leather holster.
“I don’t know,” Sullivan managed at last. There seemed to be no explanation for the evidence except what the warden was implying. He could find no reason that would justify Barry destroying their only transportation from this place. Sullivan reached out and picked up the bag, studying the weapon more closely. Bringing the bag nearer did nothing to alleviate the accusations. Instead, it only strengthened them. He dropped the gun on the desktop with a thud and sank back into the embrace of the chair.
“A full-scale manhunt is underway, and the staff at New Haven has been notified to keep watch for Agent Stevens,” Andrews said with apparent regret.
“There must be some misunderstanding or other explanation,” Sullivan offered, his mind doubling its effort to pair some connection with Barry’s alleged actions.
“I surely hope so,” Andrews said. “We have enough problems right now without worrying about a rogue agent.”
Sullivan let the comment pass and stood from his chair, his coffee sitting untouched and cooling nearby. “I’d like to take a look at the boat myself. See if I can glean any ideas or reasons why Barry would do such a thing.”
The warden stared through the space between them, and finally nodded, gesturing for the door. “The boat’s lying near the groundskeeping shed at the north end of the perimeter. See what you can see and let me know what you find.” Sullivan noticed sadness in the older man’s voice, as he turned and moved toward the doorway. It seemed as if Andrews knew something fresh and terrible was barreling toward them, and he was only waiting for its eventual arrival to mourn.
“Sullivan?”
Andrews’s word stopped him as he grasped the doorknob with a sweating palm, and he turned back to gaze at the prematurely aged man behind the desk.
“We’ll need to speak more of Henry Fairbend later, after you’ve returned,” the warden said.
Sullivan stared at the older man, trying to read his expression, but Andrews remained stoic, his hands resting in his lap and his eyes two motionless holes.
Sullivan nodded, opened the door, and slid out of the office, glad to be free of the warden’s gaze.
==
By the time Sullivan reached the drowned boat, new clouds were already filling the sky. Their bloated underbodies bulged with a heaviness that could only mean another downpour. Not for the first time Sullivan wondered how long the storms would last. As he rounded the corner of the shed he assumed housed weed whippers and riding lawn mowers, he remembered a weatherman saying the storms were unprecedented and potentially devastating. He tried to recall another time in his life that it had rained so vehemently, but could not.
Sullivan slowed as he approached the aluminum boat he’d last seen cruising out of sight around the bend the night before. It had been pulled up on dry land, but now the licking tongue of water was almost halfway up its sides. The brackish liquid spoke in deep tones as it sloshed against the sunken vessel. Sullivan stepped to its side and ran his hand along the gunwale. His eyes searched the inside of the boat, taking in the coffee-colored water that filled its bottom, along with a few floating pieces of plastic. He studied these, and when he looked up and saw the outboard’s engine cowling shattered from apparent gunshots, he knew where they’d come from.
“Shit, Barry,” Sullivan muttered under his breath. Why would the man do such a thing? He’d talked to his wife hours before doing this? It made no sense, and the unknown reasons were so much more frightening than the actual deed.
Sullivan looked around the surrounding grounds, which grew darker beneath the wet blanket of clouds on the horizon. The forest outside of the fence was already black, its branches and leaves beckoning, fingers waving with promises to the answers he sought. He closed his eyes, forcing the disturbing thoughts away, and when he opened them, a darker spot just below the water’s edge within the boat snagged his attention. He moved around the side, being careful to avoid the water’s ever-growing hold on the muddy land. Leaning inside the boat, he reached down, dipping his fingers into the water to inspect the dark eye. He was surprised at how cold the water felt when compared to the muggy air above it, but was distracted as his fingers found the mark, and then went through it.
Sullivan paused, feeling the rim of the bullet hole. The hole his friend had shot in their only hope of leaving this place. Sullivan carefully ran his fingertips over the sharp points of aluminum that twisted and tore free when the slug from Barry’s gun ripped through it. Sullivan poked his finger farther into the hole, and then stood. He remained motionless, like the looming prison to his back, as thoughts whirred through his mind on a broken reel. Without taking his gaze from the boat, he slid his own handgun from its holster and released the magazine. His thumb found the top cartridge and stripped it from its home. After replacing the magazine and tucking his weapon safely away, he leaned into the boat again, this time with the bullet pinched between his fingers. Slowly he submerged his hand, moved the tip of the round into position, and tried to push it through the hole in the aluminum. It went in a bit and then lodged. Sullivan pushed harder, but the bullet wouldn’t fit through the hole.
