Then she snapped them back open, but it was too late.
The storm had come, and it had found them in the worst possible way.
Part Two: The Storm
Where ash-streams clash with frozen stones;
Where melancholy dwells;
Where time-lost souls proceed with groans
To hidden, nightmare-ringed cells,
To endure prodigious hells.
- "Night's Plutonian Shore"
Cold seeped through my clothes, touched my skin and gripped
With all the fierceness of a winter moan.
Behind the darkness, stretched across bleak hills,
The graveyard waited. I could not see dim stones.
- Christmas in Elba
MEAN
Paul swiveled around in his chair, looking out the barred window. The weather was literally deteriorating in front of his eyes. Snow dropped in a sudden sheet, and darkness seemed to fall over the landscape in an instant. The guard tower and the wall beyond were barely visible through the weather and the darkness.
"Here's the deal," said Paul, still looking out the window. "We have plenty of food in the facility for the staff and inmates for the next few days. So there's no danger of us starving out here. But it looks like we are going to be cut off until tomorrow, at least, and you're stuck here, too. I'll have Hip-Hop show you where you can bunk down, and we'll probably assign you to food detail. It's the least dangerous option right now." He swiveled back to face Jacky, who nodded.
A knock sounded at the door. Paul shouted, "In!" A moment later the door buzzed and unlocked, admitting Hip-Hop, Wade, and Sandy, the latter two looking downcast and bedraggled as puppies that had been hit with a rolled-up newspaper. Paul grimaced internally: he hadn't even started to reprimand them and they were already feeling sorry for themselves.
He spoke before any of the newcomers could. Hip-Hop tended to get territorial when Paul intruded on what the chief of security thought of as his exclusive domain, which included the guards, the prisoners, and just about everything else at The Loon. Paul also knew that Hip-Hop resented him for being his boss. Though just as with Wade and with Vincent Marcuzzi, Paul did not know what he had ever done to earn Hip-Hop's ire. So Paul didn't give the man a chance to take control of the conversation. "Hip-Hip," he said, "can you assign Jacky to one of the food details? And show him the ropes?"
"Sure," said Hip-Hop, and Paul could see the man was fuming.
"All right, Mr. Hales, why don't you wait outside the office until I'm done talking to Hip-Hop," said Paul. He made no mention of Wade and Sandy because, even though they were due for a serious chastising, he saw no need to humiliate them in front of one of their new co-workers.
"You want us to wait, too?" said Wade, the man sounding almost hopeful. Paul sighed. After purposefully avoiding this in front of Mr. Hales, here was Wade making it impossible for Paul to avoid confronting him. "No, he said, "I want to talk to you, too."
He fell silent then, waiting as Hip-Hop opened the door for Jacky and then shut it behind the new guard. Then he unleashed on Wade. He focused on Wade because Sandy, though not perfect, was a far better guard than Wade was, and he suspected that the whole Steiger fiasco would end up being Wade's fault when all the facts were known. "What the hell were you doing on the tower? Did watching the courtyard have anything to do with it?"
"We were watching," said Sandy in a sullen half-whisper.
"And you didn't notice Steiger stripping bare-butt naked and digging a cave the size of the Grand Canyon in the snow?" said Paul incredulously.
"It was cold. We were...uh, pouring coffee," said Wade.
"Pouring coffee?" Paul repeated. "Well, that's okay then. It's all right if America's Most Nutso gets out, just so you get your good to the last drop in! How long does it take you to pour coffee, Wade? Half an hour? Forty minutes?"
"Maybe it was frozen and they were having a coffee-sicle," said Hip-Hop.
Paul turned on him. "And you. You're the chief of security, aren't you? Do you think maybe you could explain to me where Steiger got a code card to the front gate? Call me a nut, but these things interest me." He looked at the three guards, all of who had apparently found something very interesting on the floor in front of them. "Any answers?" he continued. "Other than just sheer and obvious stupidity? No?"
