by E. Z. Rinsky
“Wrong spot!” I yell.
I scoot backwards. As soon as it emerges from the bush, the wolf-faced officer grabs my ankle and rips me out backwards. I just barely have time to shove the phone back in my pocket before I’m back under the blue sky, eye to eye with the barrel of Potato’s pistol.
“What the heck are you doing?” he demands, face red. His hand is trembling. He’s scared of what will happen to him if he doesn’t get the books to Don. “You’re messing with us.”
“No, no.” I show him my palms. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. It’s in these bushes, I swear.”
Wolf grunts: “One more bush, then we’re going to blow your nuts off.”
I grin weakly.
“I hardly use the damn things anymore.”
Now I have only one plausible move, and I don’t like it. But I have to get back in the prison, and I have to do it without anyone knowing. The car is parked about forty meters away—far enough that even if Don is watching he probably can’t see exactly what’s going down over here. No point delaying this. Nothing good is happening to Courtney and Mindy back in the prison.
“Go,” Potato says.
I sit up, push myself up to my feet. Then, hands raised over my head, crunch over dead stalks and dry sand to the spot marked by the spray-painted rocks.
I give them a thumbs-up, and wriggle into the bush with abandon, like diving into a swimming pool. Hardly feel the sharp tendrils scratching my face. Smells nice in here at least, like fresh herbal tea. Dig in a little deeper, struck by the odd impression that I’m trying to squeeze back into the womb. There is something weirdly comforting about the cool dark in here. Like the whole world back there doesn’t exist . . . sort of like the feeling I got in the red house.
I spot the duffel. Hastily unzip it, plunge my hand in and grope until I find my Magnum. Then pull my phone back out of my pocket and call the only number I have memorized. Four rings.
Hi you’ve reached Sadie. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you ASAP.
I can hardly speak for a moment, her tender voice paralyzing me, awakening some part of me that I forgot existed. My feet feel heavy, chest numb.
“Hhhiii, sweetie,” I whisper. “It’s Dad. Listen I . . .” I swallow. “I just, I’m about to get into something very dangerous in a moment. I can’t give you too many details but . . . it looks like big trouble. So I just wanted to say, if you don’t hear from me in the next couple days . . . Christ. I’m sorry—”
Beep. If you’re satisfied with your message, press one, or just hang—
I hang up, well short of satisfied, but in a bit of a time crunch.
Zip back up the bag and yell:
“I got it, fellas!”
I squirm, manage to shove the gun into the back of my pants, pull my T-shirt down over the grip, and then back out of the bush.
Potato immediately snatches the bag from me, unzips it and peers inside. As soon as he recognizes them, his face twists into a kind of terrified awe. He quickly pulls out a walkie-talkie, keeping one eye on the books, as if he’s scared they’ll disappear.
“Sergeant. We have the books. Should we bring him back or sacrifice him ourselves?”
My jaw tightens and I reach for the butt of the pistol in my pants. Wolf is glaring at me. If the answer is the latter, I have no chance.
Potato nods and hangs up.
“You’re to come back with us.”
I exhale.
They’ve relaxed noticeably now that they have the books. They were worried about what Sophnot and Don would do to them. They’re actually a bit giddy now.
“Let me see them?” Wolf asks Potato. He hesitates, then smiles, unzips the bag and they both lean in for a glance.
I rip the Magnum from my jeans and unload, the sound of each shot echoing seemingly across the whole landscape. I empty the whole round, six shots, trying to avoid anything lethal. I go for the roasted chicken spots: thighs and shoulders.
Both drop to the ground. Potato is cognizant enough to reach for his weapon, but I’m on top of him in a second, pistol whip him in the forehead, then snatch the gun from his holster and chuck it. Wolf’s Glock, which still has a full clip, I keep. Look up to see what’s happening with Don. The car is nickel-sized, hard to see exactly what’s going on, but I hear the sound of a door slamming.
He heard the shots. Took the bait.
