Deviation, Breaking the Pattern #1

by P.D. Workman

CHAPTER TEN

  HENRY LOOKED AROUND HIMSELF in confusion. He was dreaming. He had to be. He was standing there in an orange jumpsuit. The boys around him were also in orange jumpsuits. They were all looking down at the floor where a couple of prison guards lay bleeding. Or rather, one was bleeding, the other looked pretty dead. There was a strange weight in Henry’s arm, and he looked down and saw he was holding a gun. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

  All of the boys were looking around anxiously. A boy with dark, tangled hair looked directly at Henry and raised an eyebrow.

  “Thanks, Specs,” he acknowledged. “I would’a’ been a goner.”

  Henry tried to process what he was saying.

  “What?”

  The boy gestured at the guard lying dead on the floor.

  “I said thanks. Lucky thing you’re a good shot.”

  “Did I kill him?” Henry said blankly.

  “Oh yeah. He’s dead as a doornail,” the boy acknowledged casually.

  “Hey, Marty,” one of the other boys interrupted anxiously. “What now? What do we do now?”

  Marty shrugged. He walked over to the computer terminal and clicked through a few screens.

  “It’s locked down. We’ve got all the time in the world to figure out a game plan. This is the master lock. The guards can’t unlock anything unless I give them access from here.”

  Henry shifted uneasily. He looked the computer over.

  “It’s networked,” he pointed out, indicating the cables.

  “Of course it is,” Marty agreed. “How else is it going to control all of the electronic locks?”

  “If it’s networked, it means other people can get access. From inside, from outside, who knows?”

  Marty considered this thoughtfully.

  “There’ll be a firewall,” he countered.

  “Passwords. You have a password, you get through the firewall. Maybe backdoor passwords too, we can’t tell how many.”

  One of the other boys pushed in front of Marty and sat down. He tapped away at the keyboard for a minute.

  “That’s the master,” he said. “I changed the code. And I’ve locked out all of the other users. That will stop an immediate assault. But he’s right, the developer might have left a back door. Only a couple of people will know about it. It will take time to get a hold of anyone. We have some time to figure out what to do.”

  “What if you unplug the terminal?” Marty suggested.

  “Other terminals might have access to the same functions. Server room too.”

  Henry sat down on the shabby couch nearby, studying it out in his mind.

  “We’ve got to get rid of all of the other terminals,” he said. “Shut them down. From the server room right down to library computers. Disconnect every outside line. Leave this as the sole functioning terminal, so that we control everything.”

  “Yeah. He’s right,” the boy at the computer agreed, still tapping away, figuring out what he could do from there.

  Henry closed his eyes, feeling light-headed. It had to be a dream. Nothing else made sense. He would go back to sleep, and when he woke up, he would be back home, back in his real life instead of this dark, threatening dream world.

  > > >

  Henry awoke later to shouting. He shifted slowly, opening his eyes and glancing around. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. His head was a little more clear this time, but the nightmarish feeling still hung over him. He could remember more now. He could remember traveling to juvie in the van. Worrying about how he was going to get through his incarceration. He was a small, nerdy, naive kid. The kind of kid he knew would be preyed on in juvie. Juvie would be like one long gym class. Humiliating, bullied, no privacy, all of the macho talk and jock stuff that goes on in the locker room. That would be what juvie would be like for him.

  There was another gap in Henry’s memory after that. Somehow he’d gotten mixed up with Marty and the others. And mixed up in the plot to take over the prison. The plot that was ultimately successful. And here he was, apparently with blood on his hands. Still helping them out, digging himself deeper. What had happened? How had he gotten involved with them? And what was he doing in juvie in the first place? None of it made any sense.

  The shouting got louder. Or Henry was better able to focus on it, reaching through the fuzziness that enveloped him.

  Azzi was yelling. Henry didn’t recognize the other voice, but it was a deeper, fuller baritone. The voice of a man, not another juvenile. Henry glanced at the floor. The dead guard was still there, but the bleeding one was not. They must have removed him to another room, and he was now conscious, embroiled in some senseless yelling match with Azzi. The guard was used to being in control. Used to being able to tell the kids what to do. He still figured if he yelled and bullied enough, he could still get his own way. But Azzi was hollering back, and from the sound of things, hitting him and throwing things around. The guard was injured, and presumably restrained. Shouting wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

  McNeil walked in and looked at Henry.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted with a lazy grin. His smile was really quite stunning. There were high dental bills in his past. The girls would have said that he was gorgeous. But his equanimity in the midst of a prison uprising could only mean one thing. Drugs. That, and the gun jutting casually out of his hip pocket made him dangerous. Henry couldn’t let himself be soothed into carelessness.