Hip-Hop finally looked up again. "Dr. Wiseman, I am the chief of security. And I resent your accusations, as well as your stepping on my authority."
"Meaning what?" asked Paul. He couldn't believe that Hip-Hop was actually going to have a pissing contest with him right here and now, in front of the others after a blatant screw-up of these proportions.
"Meaning if anybody's gonna do any ass-chewing on Wade and Sandy, it ought to be me! And if I'm gonna get ass-chewed, it sure as hell ain't gonna be by you!"
"And I am the chief of staff," Paul responded coldly. "So like it or not, everything that happens to the prisoners or staff is my responsibility. And that means I'm in charge," he said. "Whether you like it or not."
MEETING
Jacky waited in the hallway, pacing nervously back and forth, waiting for Hip-Hop to come out and wondering exactly what he had gotten himself into here. The money had sounded great, and though he had spoken to several people about The Loon prior to arriving here, nothing had given him a hint of what a powder keg this place was.
Between politics and prisoners, he thought, I'll be lucky to get out of this place alive.
Below the argument, there was another noise: the low whine of the wind as it whipped over and around the walls of The Loon. It was a disconcerting sound, like being in an air raid shelter that was located a mile underground: the danger was muffled, but no less real for that fact.
Then a sudden clanking drew his attention to the stairwell that went down to the first floor and beyond.
That's a noisy staircase, he thought, then realized that was probably intentional, too: stairs that made noise were very helpful in making sure you always knew when someone was coming up the stairs...and having time to prepare if the person was an uninvited guest.
Jacky felt himself tense. They had just had a prison break, and very nearly a successful one. What was to prevent that from happening again? And any prisoner in this place would be just as likely to come up the stairs as he would be to try and run. That was one of the problems with crazies: they didn't always act in their best interest.
He loosened up a little when he saw a severe-faced older man in a lab coat come out of the stairwell and head straight to Dr. Wiseman's door. The man took out a code card and slid it through the door's card reader, apparently unaware of the full-blown argument that Jacky could hear going on the other side of it.
"Uhh..." Jacky mumbled, "I think Dr. Wiseman's busy right now."
The man looked at Jacky in such a way as to make Jacky feel as if he were a particularly nasty amoeba in a Petri dish. "Do you know who I am?" said the man.
Jacky looked at the man's coat. Unlike most of the people here, this man had no nametag on. "Sorry," said Jacky. "I...that is...no, I don't."
The man looked at Jacky, and even though Jacky stood an inch or two taller than the other man, he got the distinct impression the old fellow was actually looking down on him.
"I am Dr. Crane, owner and general director of this institute."
Jacky felt like he was about to wet himself. Perfect, he thought. Just perfect. I'm in the rabbit hole and I've just pissed off the Queen of Hearts.
"I'm sorry, sir," he began. "I didn't know. I was just –"
The man cut him off with an imperious wave. "Think nothing of it."
Then he turned on his heel and entered his code on Dr. Wiseman's door before throwing it open and walking through, leaving Jacky alone to ask himself if one hundred and twenty five thousand a year was worth it.
STATUE
Sandy watched in distress as the argument between the three men in the room raged. They were all talking over one another, Wade, Hip-H
op, and Dr. Wiseman all shrieking almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the nasty blizzard outside. Almost.
"...damn cold up there, and so what if we don't look down because our eyeballs are frozen shut...."
"...so don't you yell at my people unless I say you can yell...."
"...are the sorriest excuse for guards that I've ever...."
The three of them were going at it so loudly that no one noticed the door humming and clicking. But conversation slammed to a halt with the suddenness of a lightning strike when it opened and Crane walked in. Only Wade – always Wade, always the one to make things worse, just like he had on the tower by spilling coffee all over Sandy's lap – kept on shouting for a moment.
"...so next time you wanna yell," he was screaming, "why don't you just haul your skinny desk-running ass...." His voice trailed off then as he finally noticed Dr. Crane and fell silent after muttering an embarrassed and worried, "Shit."
