The Binding

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “You could have reported it years ago,” I say.

  “By the time I realized what was happening it was too late,” he says. “I didn’t know which of my men were loyal to him . . . they would have killed me.”

  “Where is he,” Courtney spits, his eyes twitching in rage. “Right now?”

  Heald gestures helplessly in the direction of the prison yard.

  “He’ll never let you get close. I’m sorry.”

  “Order your men to go in there and get her right now,” Courtney says, “or we’re calling this in.”

  “Call it in? To who, the FBI?” The warden leans forward and puts his elbows on his desk. “How stupid do you think I am? I know you two aren’t from the FBI. I’ve been in law enforcement for forty years, and if you two are FBI agents, I’ll eat my shirt. I figure you two are true crime junkies, investigative journalists or something, that got caught up in something way out of your depth. And it was all fun and games, but now you’re realizing that somebody might get killed”— Heald gestures to the window—“because you poked your noses into something you shouldn’t have. But I’ve got good news.”

  Courtney is still standing by the window, trying to hold a poker face together. My heart is beating so fast it feels like my head is going to explode from blood pressure.

  “I don’t want anyone to die today either. And if we keep Oliver happy, nobody will. I can get Oliver to let the woman go. I’m sure of it. You just need to give me the books you’re holding onto—that’s for him—and turn over any written or photographic evidence of anything you’ve seen or heard relating to what’s happening in this prison—that’s for me. Do that, and you two and the woman walk away.”

  Courtney starts to say something and Heald holds up his palm in protest.

  “And think carefully about lying to me, telling me you don’t have the books. I happen to be pretty sure that you do. That’s the only reason I’m even talking to you right now. But if I’m wrong about that, well—” He again gestures to Mindy, outside the window. “Then my hands are tied.”

  I hope my chest isn’t rising and falling as hard as it feels like it is.

  Courtney slowly returns to his seat beside me and sinks in.

  “You’re Oliver Vicks’s pawn,” Courtney says.

  Heald sniffs, and pushes his glasses up a bit higher on his nose.

  “I keep this prison running smoothly,” he says. “Oliver Vicks wants his books. Do you have them or not?”

  My nails are digging into the armrests of my chair. I turn to Courtney, assuming we’ll think about how to play this for a moment, but he hardly hesitates:

  “We have them.”

  Heald nods, pleased and relieved.

  “Where are they? I’ll send Don to get them.”

  I put a hand on Courtney’s wrist, to stop him from blurting anything out.

  “Nobody is getting them but us,” I say, “and not until we know we’re getting out of this. We want Oliver Vicks standing out in front of the gates with Mindy. Just the two of them. Then we’ll swap.”

  Heald takes off his glasses to rub his eyes with his wrist, then puts them back on and looks up at us.

  “You’re really not in a position to negotiate with me,” he says. “But we all want the same thing here. Go. It only takes one of you to go show my officers where they are. The other one will stay here while we talk to Oliver.”

  My mouth is so dry I can hardly speak.

  “You’re keeping one of us hostage?” I say.

  Heald looks annoyed.

  “Call it what you want. I can’t have you two taking my officers on a runaround. I need to get him those books before sunset.”

  “Why?” Courtney asks.

  Heald ignores the question, picks up his telephone receiver and says: “Allen, arrange a car and an escort for one of our ‘investigators.’ Mmhmm. Have them meet him downstairs outside the elevator. Five minutes.”

  He sets down the phone and sighs. Shakes his head and smiles weakly.

  “Believe me, I don’t want to be in this situation either. But it will be fine. I’ve dealt with Oliver for years. He’s frightening, but a man of his word. If he says he’ll make this swap, he means it. You two want a drink?”

  “I’d actually love one,” I say.

  Maybe this will be okay . . . just get the books and walk out of here, like he says. He is in a tough spot . . .

  “It’s been a long week,” laughs Heald sadly. Stands up, snatches the same bottle of scotch we drank from a few days ago, and three tumblers. Pours three generous drinks, recorks the bottle, and sits back down. Raises his glass in a toast.