And now the hard part. I leave the bag beside Potato. Sprint downhill, at a diagonal that will take me about forty meters south of the parked car, staying low and taking a wide enough berth that Don won’t spot me on his mad charge up to the bushes.
I dash like a madman, until I’m about two-thirds of the way to the road, then drop and crouch behind a boulder. Can hardly breathe, adrenaline pulsing in my skull. I spot Don’s stooped form raging up to his fallen comrades, maybe two minutes away from reaching them.
He has to run uphill, I get to run downhill. I might actually have plenty of time.
I shove up and gallop down the last rocky slope, onto the highway. Look back up to the bush. I squint and am pretty sure I see Don holding the bag of books. I imagine he’s overjoyed that I didn’t take them, and figures I just ran off into the hills.
I stagger toward the car, trying to stay low, praying Don is too distracted to notice my shadow streaking across the road. My legs are absolutely screaming by the time I duck behind the vehicle and very quietly try the scorching handle to the driver’s side door. He didn’t bother to lock it, but he did take the keys with him.
I hit the button to pop the trunk, and then delicately close the driver’s door and open the backseat and sneak back to the trunk. Peer over the lip of the rear windshield. Don appears to just be leaving the scene—on the phone—with the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. No sign of his pals.
I try not to think too much about what’s about to happen, as I lift the trunk a quarter of the way up. I confirm that the young officer’s crumpled uniform is back here—it’s bunched up next to his head. I take a very, very deep breath, and then roll in, landing with a sickening squelch on top of what used to be the young guard.
I pull the trunk door down over us until the latch touches, but doesn’t click shut. It’s pitch black, very, very hot, and smells like a butcher shop. It’s so cramped I’m basically spooning the corpse. A thought flashes in my head that I try to ignore:
This is probably the most action I’ve gotten in a year.
I keep Wolf’s Glock pointed straight up, in case Don decides to put the books in the trunk. But I doubt he’d want to put those sacred texts next to a corpse.
Just gotta hope this old car doesn’t have a super sensitive trunk ajar light . . .
My face and neck are completely bathed in sweat, and I’m still breathing very hard from the run. Kind of feels like my brain is an overheating computer. Try to pretend that the still-warm form next to me is anything besides what it actually is.
This is it. Nothing is worse than this. This is hell.
After what feels like an eternity, I hear what must be Don returning to the car. I hold my breath. I hear the front door slam, and he starts the ignition. I nearly lose my grip on the trunk door as he smashes the gas.
He left those guys out there.
I place the Glock between my knees and hold onto the trunk door for dear life, fingers already shaking as I alternately prevent it from flying up or clicking into place, locking me in. A little bump in the road sends my elbow into the dead man’s ear.
“Sorry,” I whisper to my companion. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m also having a really bad day.”
The car slows and takes a few speed bumps that indicate a return to the prison. Three minutes after the car is parked, I hear a chorus of voices outside. I think the COs are clamoring for a peek at the books. Rising above the din is Sergeant Don’s call for discipline.
I grip the latch as hard as I can, vaguely thinking if someone tries to open the trunk now for some reason I’ll hold it closed . . . not su
re what my endgame is there. Hard to think of anything besides the heat in here. Throat parched, and feel like I’m being baked alive.
Finally the voices of the corrections officers retreat. I allow myself a stiff inhale and immediately gag on the musk of fresh death.
I let the trunk open just enough to give me a sliver of light to work with. I wriggle out of my jeans, and pull on the young guard’s pants. Can’t button them—he has a little smaller waist than me. I pull his khaki shirt on over my T-shirt, snatch his sunglasses, belt and holster, then force myself to count up to a hundred. Every additional second of this heat absolute agony. At forty I can’t take it anymore. Crack the trunk up a quarter inch and look around. Empty parking lot. Allow myself another quarter inch, until I can see the closest sentry tower. There’s somebody up there, but he doesn’t seem to be looking in my direction. Would probably be prudent to take another couple minutes of scoping, but the heat is unbearable. I shove up the trunk door halfway, leap out quickly, and then quietly close it. Scamper into the shade of a green industrial dumpster resting at the edge of the lot and collapse.
