by Chuck Dixon
Within the hut, the men had broken into groups to smoke, talk, or play card games. Klaus and Gedde leaned against the wall alongside their cell, sharing something that was making them chuckle. Their smiles faded as Levon approached.
“When do we get a shower?” Levon asked when he reached the cell door.
Klaus did not answer. He looked away, smearing the butt of a cigarette against the bricks of the cell opening. Gedde volunteered to answer.
“It is what, Tuesday? We get a shower on Thursdays. And again on Sunday.”
“Is there a rota? More than one hut gets showers each day?” Levon asked.
“Why do you want to know?” Klaus asked.
“Does it hurt to ask?”
“It will hurt someone, I am sure.”
Gedde looked from one man to the other, trying to find the unspoken meaning in their exchange.
“Stinks in here. Just wondering when we get showers.” Levon brushed past them to enter the cell.
Inside the cell, the Belgian and his boyfriend sat sharing a cigar, a fat blunt hollowed out and filled with hashish. The Belgian was taking long drags, his belly inflating with the rich smoke, then blowing a stream into the open mouth of the Thai nestled against him. A skunky fog filled the cell. The Corsican lay on his bunk, leafing through a four-year-old Paris Match and enjoying the contact high.
Levon stood by the bunk and kicked one of the legs. The Belgian coughed and looked up at him with blood-red eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” The Belgian’s voice was hoarse. He spoke French with a Flemish accent.
“The cochon who’s in my bunk,” Levon said.
True to the insult, the Belgian’s piggy eyes fixed on Levon.
The Thai giggled. Levon glanced at the other bunk. The boxer was showing a mild interest over the top of his magazine. He pursed his lips and moved a shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug.
Levon’s hand moved in a snake-like motion, then he had the Belgian’s ear gripped in his fist and pulled the man upright. Bleating, the Thai spilled to the floor. The Belgian followed with a high shriek, rolling atop the smaller man until they were in a scrabbling tangle of limbs.
Levon took a corner of the mattress and blankets and tossed them atop the pair. He unfolded and laid his own blanket on the canvas strapping stretched across the bedframe. Anything was better than sleeping on the floor.
Sputtering, the Belgian clambered to his knees with a stream of curses in Flemish and Dutch. Levon drove the sole of his slipper hard into the fat man’s face, and the Belgian dropped back on his ass. A second kick to the face drove his skull against the hard frame of the Corsican’s bunk with a meaty crack. His nose was split, and he gargled his own blood. The Thai held a corner of their shared blanket to his face to staunch the flow of the blood and was swatted away.
Levon laid back, his arm behind his head, and studied the crude pornographic drawings carved in the plaster wall by his bunk. He fell asleep listening to the mewling of the Belgian and the whispered comforts offered him by the little Thai.
Hours after lights out, Levon awoke to the weight of someone climbing onto his bed. He turned to see the broad grin of the Thai hovering over him. Levon held a hand up, and the Thai rested his smooth cheek in the open palm with a sigh.
Levering up on one elbow, Levon sent the Thai across the cell as though launched from a catapult. Arms and legs flailing, the smaller man crashed into a wall and came to a landing atop the Belgian, who roared until he was shouted down by voices from the other cells.
Levon rolled himself in his blanket and was quickly asleep once more.
Tomorrow was a hunting day.
23
The cousins found a place to park where they could watch the house and the surrounding acreage. It was a cleared section of ground across the road, and above the horse doctor’s property. Weeds had overgrown a section of graded driveway still flat and dry under the cover. There was a concrete pad with piping and PVC electrical conduit jutting up. Someone had planned a house here until their plans were interrupted. A screen of trees hid the van from passersby on the road.
They had sleeping bags, jugs of water, and shopping bags of snack cakes, chips, sodas, and cheese. They had a sack of empanadas as well. Buey had found a place near the interstate. Nowhere near as good as they could get back home, but they were surprised to find them at all in this gringo backwater.