A swooping sense of elation filled his stomach, but immediatly changed into a heavy ball of dread. His and Barry’s guns were the same caliber. They fired the same round and they could easily interchange ammunition. The hole in the boat was smaller than their ammo.
Barry hadn’t shot the boat a
t all.
Sullivan stood and dried off the round on his T-shirt, glancing over his shoulder as he did. His mind tried to compute the size difference between his bullet and the hole. The rounds that sunk the boat and destroyed the motor were smaller, but not by a lot. Perhaps a forty caliber? He stopped polishing the cartridge, his hands beginning to shake. Forty caliber was what most of the prison officers carried. He had noticed the detail at dinner the night before while inspecting the table of guards in the commons.
Instead of putting the round back into his mag, he dropped it into the pocket of his slacks. Its weight and pressure there would be a reminder, a voice urging him to be on his guard now that he knew he and his partner were being set up.
Sullivan turned in a circle, making sure he was still alone. When he was certain no one lurked nearby, he did an inventory of the options he had. He could play along with whoever was doing this and hope someone else would come looking for them. That could take days, since he and Barry checked in with Hacking only yesterday. He could go back to the warden and fill him in on his discovery; he didn’t feel that Andrews was in on it, whatever it was, and perhaps they could confront the people responsible. Sullivan saw Bundy’s and Mooring’s faces float within his mind before anger shunted them away. His last choice would be to try to hike out alone, over the perimeter fence and through the surrounding swamp. He could already feel the cold touch of the water soaking hungrily through his clothes and leeching his warmth. How far could he swim, and would he be able to navigate the thick folds of brush, trees, and grass to find the way back to his vehicle?
Sullivan sighed and turned away from the boat. The prison’s stout outline greeted him, and without warning the memory of the things protruding from Fairbend’s mouth fell upon him. Now he knew why Alvarez had similarly shrunk away from and attacked his cell mate. He grimaced and gritted his teeth, and imagined the sharp points burrowing into his flesh, trying to make his body their home. The man must have had some sort of infestation. The things had looked parasitic.
His stomach flopped and a chilled snake of nausea wriggled through his guts. What the hell had been inside that man? And if it hadn’t been Fairbend, then whom had he shot? Sullivan’s mind veered away from these questions, for the fabric that held together the sane, waking world was not tailored to encompass them.
He took a step on the sodden ground, but instead of heading toward the massive building to his right, he veered left, his feet taking him away from one institution and in the direction of another.
==
Sullivan hunched his shoulders and quickened his pace. He would need all the daylight he could get if he was to succeed in his plans. The gate set in the perimeter fence clanged shut behind him and he thanked God that his passkey still worked at the barrier. Now that he was committed to the plan in his mind, he felt a sense of disbelief mingled with fear settling over him. There was no other choice but to try to hike out. He supposed he felt the same way a bungee jumper or a skydiver did when stepping to the edge of an impossible drop, but he saw no alternative. An agent was missing, possibly dead. He’d shot and killed a man who had been infected with some sort of bizarre parasite. And not to mention a murderer was still walking free, most likely a member of the prison staff.
“Plus, this place blows,” Sullivan grumbled as the edge of the mental facility came into view. He slowed his stride and turned to the thick undergrowth beside the well-groomed path. With a few frustrated pulls, he managed to clear enough room in the bushes to squeeze himself through. He was struck by how green everything had become with the rain. While people cursed the water as it washed away vital roads and destroyed groomed landscapes, the wild thrived. He could almost feel the presence of something ancient relishing the water in the swell of nature.
After crouching beneath a few low-hanging evergreen branches, Sullivan was able to stand to his full height and began walking again. Here the ground was fairly level, with only a few curved ferns and rotten logs dotting the landscape between massive white pines that towered above all else. It was darker, and already he could feel moisture seeping through the thin leather of his shoes, but he felt better passing the mental facility without being seen. Snippets of voices floated to him and he smelled a ghost of cigarette smoke on the breeze. As quietly as he could, he traveled until he could no longer hear the nurses’ conversation.
He stopped to check his bearings and was immediately engulfed by a swarm of mosquitoes. Sullivan slapped and swung his arms against their numbers, but they kept coming, just another force standing in the way of his escape.
“Christ!” he swore under his breath and set off once again.
Soon the ground began to slope away and several black boulders poked their heads up from the earth to watch his progress. Sullivan realized coming this way was the right choice. The land was much higher here, and the longer he could walk before having to wade and then swim, the better. As he made his way over a fallen oak that looked too strong to have been toppled by anything other than the recent storm’s touch, New Haven’s fence came into view.