  “Here’s to the weekend,” he says.

  I raise my glass, ignore the glare from Courtney, and gulp down half my glass. Heald shoots his down and smacks the empty glass down on the tabletop. Courtney hasn’t touched his.

  “You’re not going to waste that are you?” he says. “That’s 15-year-old scotch. Don’t make me drink it.”

  Something happens to Courtney. His grip on his armrest suddenly tightens, and the blood drains from his face. Heald can’t see it, but Courtney’s legs are shaking under the desk. “I’m trying to keep a clear head,” Courtney says, voice cracking.

  What’s wrong with him?

  Courtney turns to me, eyes narrow.

  “Ben, you go get the books, I’ll stay here.” He’s sweating, and looks like he might faint. He’s talking slowly, trying to convey something. “The warden is right. Don’t mess around. Go straight there. To the farm.”

  The farm?

  I shoot him a look of confusion, hoping he’ll elaborate.

  “Go,” he says coldly, and the look in his eyes is so horrible that I feel I’m physically thrust up out of my chair, toward the exit.

  “Hurry,” says Heald, buzzing the door open for me.

  I rush out into the waiting room. Allen smiles cursorily at me.

  “They’re waiting for you on the ground floor outside the elevator,” he says. Business as usual.

  I step into the elevator, head buzzing.

  The farm? That’s the name of Sadie’s boarding school. Is that what Courtney meant?

  He doesn’t want me to give these officers the books. He wants me to run.

  On the ground floor I’m greeted outside the elevator by Sergeant Don, two guards I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen before, and the guy who looks like a potato.

  “Come on then,” Don says, eyes sparkling. “Let’s go get the books.”

  In a daze, I follow them back through the admin building two behind me, two ahead of me. I frantically replay our encounter with Heald.

  Courtney realized something I didn’t, which freaked him out even more than Heald admitting he was cooperating with Oliver Vicks.

  When? There was a moment when Courtney suddenly tensed. It was when Heald gave us the whiskey.

  No . . . It was after that, after he’d already drank his, and Courtney didn’t and he said . . .

  That’s 15-year-old scotch. Something distant and awful flashes across my mind, for a second I think it’s an impossible blue-sky lightning over the mountains.

  I stop in my tracks, and one of the guards collides into me from behind.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “C’mon.”

  My legs resume, on autopilot, but I suddenly have zero awareness of my surroundings. Just thinking of what just happened upstairs.

  It was a 12-year-old scotch. I saw that right on the bottle last time we were here.

  The warden confused the 2 for a 5. Nathan Heald is dyslexic.

  I haven’t seen a picture of Oliver Vicks more recent than twenty years ago . . . he was skinny, he didn’t have a beard . . .

  The horror is compounding. My vision is getting a bit splotchy. I feel feverish, and close to fainting. Does this make sense?

  Of course it does. Of course it’s fucking him.

  There’s no standoff between the officers and the prisoners. Oliver Vicks converted ever
y last person here. And now he sits in the warden’s office.

  And I just left Courtney alone with him.

  We clamber into an old cop car that says Security on the side, me in the caged rear. On my right is Potato, and his huge ass spills over into my lap. On my left is a younger guy, who is clearly very nervous, and trying to hide it. Don is driving. They start the car up, and then Don turns to look into the backseat. He licks his lip.

  “Where we going?” he asks, not angry, but pretty clearly not in the mood for any more humor.

  What the hell do I do? What happens if Courtney shoots the dart at Oliver?

  He didn’t want me to bring back the books. He wanted me to try to escape.

  Because he knows it’s hopeless.

  “Sir,” Don repeats, focusing somewhere above my head. “Where are we going?”

  “East on Highway 90,” I hear myself mumble. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  The car shoots out through the security checkpoints. I can’t get Courtney’s face out of my head, the look he gave me when he had it all figured out.

  Straight to the farm.

  He knew it was over for Mindy, and whoever hung back. He was waiting for me to leave for him to take his shot at Oliver. Just trying to give me a puncher’s chance of escaping.

