by Gene Gant
In no way was I ready for E block. Here the Cold Bloods couldn’t reach me; I didn’t have to worry about their relentless attacks. Once I returned to gen pop, nothing and no one could protect me. I was tired. So tired.
“Still not eating? Not smart, man. Not smart.”
The voice was right outside my cell. It had that vague, mysterious accent I couldn’t place before. I hadn’t heard either the outer door open or the approach of footsteps. Maybe my sanity was finally starting to go. I rolled over.
He stood in the hall, peering in at me through the bars. The uniform he wore had a neat crispness to it, so pristine it had to be new, its colors somehow richer than those in the other guards’ uniforms. This correctional officer was sort of medium in height, around five foot ten, with a tight swimmer’s build. He was golden-skinned and green-eyed, thick curly black hair puffing out around his small ears beneath his gray peaked cap. His attractive face had a rounded boyishness to it. My immediate impression was that he was too fricking young to be a CO. He didn’t look any older than me.
I didn’t say anything, just stared at him. He smiled a little, looking very sympathetic. “Eat your breakfast, Gavin,” he said.
Questions tumbled through my head, but none of them made their way out of my mouth. It seemed I didn’t have the energy to talk.
He moved closer to the cell door. “Listen. This is serious. You have to eat. In a few days, you’re going back into gen pop, and you’re going to need your strength.”
There was something way off about this. In the entire time I’d been under state custody, from my arrest and trial through all my days so far in Escanaba, no guard had ever seemed to give a shit about me. Why the hell did this CO care whether I ate or not?
“Leave me alone,” I mumbled.
“I’ll be going in a minute,” the guy replied. “But here’s another reason you need to eat. In two days you’re going to see your father.”
That got my attention. I sat up. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “What did you say?”
“In two days I’m taking you to see your father. You’ll need your strength for that. I wouldn’t mention any of this to your regular guards, by the way. It would make getting you to your father… complicated.”
Did he mean that? Could he actually get me out of this prison and take me downstate to visit my dad? I studied his face, looking for any hint this was some cruel joke. There was only sympathy in his eyes.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Cato.” He raised his right hand suddenly and looked at a small watch strapped to his wrist. “I have to go now, but I’ll drop in again when I get the chance. Eat.” He pointed sternly at my breakfast tray. Then he flashed me a smile, turned, and walked up the hall. The sound of his footsteps stopped abruptly. I didn’t hear the door out of solitary open.
I got up and walked unsteadily to my cell door. I pressed my face to the bars and looked up the hall in the direction the guy had gone. As far as I could see, the corridor was empty.
Crazy. I must be going crazy.
But if there was a chance I could actually see my dad….
I sat down on my cot, lifted the breakfast tray onto my lap, and ate.
LUNCH WAS some kind of oily red meat patty preformed to look like a small slab of baby back ribs, sitting atop a raft of rice with a pile of mushy, cooked-to-death green peas on the side. The meal wouldn’t have appealed to me even if my appetite had been in monster shape, but I ate it. Later that afternoon I left the solitary wing for the first time since my visit with the warden. The CO arrived at my door and announced it was my “yard time.” He looked shocked when I stood up from my cot and walked into the hall. He ushered me up from the basement and out into the prisoner recreational area.
Even the fading glow of the setting sun was too much for my daylight-deprived eyes. I squinted as I looked around the empty yard. The rest of the inmates were inside, winding down from their day and getting ready for dinner. Except for my escort and the guards manning the watch towers, I was alone. The two meals I’d eaten had given me back a measure of strength, but after days of fasting, I was still very weak. The promise of seeing my dad was driving me, however. The warden must have felt sorry for me and changed her mind. She’d assigned a CO to take me to Dad, and I had to be ready for the trip.
I started with a few stretches to prime my muscles. Then I jogged several laps around the tennis and basketball courts. I finished with three sets each of push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups.