  Henry rubbed at his sticky eyes. He was so dopey. He should get up. Do something. Force himself to be alert.

  “I don’t know how I could have fallen asleep,” he said.

  “It’s cool. But you’re missing the action.”

  Henry got to his feet, covering a wide yawn.

  “Yeah. What’s—” he just about tripped over the dead guard and had to find his footing again and go around. “What’s going on?”

  “Marty’s making sure everything is secure. Azzi’s interrogating our first prisoner. The rest of us are kicking around enjoying our first taste of freedom, stayin’ out of Marty’s way ‘til he settles down.”

  “Freedom?” Henry repeated, looking around the small room. They were still in juvie, still in close quarters, with no hope of getting out.

  McNeil shrugged.

  “It’s freedom for us. You don’t know. You ain’t been here long enough to understand.”

  Henry accepted this. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He couldn’t remember being there at all before the uprising.

  “Where’s the john?” he asked.

  “I’ll show you,” McNeil offered, putting a friendly hand on Henry’s shoulder. Henry squirmed uncomfortably, trying to shrug it off.

  “I’m just bein’ friendly, don’t get bent outta shape,” McNeil growled.

  Henry swallowed and put up with it. Upsetting McNeil would not be in his best interests.

  < < <

  Things moved slowly to Henry, like the whole world had been put in slow motion. Everything was so tense; Henry expected time to move faster, and for the adrenaline to make him anxious and jumpy. But instead, he felt distanced, removed from everything that was going on around him.

  “What’s with the kid?” Henry heard one of the boys question as he buried his face in his folded arms, and he knew “the kid” meant him.

  “It’s the shock,” Marty said. “He’s traumatized so his body shuts everything off ‘til he gets over it. Happens to soldiers and hostages all the time. He’ll get over it.”

  “I never did that when I—”

  “Yeah, well you ain’t him, are you?” Marty growled. “You prob’ly seen your first body when you were two, how do you know how you acted? I mean, take a look at him. He’s a naive kid, prob’ly never done a violent thing in his life. Suddenly he’s in juvie, in the middle of this, with a gun in his hand and bodies on the floor.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guys gotta take it slow with him. Teach him the tricks of the trade. Talk slow. You know.”<
br />
  Thinking about what was happening, the voices got more and more distant, and Henry slowly faded out again.

  > > >

  Henry was shaken awake. He rubbed his eyes drowsily, yawning. It was Azzi, a boy with a Middle Eastern look. Older than Henry.

  “The boss says you ain’t eaten in two days,” Azzi said, shoving a plate with a sandwich on it under Henry’s nose. “So eat up. We need every man we got ready for action.”

  Henry sat up and balanced the plate on his lap. He obediently took a bite, though he had no appetite. His mouth was dry and he felt like he was eating glue. He glanced around for a drink. Anticipating, Azzi pushed a cup of coffee at him. It was lukewarm, but at least moistened the ball of glue in his mouth. Henry nodded his thanks. Azzi stayed and watched him, apparently under orders to make sure he finished the sandwich.

  “Sorry there ain’t nothing else,” Azzi said, making small-talk. “There’s plenty in the mess, but we gotta find someone who can cook.”

  “I can cook,” Henry offered, before taking another bite.

  “Yeah? Good. ‘cause the prisoners are gonna need to eat soon. We been feeding ourselves, but none of us felt like making a few hundred sandwiches.”

  “Where’s the cook?”

  “Locked down, like everyone else. Marty don’t want no one with their hands on knives.”

  Henry shrugged.

  “Just take the knives out of the kitchen. Pretty much everything here is either warmed over or instant. I doubt they do anything in the kitchen but add water and heat stuff up.”

  Funny, he couldn’t remember eating there before, but he knew that.

  “Cool. I’ll tell the boss. You’re pretty handy for a nerd, aren’t you?”