  I’ve got to make sure I’m right about this.

  “Any of you guys have a cigarette?” I ask. None of them respond. I keep pushing: “Don’t tell me the warden doesn’t let you guys smoke cigarettes on the job? That’s wild. What a tight ass.”

  Neither of the guys in the front seat turn to look at me, and the two on either side of me suddenly seem super fascinated with the backs of the seats.

  “Scary situation, eh?” I ask Potato on my right. “Having this guy Oliver around?”

  Nada. Face as stiff and straight as a board.

  I turn to the younger guy on my left, who is breathing a little too fast. “You ever seen Oliver Vicks yourself? In person?”

  He pretends like he can’t hear me.

  On the other side, Potato says:

  “Please be quiet.”

  I ignore him.

  “He’s full of shit, you know.” I continue prodding the younger guy. “This schmuck, Oliver, just slaps on a mask, goes around doing magic tricks and suddenly he’s Jesus 2.0, right? He’s crazy. You know he convinced someone to cut off his—”

  “Stop talking. How much longer?” Don interjects forcefully, from the front seat.

  “C’mon Don, just talking a little theology,” I say. “Sorry, didn’t realize you and Oliver Vicks were fucking butt budd—”

  Sergeant Don instantly slams on the brakes. Were it not for the seat belt around my waist I would have been propelled face-first into the grate. We come to a complete halt in the middle of the two-lane rural highway—he didn’t even bother to pull onto the shoulder.

  “Where are we going?” he asks.

  I haven’t figured that out yet.

  “I told you, just keep going. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  Don rushes out of the front seat and rips open the back door on my left. I flinch, sure he’s going to grab me, but instead he pulls the young officer out onto the pavement. The much larger young guy doesn’t resist. The other two guards in the car sit horribly still.

  “Strip,” Don tells the officer, his eyes like glowing coals.

  “Don, what are you doing?” I ask. He ignores me. “What’s going on?” I ask Potato. No response. He’s not even watching as the younger guard unbuckles his belt and drops his khaki pants. Don stands arms akimbo, watching with satisfaction. Then the young guy unbuttons his shirt, pulls off his undershirt, and then, slowly, drops underwear, until he’s standing totally buck naked in the middle of the highway.

  The younger officer drops to his bare knees on the asphalt. Don picks up his discarded belt and begins to snap lashes across his back. The kneeling guard remains totally still, only his mouth is moving, forming words that I recognize only because I’ve seen this before . . .

  For Sophnot, my father my king . . .

  My heart thumps in my chest. The crack of leather on skin, as rhythmic as a pendulum. After maybe twenty lashes Don stops and peers in through the open door at me.

  “Where are we going?” he says.

  The young guy is shaking badly. His back is a maze of red stripes, glinting in the afternoon sun. Then he keels forward, smacking stomach first onto the highway.

  “We need to get him to a hospital,” I say.

  “Where, exactly, are we going?” asks Sergeant Don, his voice dead.

  I need more time . . . I need to get away from these guys. I can’t give them the books . . .

  “Where,” Don repeats. “Answer me.”

  “I’m not talking until we drop him off at a hospital.”

  Sergeant Don blinks emptily at me. Then in a flash he unholsters his pistol.

  I hear a scream escape my throat as Don puts the muzzle to the back of the kid’s skull and fires three times.

  My stomach falls out from under me. I put my hand on the grate to brace myself.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. “Oh my god.”

  Don peels the kid’s corpse off the highway, like a piece of roadkill. Slings it over his shoulder like venison.

  “Pop the trunk,” he instructs the guy in front. I can’t bear to watch. Just hear the sick thump of dead meat behind me. Don reappears, picks up the young officer’s discarded clothes. I hear the trunk slam closed.

  Don climbs back into the front seat and turns to me.

  “Where are the books,” he says calmly.

  What else can I do?

  “It’s just past mile marker 419,” I mutter. “There’s a shoulder on the road with a spray-painted X. Drive slowly. I’ll tell you when to pull over.”