“Time’s up, Goode. Let’s go,” the CO from solitary snapped. I let go of the monkey bar where I’d been working out and dropped to the pavement. The chill autumn air felt good against my sweaty skin. All my muscles tingled pleasantly, invigorated by the exercise. I did a quick stretch and headed for the building.
The guard scowled at me as I walked past him, as if he resented the fact that I’d climbed out of my hole in the ground. Don’t give a shit, I thought, palming sweat off my forehead and neck.
“Damn, Goode, you stink,” the CO said, falling in step behind me. “You don’t wash yourself for five days, and then you bring your ass out here and work up a sweat on top of that?”
My allotted shower time was in the morning, before breakfast. “Can I take a shower now?” I asked.
“Punk, I’d pay you to take a shower now, just so I don’t have to smell you every time I walk past your fucking cell.”
Back in the solitary wing, we went past my cell to the showers at the end of the corridor. I stuffed my dirty jumpsuit and boxers in the big canvas hamper and spent ten minutes under a hot, powerful spray while the guard stood outside, making occasional, nasty-sounding remarks to me that were muffled by the heavy hiss of the shower. After toweling myself dry, I dressed in a clean jumpsuit and went to my cell, where the guard locked me in without further comment. I listened to the solid thumps of his footsteps as he moved up the hall and exited solitary.
I felt better than I had in days, clean and alert. There was an undercurrent of anxiety running through me, however, that left me restless. I sat down on my cot and jiggled my right knee. It felt as if I’d go crazy if I didn’t do something—anything. That was my usual experience in solitary, struggling against the maddening boredom that comes with being stripped of all privileges except yard time.
I fell into my customary method of coping with the boredom, closing my eyes and retreating into my head. Teachers would arrive the first week of October to begin the Escanaba school year, which would run through June. At King High School, before my arrest, I was in the AP geometry class. I loved mathematics and planned to sign up for both algebra and calculus in October. As I lay with my eyes shut, I started running formulas in my head: if I wanted to build an 800-gallon aquarium, and a gallon of water takes up 231 cubic inches, what would be the smallest possible dimensions for the tank? If a gallon of water weighs eight and a half pounds, how thick would the glass walls of the aquarium have to be?
From mathematics I drifted into a daydream about my mother. I’d seen the pictures Dad kept of her, so I knew what she looked like—a petite woman with rich dark brown skin, bright brown eyes, and a luminous smile, her round face framed by short curly black hair. It was easy to picture her hugging me or kissing me on the forehead, calming me when I was upset or afraid, or even just showing that she loved me. More difficult was imagining conversations between us, what with my having no memory of her voice. Dad said she spoke with a light, almost musical cadence. I imagined myself a little boy again, curled in her lap while she read a story to me. I imagined myself going to her when the twelve-year-old me got a crush on Tim Richmond and thought I would die if the guy didn’t notice me. I saw Mom smile lovingly and wave for me to sit down next to her. She put her arm around my shoulders and said—
“Are you awake?”
Startled, I flinched violently on the cot, opening my eyes. “Jesus fuck!” I blurted. Dad always smiled at my weird combo curses, amused by the inventiveness. I looked up at the g
uy standing over me.
Cato was in full uniform, so crisp and clean he looked as if he’d just stepped off a military recruiting poster. He smiled down at me, his arms folded behind his back. I sat up and slid to the end of the cot, edging away from him. Creepiness tingled along my nerves. I hadn’t heard the cell door open—it was still shut—or even his footsteps.
“How did you get in here?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.
“You look better,” he said, avoiding my question. “Amazing what a difference a little food and exercise can make, huh?”
I stared at him. The guy had always unnerved me for some reason, a feeling that was stronger than ever now.
Cato suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Is something wrong?”
“How did you get in here?” I repeated. “I didn’t hear the door open or anything.”
Cato smiled at me and waited.
“Who the hell are you? You’re not a guard. You’re too young. You don’t look any older than I am.”