Each took turns watching the house and barn while the other slept or played with their phone. They made a decision to give the watch two days before they moved on the woman. In the end, she would give up the location of the car. The two days was a drop-dead deadline since they owed their pay-up to Uncle Honesto in three days. They were blood, but that meant nothing if you failed the plaza by fucking up or not earning.
And they’d done both.
This bitch would take them to the car and the girl by following her or by force. Time would tell. It damn sure would.
The morning passed slowly. The cousins watched the house through the trees in spells. They played solitaire and killed ninjas and zombies and settled into a Zen-like state of half-wakefulness.
Movement down near the house broke Tesoro from his torpor. He picked up the binoculars to watch the woman walk from the house to her truck, which she climbed into. It started with in fog of blue exhaust. Both men were watching now.
The truck pulled forward and stopped at an angle before going into reverse and disappearing behind the barn. It did not appear on the other side. After a few moments, the truck emerged, pulling a horse trailer. It was white, and decorated with the same logo as appeared on the doors of the truck. The woman pulled to a stop with the rear of the trailer facing the front of the barn. She climbed from the cab and dropped the rear ramp, which also served as a door. She then opened the barn doors and emerged with a buckskin horse with a blond mane. She expertly led the bridled animal up the ramp and into the trailer, where she secured a half-gate in place behind it.
Tesoro admired the woman’s handling of the large animal. He had noticed the day before that she was a pretty one, handsome for her age. Her trim body was evident even through her winter clothes. Today her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail that swung back and forth as she worked. Yes, he looked forward to getting to know this woman better.
A second trip into the barn, and she came back out with a dark pony already shaggy with a winter coat. This one gave her more difficulty and needed a slap on the rump to encourage it into the empty stall in the side-by-side trailer. She lifted the ramp back up and shot the bolts to hold it in place, then she secured the barn doors again and pulled forward to the driveway.
“We follow her now, right?” Buey asked.
“To where? She is a doctor. Those are her patients. That is her ambulancia, verdad?”
“How do you know this?”
“Did you see saddles? She did not take saddles.”
Buey’s lower lip jutted out, and he tilted his head for a nod.
“I am teaching you something. You see?” Tesoro asked. “We wait until she comes back.”
They amused themselves with a farting contest until her return.
The three hounds loped down the driveway to greet the truck and trail it, baying all the way. The howling turned to tail-wagging when Jessie Hamer pulled up in front of Fern’s barn and climbed out.
“That’s my mom,” Sandy said. “And she’s pissed.”
They were all three looking out the window at Sandy’s mom storming toward the house, boots kicking up gravel. The hounds glided behind her like a wake behind a boat. Uncle Fern met her halfway, with Fella, the ridgeback, by his side. There was a brief exchange, with Jessie pointing to the house. Both disappeared beneath the angle of the porch roof and entered the house.
“Sandy!”
“Oh, crap,” Sandy said.
Down in the kitchen, Jessie related for the girls and Fern the visit from the two men the day before, and all the thoughts she’d had throughout a long sleep
less night.
“So, anyone have something to tell me?”
A shuffle of feet from the hall foyer and Fella’s ears spiking made them all turn to where Esperanza smiled shyly, lost in Merry’s oversized sweater.
“Well, if it isn’t little Miss Trouble,” Jessie said. Her cross expression melted into a warm smile.
After Merry and Sandy had told Jessie the story of their trip to the mall, the kitchen became a war room. They mapped out a plan of what to do next. Jessie had a general idea of how to proceed, but it was Merry who added her own touch to bring this to a possible conclusion.
Fern made coffee and offered a bowl of last night’s half-burned cookies. Jessie noted him reseating himself heavily in his customary captain’s chair at the head of the table. He looked tired and a little flushed.
“You feeling okay, Fern?” Jessie said.