  “No more talking.”

  Sergeant Don jerks back around and gives the car some gas. The other two just keep staring straight ahead, like nothing’s happened. I’m horribly aware of the empty seat to my left.

  My vision is swimming, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m crying. Not tears of sorrow, for Mindy, Rico, Sampson, this young kid . . . any of the dozens of Oliver’s victims whose names I’ll never know. These are angry tears.

  Courtney didn’t kill Oliver with that blow dart. If he had, one of these guys would surely have gotten a call by now.

  My fists are so tight that my fingernails are drawing blood.

  I can’t run from this and leave Courtney there, but I also can’t just give them the books. Once Oliver has what he wants, there’s just no way he’ll let us walk away.

  A strange peace comes over me as I realize how simple my situation is. Tonight I’ll either kill Oliver Vicks, or find out if I have an eternal soul. Were this a backgammon game, I’d forfeit. But I have to make a move now, even if it’s a dubious one.

  Zugzwang.

  The car creeps ahead, CO in the front passenger seat continuously looking at me for confirmation that we’re getting close. Sergeant Don spots the X before I do. He pulls over and turns off the ignition. We climb out of the car into the withering afternoon. They watch me expectantly.

  “Out here?” asks Potato. I scope the landscape, takes me a moment to recognize the mass of blue bushes on the hillside.

  “Yeah. In those bushes.” I gesture to an area a bit to the left of the true location.

  “I’ll keep the car running,” says Don. “Take him to get them.”

  Don staying in the car. That could make this tricky. Or impossible.

  I lead Potato and the other guy—a wolf-faced man with sad grey eyes—to the bushes, high grass and gravel crunching under my tennis shoes. I hear them huffing behind me. Wonder if they have their hands on their pistols. We’re walking west, toward the mountains. The sun looks to have another ninety minutes before its base dips below their peaks.

  At the edge of the bushes I stop and look around. Spot the marked rocks about five meters to my right.

  �
�They’re deep inside the bush,” I say. “I think right around here,” I lie. “Go in and see.”

  They glare at me, study the tangled web of foreboding branches. Raise skeptical eyebrows.

  They take the bait.

  “No, no, you crawl in,” says Potato. “We’ll wait right here.”

  I feign reluctance.

  “You’re the boss.”

  I crouch down, and dive into the web of brambles. Don’t have the bag to push ahead this time. Just put my forearms out in front of me and let them get scratched and bloodied.

  If that’s the worst that happens to me today . . .

  When I think I’m at least two meters deep I pull the phone out of my pocket, wince as I get scraped up pulling it to my face, and dial 911. A bored-sounding woman answers:

  “Emergency Response.”

  “There is a riot in progress at the Saddleback Correctional Facility,” I whisper. “We need help. I’m requesting immediate backup.”

  “The prison?”

  “Yes. Please hurry.”

  “Find anything?” It’s the distant voice of Potato. Must have heard me stop ruffling around.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” asks the woman on the phone. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “I’m a corrections officer,” I whisper, doesn’t take much creativity to sound like a panicked mess. “The prisoners have escaped. They’re everywhere. They’re going to kill me. There’s fire and blood—”

  “Okay, and you said your location is—”

  “I’m at the prison, it’s a fucking riot!” I hiss.

  “Okay . . . Looks like I have a squad car about twenty minutes from your location. I’ll send him to check up on you right away.”

  Fuck. She thinks I’m full of shit. Or an insane prisoner.

  “No, you don’t understand, it’s a disaster. We need helicopters and the SWAT team—”

  “I understand sir. Help is on the way. Stay calm. Can you describe what’s happening in more detail please?”

  “Hey,” one of the guards is shouting. Any longer and he’s going to follow me in here. “What are you doing in there?”

  I let the call drop.

  Pigfuck.

  Best case, 911 sends a few squad cars who will get to the front gate, ask if there’s a riot in progress, and get laughed at. More likely they’ll call the admin building first and be reassured that everything is fine.