  “I prefer geek,” Henry said. It was a stock comeback for him, but Azzi didn’t run in his circles and thought it was hilarious. He laughed.

  “You shoot, you know computers, you cook, and you’re funny too! Man, I never met anyone like you before.”

  Henry laughed, shaking his head. Who knew he’d get popular in juvie? Not that they’d hated him at school, but none of them had really liked or admired him. He hadn’t been popular. But Azzi acted like he was something special.

  “Okay, gang, this is the score,” Marty said sternly, once everyone had assembled. He walked down the short line of juvies. He’d had them all stand in a line, like soldiers, with their shoulders back and guts sucked in. He’d named his lieutenants briskly and informed the rest of them of their ranks. There might only be eight of them, but they were going to be strictly organized. That was what had gotten them where they were now.

  “We’ve been locked down twenty-four hours. No doors have been opened. That means we got guards locked in corridors with no idea what’s going on. We gotta get them secured in cells, and we gotta disable any other computers to make sure we’re secure.”

  “And release the other juvies,” Daniel suggested.

  “Shut up,” Marty snapped angrily, turning to look at the boy. “Who’s giving the orders here?” Daniel pressed his lips together and looked straight ahead, stone faced. “We’re not releasing the rest of the juvies. We do that, we lose control. Chaos. If we want to stay in control of things, we have to be careful who we release. One at a time, and kept in strict discipline.”

  Everyone has careful not to look around at each other, but there was a feeling of discord that ran through the group nonetheless. Marty would know and keep it under control. He was right, of course. Henry could envision the pandemonium that would ensue if all the juvies were set free to overrun the prison. There would be no way to keep it all under control.

  “Let’s go,” said Marty, pairing everybody off and instructing them what block to start in. Henry was paired up with McNeil. McNeil picked out weapons for each of them, handing a gun casually to Henry.

  “I guess you know how to use it, all right. Just don’t stand behind me.”

  Henry nodded. His mouth was dry. McNeil was a captain and Henry a private, so all he had to do was follow orders. McNeil was the one in charge of him.

  They punched in the access code to open the first corridor door, and were face-to-face with a guard. An angry guard who’d been locked in that hallway for twenty-four hours, between double rows of filled juvie cells. Without food, toilets or privacy.

  “What took so long?” he demanded as the door opened, and then he saw McNeil and Henry and his eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  “Lace your hands behind your head,” McNeil said politely, “or I’ll blow your ugly head off.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do!” the guard protested furiously, flushing a deep purple.

  McNeil raised his gun, finger tightening on the trigger. Henry held his breath. McNeil and the guard stared at each other calculatingly for a couple of heartbeats. Then McNeil pulled the trigger. Henry didn’t know if he closed his eyes or blacked out, only that he didn’t see the damage the bullet did. A cheer went up from the juvies in the cells. The body was on the floor. Henry walked around it. His feet stuck to the floor like in a movie theater. Then there were boos, catcalls, and angry swearing from the prisoners when they realized that they weren’t being released.

  Henry and McNeil went through the next door. No guard in that corridor. The next guard that they did run into had the sense to obey McNeil and was put into an empty cell without incident. The shouts coming from then locked up juvies was irritating. Henry pointed his gun at the noisiest boy.

  “Shut up,” he ordered tightly.

  Everybody quieted. McNeil looked at Henry with an eyebrow raised, then shrugged. They moved on.

  There was much celebration after all of the guards were safely locked away and they were able to lift the general lock-down. Henry was sent down to the mess with Daniel to rustle up a hot lunch. He looked through the lockers and cold room to see what he could make. Daniel watched him.

  “So what are you in for?” Daniel questioned.

  Henry didn’t answer right away. He thought about it. He couldn’t remember what had brought him there. He could remember, though, the trouble with Liz. It was the only thing that they could have sent him to jail for. They must have decided it wasn’t an accident after all, and arrested him for it.

  “Murder,” he said casually, keeping his voice light and even. “A girl I knew.”

  “You?” Daniel challenged, sounding surprised. “You ain’t the type.”

  Henry shrugged.

  “You really did that?” Daniel persisted.

  “She’s really dead,” Henry countered, not answering directly.

  Daniel accepted this philosophically, nodding.

  “Yep. What was she—cheatin’ on you?”

  “She was sleepin’ with everyone in the place.”