Crane looked them all over. Sandy felt those blue eyes on her like a heat lamp, and felt totally in agreement with those who called the man "God."
After a long moment of nothing, Crane smiled. That was never a good sign. Crane smiling, in fact, was probably the only thing that scared Sandy more than Crane not smiling.
"Good morning, children," said Crane in a syrupy-sweet voice. "What seems to be the problem?"
All were silent for a moment, and Sandy felt no inclination to be the one to break the quiet. She thought fleetingly of Darryl, and wished that she was with him rather than here. Hell, she would rather be stuck in an oven than here.
But then Hip-Hop, Wade, and Dr. Wiseman all started speaking at once, again creating a wall of noise that was as real and intimidating as those that surrounded The Loon. Crane didn't seem to mind at all, though, and listened to everyone scream about everyone else for what seemed like an hour before finally waving at everyone but Dr. Wiseman to be silent.
Dr. Wiseman visibly gathered himself, then began in a much more calm tone: "Sir, we just had a breakout attempt. I tried to find you and let you know. Steiger got all the way to the outer court, and I believe it was due to the irresponsible -"
Crane again waved imperiously, and Sandy saw Dr. Wiseman fall silent, visibly fuming. "Did he get out?" asked Crane.
"What?" said Dr. Wiseman.
Crane grew impatient, looking like he was dealing with a neighbor's idiot children. "Steiger. Did...he...get...out?"
"No," said Paul. He looked down at his desk and shuffled some papers a bit nervously.
At that moment, Crane threw a vicious look at Wade. Dr. Wiseman didn't notice it, and Sandy expected that both Wade and she were about to get summarily dismissed and chucked out into the snow, but to her surprise, Crane only had eyes for Wade.
She sighed internally, then started as she thought, How does he know what happened? He hasn't really heard anything yet, so why is he mad at Wade?
Dr. Wiseman looked up then, and Crane redirected his stare back at the younger man. "I'll have an official report for you on the state forms by this evening," Dr. Wiseman said. "But the upshot is that I'm recommending we get ourselves a pair of new guards and put someone else in charge of the Institute's security measures."
Sandy felt her knees go wobbly and fought a sudden urge to pass out. She was getting fired.
To her surprise, though, Crane held his hands up in a manner she had never seen from him before.
Good gracious, she thought. Is Crane placating Dr. Wiseman?
Crane was many things. He was a scientist, a businessman...even an imperious beast sometimes. But the one thing he definitely was not was a peacemaker. And yet, there he was, hands up, saying softly, "I don't think that will be necessary, Dr. Wiseman." Sandy's wobbly knees firmed for a moment, then threatened to betray her once more as Crane turned his gaze on her and Wade. This time he did not look placating. He was angry.
But again, she thought he mostly looked angry at Wade. "I will deal with these three," said Crane.
"Sir," began Dr. Wiseman, "I really think that –"
"My office," interrupted Crane, and turned and left without a sound.
Wade, true to form, tried to throw a nasty look over his shoulder at Dr. Wiseman before leaving. The effect was marred, however, by the fact that he was clearly terrified of whatever awaited them in Crane's office.
Hip-Hop just left.
Sandy followed him, and she, too, looked over her shoulder. But not to throw a nasty look. She was just curious. Darryl had her somewhat infatuated, she knew, but Paul was also an interesting man. Not romantically, he was far from her type. But he had an air of melancholy around him that she found intriguing. Not a wimpy, please-pity-date-me kind of melancholy, but a genuine air of sadness that she suspected came from some horrific event in his past. But what that event might be, she couldn't even guess at. Jorge might know, she suspected; the two of them were friends, had even gone to some of the high school ball games together. But other than Jorge....
So she looked back. Curious.
Paul was looking at something: a picture on his desk. It was of a boy, she knew, but when she had asked about it once, about who the boy was, Paul had quickly changed the subject and ushered her out.
Now he was holding it. Not moving. He might as well have been a statue.
A crying statue.