“Actually,” Cato said slowly, “I’m seventeen, so I am older than you. Only by a year, but still older. And you’re right. I’m not officially an Escanaba correctional officer.”
His words seemed to hit me right between the eyes. I grew dizzy, the sensation making me feel as if I were about to throw up. “Oh shit. All that crap about taking me to see my dad…. You lied. It’s all lies!”
“No, Gavin. That wasn’t a lie. I meant what I said about your dad.” He moved over to sit beside me on the cot.
I got up at once as if his very presence was an offense and went to the door, leaning my back against it. The sight of the guy disgusted me. “This is just a joke to you, isn’t it? You’re setting me up for an attempted escape rap. Who put you up to it, huh? Deshaun?”
“I don’t have anything to do with the Cold Bloods. I can promise you that.”
“You can’t promise me a damn thing! You’re a damn liar!”
Cato calmly raised a hand like a cop directing traffic to stop. “Your guard is right outside the door to this wing, so you might want to keep your voice down.”
I started to shout explicit instructions for what he should do with himself, but I bit back the curses. He was right about the guard. I let my back slide down the bars and sat heavily on the floor. Rage and frustration burned along every nerve in my body.
“Fuck you,” I growled quietly between my teeth.
“I don’t blame you for being angry,” Cato said. “But I’m here now to explain some things to you. You need to know what’s going on before I take you to your father.”
“Stop it! Don’t play with me about my dad!”
Cato raised both hands this time, but it was too late. The outer door clanked loudly as it opened, and then I heard the guard’s footsteps hurrying my way. I stood up quickly and turned, gripping the bars in my fists as fear pounded in my throat. Now Cato and I would both catch hell. The guard appeared and stopped in front of my cell door. He glanced into the cell behind me and then glared into my eyes.
“Goode, what the hell are you up to?” the CO snapped.
“I don’t know who he is or how he got in here,” I blurted, a desperate tone to my voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with this guy, I swear.”
The CO peered behind me again and frowned, skepticism flaring in his face. “Are you on something, punk, or just fucking with me?”
Confused by his reaction, I looked over my shoulder. My confusion deepened when I saw that Cato was no longer there. The corners of my cell, the cot, and the space underneath—the only places where the guy could have been—were all empty.
“What—?” I began, and then everything before me blinked. It wasn’t me that blinked; I was staring, eyes wide, because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Everything in the cell blinked, and Cato was suddenly back, standing right beside me. My consciousness seemed to spin in a quick spiral, making me sick to my stomach again, and my legs gave out.
“Easy, man,” Cato said as he caught me under the arms. “I’ve got you. Come here. You should sit down.”
He half carried, half dragged me across the cell and eased me down on the cot. I was surprised at how strong he was. The soft scent of his cologne was in my nose, warm and spicy. I’d smelled that cologne before.
“You were in my room the other night… you lay down with me.”
“Put your head between your knees,” Cato said, pushing gently down on my shoulder. The awful nausea and dizziness passed quickly. I sat up slowly. The first thing I noticed was that the guard was gone.
“What happened?” I asked, looking up at Cato.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, an almost childlike expression of regret on his face. “You weren’t ready, and I still haven’t even told you what’s going on.”
“Where’d the guard go? He was just here.”
“He told you to stop talking to yourself and went back to his post six minutes ago. He’s mighty pissed off at you right now.” Cato put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “I need you to trust me, Gavin, and don’t make another scene, okay? We can’t take any more risks like that. I’m going to tell you exactly what’s happening, but I need you to stay calm.”
I stared at his face, more confused than ever. “Who the hell are you?”
“That’s as good a place as any to start.” He sat down next to me and smiled. “Okay, here goes. My name is Cato Kamiya, and I work out of a scientific installation in Honolulu. I was trained by the Feds to become one of a group of operatives sent in to infiltrate Escanaba.”