  “Yeah. Chicks. Can’t trust any of them.”

  Marty plugged in the phone. He had unplugged it following the coup because it wouldn’t stop ringing, and he wasn’t ready to talk to the outside yet. Now, with all of the guards safely secured, the computers taken care of, he was ready to deal with the outside.

  As soon as he picked up the receiver, he was in contact with the hostage negotiator.

  “Hey. Who’s this?” Marty demanded without preamble.

  “I’m the police neg—”

  “Yeah, I figured what you are, I want your name,” he snapped.

  “Oh, of course. My name is John Bab—”

  “Okay, Johnny. What’s your position on this?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marty. What’s the word?”

  “Well, that depends,” John said delicately. “What is the situation?”

  “A few guards dead,” Marty said, unworried, “couple injured. Plenty more locked up with the boys. We’ve got a core group of juvies running the place and the rest are still locked up.”

  “How big is your core group?” John inquired.

  “Big enough to do what I need done and small enough to keep under contr
ol,” Marty blustered, nodding at the boys who were listening with great interest to the conversation.

  “Are you in command, then?”

  “Yeah. So how hard are you going to make this?”

  “We’re not out to make this hard. But we do have a different outlook on this thing. What is it you’re after?”

  “Well, let’s have a show of faith first. The boys are sick of the crap in mess. They want pizza.”

  “Okay,” the negotiator agreed.

  “Call me when it arrives.”

  “What kind do you want?”

  “Fifteen pizzas. Assorted toppings. Fifteen pop bottles. Mostly cola. No bugs or wires in the pizza boxes.”

  “I’ll get onto it,” he assured Marty.

  “I’ll expect your call in half an hour.”

  “It may take a little longer,” Babcock warned.

  “If it does I’ll know you’re messing with the boxes. All the major chains deliver in thirty minutes. If one place can’t make all fifteen, order from two places.”

  Marty hung up the phone. He glanced around the room at the rest of the boys.

  “Why fifteen?” Henry said.

  Everybody looked at him like he was crazy. Marty frowned, his brows drawing down and his face flushing a little.

  “Shut up, kid,” Azzi muttered under his breath.

  Henry could see no one understood his question. He wasn’t sure if Marty did.

  “Fifteen is too much for us,” Henry said, “but not enough for the whole facility.”

  “That’s right, Specs,” Marty agreed. “They know that it’s not enough for everyone, so they’ll think we have a larger force in control.”

  Everyone nodded, impressed with Marty’s genius. Marty walked over and patted Henry on the back.

  “You’re a smart kid. Keep your eyes open.”

  Henry nodded.

  “I will.”

  > > >

  Henry awoke from the dream, and stared into the darkness, panicked. His heart raced out of control. He could remember. More than he wanted to remember. He wished he could go back to the blankness that had previously enveloped his mind. Just push it all out and wrap the darkness of forgetfulness around him again. It was better not remembering.

  Lana was dead. They said it was an accidental drug overdose. Henry knew that it was true she used.

  But then they changed the story to suicide, for a day or two. Henry didn’t know much about what had happened, what evidence they might have.

  Then after another day or so, the cops were knocking on his door and before long had enough evidence to arrest him for her murder. Murder. Henry was sure it must have been suicide. The breakup… Henry had seen how emotional she was when she left. She wouldn’t have taken that big an overdose by accident. She’d been distraught. But Lana’s girlfriends had told the cops how she’d been playing the boys against each other. And the cops had looked Henry up and found out about Liz. They liked Henry for her murder.

  < < <

  Liz and Lana. Lana and Liz. How did he manage to get mixed up with both of them? He didn’t do anything wrong. He never wanted to get involved in anything like this.

  “Hey, Specs.”

  Henry jumped and looked around quickly. It was Marty, of course, watching him quizzically.

  “You’re talking in your sleep,” Marty said.

  “I wasn’t asleep,” Henry objected.

  “I know… that’s what makes it weird,” Marty said, one eyebrow cocked.

  Henry shifted uncomfortably.

  “I was… just talking to myself. I forgot there was anyone else around,” Henry explained awkwardly.

  “Are you supposed to be on meds?” Marty questioned. “Lots of guys are, you know. Don’t sweat it.”

  “No. I’m not schizo or something. I was just talking to myself.”