The relief of fresh air is so pleasant that for a moment I forget the urgency of my mission, and just savor the breeze against my cheeks. Some rancid smell from the dumpster snaps me out of my reverie.
Prison leftovers . . .
I peer around the edge of the dumpster. Behind the admin building, past a couple high chain fences, rises the tower. Thin, rigid, sand-colored layers separated by concentric rings, culminating in a shimmering glass tip. Without the white flaps, the spire is definitely a little phallic.
Maybe Vicks is insecure about more than just his reading level.
Beyond the tower, the bottom of the sun is flirting with the tops of the mountains. I put on the guard’s sunglasses, then tuck the khakis into the waistline and fasten the belt. Hopefully nobody will notice that my pants are unbuttoned.
If that’s the reason I don’t get away with this, someone upstairs has a very sick sense of humor.
I holster my Glock, take a deep breath, and step out of the shade of the dumpster.
Act natural.
Telling yourself this, of course, is the best way of ensuring you act weird and stilted.
I cross the parking lot, forcing a smile to my face, then decide that’s actually particularly weird. I haven’t seen anybody smile in this place besides Sergeant Don, and the guy who turned out to be Oliver Vicks.
I do my best to avoid the front security checkpoint area, although there are only a couple guys left there. I stride down to the dirt path that leads into the side entrance of the admin building.
Just rush to the elevator, take it up. Kill Allen the secretary. Burst in and send Oliver Vicks to kingdom come.
That’s not gonna happen. Dozens of officers and secretaries are streaming out of that side door. A veritable wave of khaki. I quickly whip off my sunglasses once I see that none of them are wearing theirs. And what’s more, these guys are smiling. They’re chatting, and joking with each other. It’s like somebody just rang the dinner bell and all the miners just threw down their picks on the spot. Quitting time.
I get swept up in the horde, have no choice but to go along with everyone else. We’re filing into the yard that contains the tower through an open door in the chain link fence. The officers are greeted convivially by grinning prisoners in jumpsuits. They slap each other on the back like old friends.
Prisoners and COs are streaming into this open space from all directions. Thousands of them milling around, talking a little. Some of them sit cross-legged on the ground like we’re about to have the most surreal picnic in the world.
The offenders’ politeness is astonishing. As is the fact that hundreds of guards are just mingling with them.
The whole yard is filled with the low murmur of friendly chit-chat. If you close your eyes it sounds like a cocktail party; the clink of handcuffs on officer’s belts could be champagne flutes.
I’m so overwhelmed by the strangeness of it all that I don’t immediately notice the new addition to the wooden platform in front of the tower. There are now four short stools on the platform. Mindy and the two other men have been joined by Courtney, who is shrouded in a matching brown sackcloth.
If anybody was paying attention to me, my face probably would have betrayed me in that moment. Courtney, Mindy and the other two have collars around their necks that look very similar to the ones we found in the red house. The four collars are attached by chains to what looks like very heavy metal balls resting in their laps. The stage faces west, straight into the heart of the merciless evening sun. But instead of shielding their eyes, all four prisoners are sitting upright, stiff, glaring in the light, as if they can see their fate on the horizon and are determined to accept it proudly.
Walking slowly enough to not attract attention, I weave my way through the crowd, toward the tower. As I get closer to the base I see that etched into the sandy stone coating of the tower are black murals of faces. Rudimentary ones, almost like charcoal cave drawings—dark eyes, black pits of mouths. As best I can tell, the bottom ten finished floors are windowless. The unfinished fourteen are open air scaffolding. The glass dome on the top reflects the sun, like it’s just one big window.
I pull up short about fifteen yards from the stage, because that’s where the edge of the crowd stops, as if there’s some invisible barrier preventing them from getting any closer.
All four prisoners are positioned right in front of the entrance, a gaping hole in the tower’s side that seems like it’s swallowing and consuming the rays of the dying sun.