Razor wire glinted in the sick light, and Sullivan was already imagining its cold bite, when he saw that one of the fallen oak’s massive branches stretched over the fence, mashing the pointed wire flat. Finally, some luck. A sound stopped him in his tracks before he could begin to climb the tree. He turned his head and listened. After a few seconds it came again, and he dropped into a crouch, pulling his weapon as he knelt. It sounded as if someone was rooting around in the underbrush on the other side of the fence line. He waited, ignoring the thousand bugs that needled his flesh, sweat rolling down the center of his back like rain. He blinked and sighted down the H&K’s barrel at a spot where a thick bush began to tremble. Its leaves shook, and then swayed for a moment before becoming still. Sullivan waited for a squirrel to emerge, and he swore if it did he would take a shot at it just for making him feel like an idiot. After several more minutes, which extended into eternity with the mosquitoes’ attentions, he stood and took a few tentative steps closer to the fence. Nothing moved and he heard no rodent-like scurrying flee his presence.
“Fucking rats,” he said, holstering his gun. His eyes ran up and down the steel mesh of the fence as he stepped onto the downed tree and scrambled up its trunk. When he neared the branch stretching over the fence, Sullivan steadied himself and edged out over the wire until the wood beneath his feet began to bend and sway. He looked one last time at the drop and jumped.
The fall was shorter than he anticipated, and the ground punched the soles of his feet without warning. He felt his legs give way and he fell roughly onto his back, landing in a shallow puddle that immediately soaked into his ill-fitting T-shirt.
“Fuck,” he said and rolled onto his side. As he stood, he gazed around at the new terrain before him and his heart sank. The relative dryness of the land ceased a few yards from where he stood. Tufts of humped grass grew out of the ground like cancerous nodules and black patches of water gleamed between them. Farther out, the flood began in earnest. He spotted a few downed trees lying in the water, their spiny branches reaching toward the sky, as if their last dying thought had been of the sun. Live trees, both deciduous and coniferous, grew out of the flooded swamp, creating an eerie forest without visibly solid ground to hold them. The sight of their trunks jutting up out of the deluge was so strange, Sullivan merely stared for a time. Coming back to himself, he stepped onto the hillocks, balancing on their soft backs as they sank beneath his weight. The landscape continued to drop away, and soon he was left with no choice but to step into the water and commit fully to what he intended to do.
The water shocked him with its icy embrace as he settled one foot and then the other onto the spongy surface below the water. His feet sank several inches and the water crept almost to his knees, as visions of becoming lodged in the bottom spiraled through his mind. Sullivan pulled one shoe free and placed it down again, surprised by how fast the bottom sloped away.
A splash straig
ht ahead pulled his eyes up from the next step and he stood still, searching for any ripples or waves on the otherwise calm surface. After a moment he saw some rings emanating from the hump of a massive tree trunk partially submerged a dozen yards away. The tree’s remaining bark was pitch-black and scaly looking, like the skin of a cedar, only darker. Several sharp-looking branches were broken off a few inches above the trunk, and Sullivan began to dread the thought of trying to climb over them, since the tree was directly in his path. It looked like nature’s version of the fence behind him. A frog must have jumped from the tree’s back, causing the noise and the subsequent waves.
Sullivan turned his attention to the surrounding forest. His sense of direction had always been acute, but now, with the looming sentries of trees guarding the swampland beyond, he felt disarmed. What if he did get stuck somewhere between here and the road to the prison? What if he broke an ankle or leg climbing through the downed mire of trees? The answer was simple: he’d die.
Sullivan took a breath, checked his bearings once again, and was about to take a tentative step when he heard another splashing sound. He looked up, expecting to see another wavy circle expanding out from near the fallen tree ahead, but he did a double take as he realized the tree was gone.
His eyes scrambled across the rippling surface, searching for the black branches, but found nothing. He turned a few degrees, thinking he must have gotten confused and that the tree was to his left instead. Only blank water met his gaze. He felt his pulse speed up. Somewhere deep inside him an instinct dormant but for those few occasions when the primal need of survival kicked in and cried out. Before he even really new why, he was backpedaling, his feet slipping and sinking into the mud. Runrunrun something within his blood chanted, a feeling of terror so thick, he felt it drenching him, weighing him down as he moved away from the deeper water before him. With an effort he pulled his right foot free of the sludge and stepped back onto one of the grass mounds behind him. His hand moved to his gun, and just as he was about to pull it free, the water a few yards before him surged and several of the black spikes he’d originally thought were broken branches pierced the air.
