by Thomas Locke
Reese had no problem with waiting. She had been doing little else for fourteen long months.
Since her arrest, Reese Clawson had been relocated four times. When they had first picked her up, she had been sent from Santa Barbara to Raiford Women’s Prison in central Florida. Then Tennessee. The last two had both been in Virginia. Endless trips in the backseat of cars that had smelled worse than her mattress. It was enough to drive her insane. Which was perhaps what they had intended.
The woman reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out what at first glance was a digital recorder. Which was probably why prison security had let the woman bring it inside. But Reese knew better. She had used the exact same device. The woman flipped a switch and waited until the light glowed green. The device sent out a jamming signal, intended to blanket all frequencies. Such meetings as this were supposedly protected by attorney-client privilege. But it was this same code of ethics that stated no American citizen could be held without charge for over a year.
The woman had still not looked up. She turned another page. “Do you know where you are, Clawson?”
The obvious answer was, the Lawyer Room. It was the inmates’ name for the security chamber, the only place in the entire prison not wired for sight and sound. At least, not on record.
Reese Clawson had not been here before. Which was hardly a surprise. Since she had also never been charged. Or had any need to ask for a lawyer. Up to this point, she had been fairly certain that any such request would have made that day her last.
The woman turned another page. She seemed to find nothing wrong with Reese’s silence. “You are at the verge of the only chance you will ever have.”
Reese did not respond. There was nothing to say. Yet.
“My name does not matter, because I am not here. We are not meeting.” The woman looked up and revealed a gaze as hard as a prison guard’s. “Clear?”
“Yes.”
“I have one question for you. Answer correctly, and you will move on to a different status. What that is, and where you will be operating, does not matter. Yet.”
The woman liked holding this life-or-death clout, Reese could tell. There was a glint of resentment in those eyes, brown as muck, dark as the life Reese had come to call her own. She detected a tight anger and realized the woman was here against her will. At any other time, Reese might have found that humorous.
The woman went on, “Answer incorrectly, and you will be swallowed by the federal system. Permanently. Tell me you understand.”
“Perfectly.” All four of the prisons where Reese had been held were run by state penal systems. In each case, cells were rented by the federal government to house prisoners convicted in federal court. Federal prisons were so overcrowded they could no longer ignore the public outrage. It was easier to house the overflow in rented cages than build new facilities. But this also meant it was possible for the government to falsify documents and claim this particular inmate had been tried, convicted, and sentenced. To a life without any shred of hope of parole. Which was no life at all.
The woman’s actions were overly slow, deliberate as an executioner. She tapped the pages back into order. Settled them into the file. Shut the cover. Placed the folder in her briefcase and snapped it shut. Rested her hands on the table. Gave Reese ten seconds of the eyes, cold as a cell door. “What would you do to earn another chance at freedom?”
Reese gave the answer as much force as she could. “Whatever it takes.”
The woman cut off the jamming device. She rose to her feet and hefted her briefcase. She walked to the door and rapped on the security glass. “That is the correct answer.”
A black Escalade was waiting for them outside the prison gates. Reese was directed into the rear seat. The woman slipped in beside the driver, a bulky guy dressed in a tailored suit of slate and silk. He asked, “Any trouble?”
“No. Drive.”
Everything Reese saw or sensed carried an electric quality. Even the woman’s hostile silence was pleasurable. The world spun and the road unfurled and every breath took Reese farther from the existence she had feared was all she would ever know.
The woman said her name was Vera. Reese assumed it was a lie, but just the same she wanted to thank her for the gift. To offer any name at all suggested a future and a purpose big enough to require further contact. The Escalade was not new and smelled vaguely of disinfectant. The leather seat was seamed with the sort of ingrained dirt that no amount of cleaning could pluck out.
Vera said, “There’s a briefcase behind you in the rear hold.”
Reese turned around and pulled the heavy Samsonite case onto the seat beside her. The briefcase contained four thick files. Reese estimated their weight at between twenty-five and thirty pounds. Their contents were divided into a logical sequence—finance, product development, legal and human resources, clients. She was deep into her initial read-through when, an hour later, the Escalade pulled into the parking lot of a cheap highway motel, one that probably catered to the prison visitors.
Vera kept her face aimed at the front windscreen as she said, “There’s a key in the case. Your room is straight ahead of where we’re parked. Go inside. Go to work. Don’t leave the room. There’s an envelope in there with cash. Order takeout. Don’t make any other calls. If you try and run, federal marshals will be given a shoot-to-kill order. You have seven days to memorize the contents of those files.”
Reese felt her face constrict into an unfamiliar expression, but at least she could still name it as a smile. Not because of the command or the warning. Because this woman thought she would need a week. “Will there be a test?”
“Absolutely.” Vera did not bother turning around. “Fail, and Jack here will dispose of you.”
Thomas Locke is a pseudonym for Davis Bunn, an award-winning novelist whose work has been published in twenty languages. Critical acclaim for his novels includes four Christy Awards for excellence in fiction. Davis divides his time between Oxford and Florida and holds a lifelong passion for speculative stories. Learn more about the author and his books at www.tlocke.com.
Books by Thomas Locke
LEGENDS OF THE REALM
Emissary
FAULT LINES
Trial Run
tlocke.com
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