From this close I understand why they’re all sitting so upright, chins in the air: Strapped against each prisoner’s neck is a shiny instrument of death, the horrible mechanism that was attached to the collar that Courtney took from the red house.
Heretic’s forks.
Two sharp prongs extend up from the collar to rest against their jugular veins, and two more pointed downwards scrape against their sternums. They all have to keep their heads peeled back. If they let them drop they’ll pierce their own necks.
My legs threaten to collapse on me, and I sit down to try to compose myself. It’s lucky I haven’t eaten anything in a few hours.
It takes me about five minutes to catch Courtney’s eyes. Just staring at him intently until he notices. He rotates his head ever so slightly, and when his eyes lock onto mine from across the stretch of yard, I feel like the blood is standing still in my veins. When he recognizes me, his eyes widen in horror: Why are you here? Get out of here.
I pantomime a gun with my thumb and index finger: I’m going to kill him.
Courtney’s eyes are deep with sorrow. He actually smiles ever so slightly, as much as his neck clamp will allow: No chance.
I wish I could reach over and pat his shoulder. Mindy is sitting on his left. Her eyes are droopy, face eggplant purple, lips scorched and peeling—has she been chained up here all day? He looks back at me, face still rigid, but tears streaming down his cheeks. He’s furious with me. With considerable effort, he mouths: GO!
Then he winces. I see a wet line of blood on his chest. He looks away from me, as if he can’t even bear to see me there.
An expectant murmuring from the crowd diverts my attention from my partner. Something’s happening on the other side of the yard. Those who were sitting rise to their feet, and I hastily join them, take a few steps back from the front row and let myself be absorbed by the anonymity of the mob. I turn and strain on tiptoe to see what’s going on.
And then even the murmuring of the crowd stops. Silence descends, a silence so complete you can hear cars on the highway, and the buzz of the air conditioners from the dormitory buildings, even though they’re on the other side of the yard.
As if prompted, everyone sits down on the ground, wherever they are. I sit down so fast I nearly stumble over. Recover, and look backwards, away from the tower, to where everybody else is gazing expectantly. Still can’t immediately
tell what’s going on, because of the sun, but I perceive that there’s a sort of processional happening. Prisoners walking in single file through a gap in the seated crowd, all holding identical pieces of wooden furniture that I initially take for high chairs. They march to the stairs and file up onto the stage, all wearing an expression of solemnity. Each in turn sets down his chair on the stage, then exits down a staircase on the opposite side and sits down in the front row.
They’re arranging the chairs in a circle, like for a professional game of duck, duck goose.
They’re not chairs. They’re lecterns.
The last prisoner puts his lectern in the last slot, completing the circle.
A circle of twenty-four.
The sun is grazing the tips of the mountains, bathing the stage and the faces of the four condemned in red-tinged light. The silence from the prisoners in the audience is absolute. I swear I can hear Mindy’s raspy breathing all the way from here. A warm breeze ruffles through the audience, kissing my cheeks, rustling through Courtney and Mindy’s sackcloths, like a momentary mercy from God. And then the stillness returns. The sun hangs expectantly, like he’s refusing to set until he, too, gets to see where this is all going. Were I wearing a watch, I’m sure the second hand would suddenly cease its relentless march around its cage, stretch and yawn after a long day of ticking, and slow to a meandering stroll around its eternal perimeter.
Maybe it’s the very real specter of imminent death, or the fact that I can’t remember the last time I really watched a sunset, but the moment is suddenly so peaceful . . .
A sound in the distance, at the entrance to the yard. Jingling of metal—like a tambourine—in rhythm of footsteps. A single upright form drifts through the prisoners, almost floating through the dusk. I squint. His gloved hands brush the heads of sitting prisoners as he passes them, each one jerking slightly as if his touch is electrifying. The jingle that comes with every step must be from the gold chest plate he’s wearing, ornately carved and inlaid with bright polished stones.