  “Okay. It’s your turn on watch, with McNeill. Do what he tells you.”

  Henry nodded. He turned to go.

  “McNeill… gives me the creeps,” he ventured, stopping in the doorway. “Is he… okay?”

  “If he was okay, he wouldn’t be here. We all got our problems,” Marty said philosophically. “They don’t send you here just because they don’t like your face.”

  “I guess. But maybe,” Henry stumbled, “maybe you don’t put us on night duty together too much.”

  Marty’s expression darkened.

  “I like you, kid, so I’ll overlook insubordination once,” he said sternly, “but only once. You don’t question my commands.”

  “I wasn’t questioning—” Henry tried to backtrack

  “McNeill likes you. I wanna keep him happy. So you’ll go on night watch together however often I tell you.”

  Henry nodded and walked out. He didn’t like it, but he could see that Marty wasn’t going to help him out. He’d have to look after himself. Henry looked half-heartedly for something to use as a weapon. He knew it was ridiculous to be looking for a knife, when they both had guns already. But this was juvie and in juvie you used a knife. That was the way it was done.

  Henry walked briskly down the corridor. Most of the juvies appeared to be sleeping. They were used to being locked up, and knew that staying awake would only make time pass more slowly. The guards though, were another story. They were mostly still awake—pacing, watching each other, making a fuss when Henry walked by. Henry walked by as fast as he could.

  One of the guards was watching him through the bars, standing right at the front of the cell.

  “Kid… kid…” the man called, trying to get him to come over. Henry was careful not to get too close to him. But something in his voice made Henry slow down.

  “You gotta help us, kid. Come on.”

  “I can’t do nothing,” Henry murmured.

  “You don’t know what it’s like, here,” his voice was desperate. “They keep putting stuff in my food. I can’t sleep, I’m going crazy in here.”

  Henry looked at his wide, wild eyes, and was unable to go on.

  “You’re not like the others,” the guard pleaded. “You’re a decent guy. You know no one deserves to be treated like this. We didn’t treat prisoners this way. We were decent. We didn’t foul your food. You got out for exercise and socializing. This is torture. You can do something about it. Help us. Help me.”

  Henry took a hesitant step towards him. The man was really in pain.

  “Step back, soldier,” a voice commanded lazily. Henry recognized McNeill’s voice and stepped back as sharply as if jolted with an electric shock. McNeill walked up behind him and stood there in silence for a moment. He was standing way too close for comfort.

  “This man is trying to deceive you,” McNeill said quietly. “He is trying to get you to betray your brothers in arms.”

  Henry hated all of their army talk. They weren’t in an army and they weren’t fighting for the greater good. They were juvies holding hostages. Law-abiding hostages who didn’t deserve to be mistreated.

  “Yes sir,” he said, careful to keep his voice calm.

  “Do you know why he’s talking to you? Because he knows you weren’t a prisoner here long enough to learn the ropes. To know the good guards from the bad.”

  The guard’s face grew angry and red. He was transformed before Henry’s eyes from a desperate hostage to an angry, vengeful prisoner.

  “You seen anyone mess with his food? You make it yourself; half the time you take it around yourself. No one has a chance to contaminate it. It’s his own idea—because he’s done it to us.” McNeill shook his head. “Why do you think we’re doing this? Because we were bored? Felt like some pizza? Or because we think we can get a rich ransom off it? Come on, kid. We get enough attention; we can get things changed around here. That’s all we’re trying to do.”

  Henry nodded.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “When you’re patrolling along here,” he gestured to the guard, “night or day—you don’t look in their eyes. You don’t talk to them. You don’t list
en to a word they say. You’re behind a wall. You’re separate.”

  “Okay.”

  McNeil put his arm around Henry’s shoulders.

  “You can’t afford to be soft in here, kid. You can’t let yourself be taken in by these guys.”

  He was standing too close, his warm breath on Henry’s cheek. Henry’s skin crawled.

  “I get it,” he said.

  “Good. Let’s get out of here. Too many rats around here,” McNeill observed.

  < < <

  Henry was starting to remember the last couple of days before the coup at juvie. He hadn’t been there very long. He was still very green. And scared. For some reason, they had bunked him with Marty and two of his boys. Henry was careful.

  “Uh—which bunk isn’t taken?” he had questioned hesitantly, gesturing at them.