SURVIVOR
Rachel had time to scream, but not much else. And in the time-dilating effect of panic, when the world slowed down around her as she leadenly tried to swerve the car so as to avoid hitting the massive snow bank that had drifted out onto the road – the bank that she was now about to hit dead-on due to her carelessness and fatigue – she noticed with a twinge of fear that Becky was not screaming. But she should have been. She was a little girl, her mommy was screaming, and now they were spinning around, a flat spin that made Rachel woozy.
But not a sound from her daughter.
She whipped the wheel back and forth, trying vainly to regain control of the car, praying to la Virgen y los santos that she would be able to stop the car before it hit.
The car was still spinning.
Becky was not making a sound.
It was all wrong, all wrong.
The car spun again, and she caught a glimpse of the snow bank, closer now.
She hit her brakes, trying to pump them, trying anything that might save her and her daughter's lives.
Still spinning.
No noise from her daughter.
All wrong.
Then the car slowed.
Spinning slower now.
But the bank was closer, too. She couldn't tell if they were going to hit it.
Another revolution.
And then....
The car stopped.
Rachel looked out her side window. The snow bank was literally only inches away from the glass. She had almost killed them. And even if she hadn't killed them, if the car had been stopped by impact, or immobilized in any way, she and Becky would certainly have frozen to death before reaching the Crane Institute; before reaching Jorge.
Becky.
She looked back at her daughter. The little girl was white and pinched-looking, the only color in her face fever-like highlights on her cheeks. She had her mouth tightly clenched, her hands clutching each other. But no sound.
No noise.
"Becky?" said Rachel. "You okay, mi hija?"
Becky did not respond. Did not move.
"Becky?" Rachel felt fear grip her, even more tightly than it had a moment ago, when death had loomed. To die with her daughter would be horrific, but to see her daughter go catatonic because of today's events...that would almost be worse.
To her relief, a moment later Becky slowly looked at her. The gaze was distant, but there was no doubt that Becky was there, though certainly scarred.
Children are survivors, thought Rachel. Look at me.
Then she cursed herself for putting her daughter into a situation where she would have to be a survivor.
She
put the car into second gear, then tried to ease the car around the snow bank. Becky wasn't speaking, but Rachel couldn't deal with that right now.
They had to get to Jorge before the blizzard worsened. Because with every passing second, dying out here became less of a possibility and more of a probability.
HOOKS
Crane watched Hip-Hop and Wade from under heavy-lidded eyes. He didn't speak, letting his minions fidget in discomfort, making them wait on his pleasure. It was only right that they should feel his disappointment, his disgust at what had happened. Or rather, at what had not happened. Then he swiveled to look at Sandy, who was standing slightly behind the two men. Less at fault then either of them, Crane knew, but her general mediocrity was a constant affront to him. He would have fired her long ago had he not needed her for her...usefulness in fulfilling his plans – the real reason behind the existence of the Crane Institute.
Finally, he said, very slowly and quietly – he knew his silence pierced people more than any tirade could, "Who would like to tell me what happened?"
Hip-Hop and Wade glanced at each other. Sandy looked at the floor.
"Sandy?" he asked. She shook her head.
He sighed. "Very well, then. You may wait outside while I see if either of the gentlemen wish to answer."
Sandy looked up with what seemed an almost hysterically-relieved look. Crane knew she was thinking that she had been let off the hook. But it wasn't that. She just couldn't feel it. Like a master fisherman, Crane knew the best hook was one that was set so subtly that the fish was not aware of it until too late, but so deeply that no amount of struggle would get it off.
Sandy was a fish, swimming with a hook in her mouth. Soon he would reel it in. Soon it would be her turn.
As soon as Sandy departed, Crane turned to Wade and Hip-Hop. The two men had straightened their shoulders a bit when Sandy exited, as though they felt that with her gone, they could all be pals. But Crane knew they, too, were deeply set on his hooks, though theirs were of a different nature. So he was not surprised to see their shoulders slump again when he asked, "Why didn't Steiger make a successful getaway?"
The Loon Page 10