Enlightenment dawned quickly on me. At least some of this made sense now. With all the gang activity running unchecked at Escanaba, it was only a matter of time before some state or federal agency started undercover investigations.
“But you’re too young to pass as a guard,” I said. “Shouldn’t they have sent you in as an inmate?”
Cato grinned. “Oh, they wanted to, but I’m not an idiot. It’s better to be a guard than an inmate, especially since it was easy enough for my boss to produce fake ID inflating my age to twenty-one.”
“All right, I get that. What agency are you with? The FBI?”
“No, I’m with the TIA—the Temporal Intervention Agency.”
“Temporal… what?”
“Temporal Intervention Agency.” Cato pronounced the syllables of each word slowly and distinctly.
I threw up both hands. “Okay, you lost me again. I never heard of any Temporal Intervention Agency.”
“That’s because, from your point of view, it hasn’t been created yet.”
My mouth dropped open as I stared at him. “What’re you talking about?”
Cato took a deep breath. “Gavin, I’m not native to this time. I came here from the year 2126.”
Chapter 5
“MAN, PLEASE!” I snapped, feeling a fresh burn of rage across my face. “You expect me to believe that crap?”
“Yeah, I do, because it’s the truth.”
I started to get up. Cato grabbed my arm, forcing me to remain seated. I huffed out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. “Next you’re gonna tell me there’s a terminator coming from the year 2126 to kill me, right?”
“There are no such things as terminators, at least not in my time,” Cato replied with a straight face. “But there is something called temporal mechanics, which makes time travel—among other things—possible.”
I shook my head at him. “I gotta give it to you. You’re a hell of an actor. You almost got me convinced you actually believe you’re from the future.”
“Actually, 2126 is my present. I came from my present into this year, which is your present, but it’s the past to me. My birthday is March 2, 2109, so your present is way before I was even born.” He reached impatiently for his watch and started tapping gently at the dial with the tip of his finger. “Look, we don’t have forever here. I’ve got to prove to you that I’m telling the truth, so how about we take a look into your past.”
He held out h
is left wrist with the watch on it. Tiny red shafts of laser light twisted above the dial in an intricate dance, and then an image appeared in the air, neatly framed as if on a thirty-inch square screen. In the image a boy lay on a bed beneath a Hurt Locker movie poster, texting with a friend. His room was cluttered as hell and the windows were bright with yellow afternoon sunlight. I was stunned by what I saw because the room was mine, and the boy was me.
I was about thirteen years old in the image, sporting a high-top fade that I loved at the time but, in retrospect, looked so ridiculous now I felt a twinge of embarrassment having Cato see me that way. But I also felt apprehensive, because the moment shown in the image was one I remembered very clearly. The friend I was texting, Eddie Lang, had just found a video on his older brother’s phone showing his brother having sex with a girl. Eddie had uploaded the video and shared it with me, and I’d watched it right off because the older brother was hot. Eddie was texting about the girl’s big bare boobs and how sexy her moans sounded while I kept thinking happily about the flashes I’d seen of his brother’s naked body. And then, just as I remembered, the image showed Dad walking through the open door into my room.
“Gavin, you got a second?”
Caught off guard, I shoved the cell phone into my pocket. “Oh, yeah, sure, Dad. What’s up?”
Dad looked strong and healthy in the image, as limber as an athlete crossing the room. It made my heart hurt now that he lay destroyed in some hospital room. He sat on the bed next to me, an uncomfortable look on his face.
“Listen. The other day, I was cleaning up this pigsty of yours. I wasn’t snooping or anything, but when I moved the bed to vacuum under it, I found a box of magazines. You know the ones I’m talking about?”
I watched the shame and fear burn across my thirteen-year-old face. I’d ordered the magazines from a gay porn site, sending payment via snail mail in the form of a money order with funds saved from my allowance. The pictures in the magazine were all taken directly from porn flicks, so they were pretty graphic.