“Little touch of reflux, is all,” he said, a hand splayed on his chest.
“That coffee won’t help that.”
“It’s fine. I load it up with extra cream.”
“Well, there’s a healthy alternative. Are you having chest pains? Shortness of breath?”
“I thought you were a horse doctor, Jess?”
“Yes, sir. And I went to school longer than your GP.”
“I had a cardiac cath put in two years ago. Healthy as a horse. Just need a few antacids.”
“I’d like it better if you went over to the walk-in.”
“You girls are going to need me here.”
“Not for a while,” Jessie countered.
“Thanks, doc, but all I need is a breather,” Fern said.
“Stubborn man.” Jessie turned to the girls. “I couldn’t bring saddles for Montana and Tango. That would have looked like a getaway. But Sandy can ride bareback, and you can saddle Bravo and lead Montana with your new friend on his back.”
“You’re sure the house is being watched?” Fern asked.
“Ever get that feeling that eyes are on you?” Jessie replied.
“Yeah, I know that feeling all too well. Ignored it one too many times.”
“They’re watching, trust me. I could feel it in the air like when you know it’s gonna rain,” Jessie said.
She led the girls out to the trailer. Merry explained it all to Esperanza as they walked. Together, they went into the barn to saddle and bridle Bravo while the Hamers got the mare and pony out of the trailer.
“If you don’t know the way, the horses do. What do you think? A two-hour ride along the edge of the watershed?” Jessie asked, handing Montana’s reins to Esperanza.
“We’ll have cell service part of the way,” Sandy said. “We can let you know when we’re close.”
“It’s rough country between here and there. We’ll need to take it slow for Esperanza,” Merry said.
A scrape of hoofs on gravel, and all turned to watch Esperanza take a fistful of the pony’s mane and swing up into an excellent seat on Montana’s back. She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and smiled at their expressions.
“Or not,” Jessie said.
The girls departed, riding up the back trail that led along a gentle slope at the back of the property. The three redbone hounds trotted after, but Uncle Fern whistled and called until the hounds, heads lowered, rejoined him in the yard. The effort taxed him, and he leaned on the fender of Jessie’s truck.
“Seriously, old man, you need to be seen,” Jessie chided. She pulled open a tool hatch on the side of the truck bed and took out a stethoscope. “Ain’t you got enough to think about?” Fern asked. But he parted his shirt front to allow her to listen to his heart.
“Pulse is good if a little fast. Bet your blood pressure is up, too. If it is reflux, a nice GI cocktail would make you a whole lot more comfortable.”
“Aren’t you gonna need me?”
“Only if you’re one hundred percent.”
“Do I tell them a horse doctor sent me?”
“You wish you’d get as good of care as some of the horses I see.”
He caved to her and stomped off to his Silverado to head down to Haley and the walk-in clinic there. The hounds followed him down the drive, yelping. They’d turn back when he lost them at the roadway.
“Just you and me now, boy,” Jessie said to Fella. He turned his eyes to her, and she swore she could see the primal wisdom there. It was wisdom she prayed, with all her learning and education, she’d not forgotten.
24
Perimeter security was tight. Guards walked the outer fence and manned the towers on a rotating basis. Dogs, big German shepherds, ran the open lane between the fences. What man or animal missed would be caught by the cameras. An escape could get lethal. There was a “shoot to kill” policy in place here. Probably also a graveyard filled with the results of failed attempts.
Within the camp, it was a different story. The guards were laxer about protocol, and even complicit in breaking the rules. More than once, Levon saw guards turn a blind eye to the movement of contraband. Drugs were used openly without punishment. Money passed between prisoners and guards. It was only when the Prick walked the yard that there was any semblance of order. And that was certainly all a sham, the appearance of propriety. The Prick was probably in for the biggest slice of the pie.
Most significant for Levon was that there was never a roll call taken. Except for Hut 11, the prisoners were allowed to roam free within the fence line during daylight hours. They all had to be back “home” and locked in by nightfall, but even then, they were not counted. There was no record of where anyone in the population was at any given time, even after lockdown. As long as they were safely bolted in their huts, the guards were satisfied that all was well.
Showers were scheduled after the morning meal. Three huts showered every three or four days.
Levon walked the lane and sidled over to join the men from Hut 9 as they made their way to the shower side of the building. He entered past a guard whose back was turned. Levon took up a place on the nine-holer. One man was already there, voiding his bowels loudly, and from the wince on his face, painfully. Another joined them, seating himself two holes away, and grunted with satisfaction after a thunderous fart. His cloying aroma joined the rancid stench of the first man.
From the shower section came the hiss of running water and the muffled voices of men. Steam escaped under the doorway. The plastic partition strips ran with condensation.
Feigning interest in a Turkish newspaper, Levon waited out the two men seated either side of him. Once they had left, and before anyone else could enter, Levon stepped atop the long bench. With a standing jump, he was able to get a finger grip on the main roof beam. He levered himself up and walked the joists until he was well over the ceiling of the shower room and out of sight of anyone in the latrine.
The attic area was dark but for shafts of light rising from vents set in the fiberboard ceiling of the room below. Steam rose as well, trapping moist heat in the closed space. Black mold covered the roof beams and made the joists slippery. Levon placed his feet carefully, hands on the angles and uprights for support. The floor of the attic was just the fiberboard set in a metal framework and tacked in place on the crossbeams. One misstep and his foot would crash through.
He found a place and crouched to look down into the shower room through the vanes of a rusted vent. Men were below soaping up or toweling off. The steam was as thick as fog in the morning chill. He crouched lower to see the door to the outside. It was unguarded. The prisoners’ clothing hung on steel pegs set in the block wall. Their slippers rested in a neat row atop a shelf just above the floor. A rolling basket of fresh towels had been wheeled into place.
Levon settled himself, feet on a crossbeam and back to an upright. He waited until he heard the hiss dying away below, with a bang of the pipes as the pressure dropped. Crouching again, he watched through the vent as the prisoners of Hut 9, dressed once more, made their way back into the chill air. A few moments passed, and a new gang of men entered—the men of
Hut 10. They stripped, showered, dried themselves, and pulled on clothes to depart.
When he was satisfied that the last of the men were gone, Levon made his way to the center of the attic floor. He placed a foot on the fiber board by one of the joists and applied weight to it in a steady pressure. The fiberboard sagged and then parted from the wood, the material soft and cake-like after years of exposure to the damp air. It came away from the heads of the tacks holding it place and swung down like a door, allowing Levon to slip through.
Using the pipes suspended below as a platform to stand on, Levon pressed the fiberboard back in place. It would hold for now. He lowered himself into the shower room. The place was still hazy with steam when the prisoners of Hut 11 entered. Levon was able to hang back in the swirling mist until the men had undressed and begun turning on the showers. The man named Tiryaki was here, entering a shower stall in the row facing away from the rear of the building. He stood in the stream of water and was running the thick block of black soap up his arms less than four paces from where Levon stood in the gloom.
Levon stepped forward and dropped a knotted towel around the smaller man’s throat. He turned, pulling hard on the ends of the towel slung over one shoulder. Tiryaki’s feet were jerked off the floor as he was levered up on Levon’s back. His windpipe pressed closed by the knot crushing his throat, the smaller man kicked out. His feet struck the steel wall of the shower surround in a drumming sound. Levon gave a yank and felt the man’s windpipe collapse.
With a heave, Levon bent and turned sharply, the other man’s head tight against his shoulder. After a meaty snap, Tiryaki’s legs went limp. Levon dropped him to the wet floor with a splash. Men stood in the neighboring stalls with widening eyes and slack mouths.
He was turning to go when a soap-slippery arm snaked around his throat and yanked him across the tiles.
25