  “Can’t you see we’re having an important discussion?” Freeman demanded.

  Henry ducked his head and withdrew. Marty turned and looked him over.

  “You bunk with me,” he said, motioning to the beds on the left. “Top, bottom, I don’t care which.”

  “Thanks.”

  Henry climbed onto the upper bunk and lay down, his back to them. He was so scared about what was going to happen. Was the reason that Marty didn’t care where he slept because he would try to take advantage of him no matter which bed he chose? Was it a test? Did he just want a reason to beat Henry up?

  In spite of his concerns, he started to drift into unconsciousness. The other boys started talking again, after a decent interval to make sure that Henry was asleep. A word here and there pierced Henry’s conscience. Words like guns and coup. Words like fight and hostage and bloodshed. Henry tried to burrow deeper into his dreams.

  At lights out, somebody reached up into Henry’s bunk and grabbed his arm. His grip was as hard as steel. Henry gasped loudly and rolled over to protect himself.

  “You wanna know what we do with greenies around here?” Freeman questioned.

  Henry tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat were too dry.

  “Don’t—” he croaked in protest.

  “You been listening to our business,” Freeman growled, “and I don’t like snitches.”

  “No,” Henry protested.

  Freeman pulled him down from the bed with a crash. Henry cowered, unsure where or how to protect himself.

  “Leave the kid be,” Marty ordered. “You’re scarin’ the daylights outta him. You ain’t gonna cause us any trouble, are you, kid?”

  “No,” Henry insisted. “I won’t. I swear.”

  “You see? He’s on our side.”

  “Aw, let me have some fun with ‘im, Marty,” Freeman questioned in good humor. “Newbies are such a kick, and look how fresh he is.”

  Marty didn’t answer right away. Henry breathed shallowly, curled up tightly in a ball, praying for protection. Marty chuckled lowly.

  “Leave’im be, Freeman. We can’t afford to attract attention now.”

  “I won’t leave a mark; promise,” Freeman wheedled.

  “Next time.”

  Freeman sighed and got into his own bunk. Henry didn’t budge from his spot on the floor.

  “Get up, kid,” Marty said. “You’ll have the heat on us, lying there like that.”

  Henry weakly got to his feet. He tried unsuccessfully to pull himself up into the top bunk. After a few attempts, Marty intervened.

  “Take the bottom. I’ll take the top.”

  “Thanks,” Henry whispered gratefully, and climbed in even before Marty finished crawling out.

  The first morning, Henry said he was sick, and they let him stay in bed instead of forcing him to shower and eat with the others. Henry just snuggled under the covers and tried to avoid thinking about the mess he was in. He wondered who was looking after Bobby, but put it out of his mind. There was no point in worrying about it. There was nothing he could do.

  His ears were soon filled with the plotting of Marty and his boys again. Hushed, urgent tones, but loud enough for Henry to make out their words. He didn’t know all of the details, but he knew enough. And it wouldn’t be long before they put a gun in his hand and made him a part of it.

  > > >

  Henry stared at the phone. He was the only one around. The others were sleeping, or on watch, or otherwise engaged. He thought that he could do something. Something to resolve the situation. Henry was smart. He could do it.

  Finally Henry picked up the phone, his fingers slippery with sweat.

  “Hello?” his own voice sounded small on the line.

  “Who’s this?” John, the hostage negotiator, questioned.

  Henry cleared his throat and tried to speak more confidently.

  “My name is Henry.”

  “Hi, Henry,” John said warmly. “So what’s up?”

  “I—I want to help.”

  “Do you think you can help me? I’d sure appreciate any help you could provide.”

  Henry nodded, his voice failing. John let the silence lengthen for a minute before speaking.

  “Are you still there, Henry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many guys are there in there? How many free, in Martin’s ‘core group’?”

  “About ten so far.”

  “What can you tell me about the set-up?”

  Henry considered. He figured they probably already knew everything that he could tell them. He didn’t know enough of the details of the changing watches and security measures to be of any help.

  “I—not really anything. I’m just… nobody. Got stuck in the middle. What about—what about the computer?”

  “The system?” Henry could hear papers rifling in the background. Muffled voices. “Do you think you can help us with the electronics, Henry?”

  “Maybe. I might be able to plug the outside line back in.”

  “That might be helpful.”

  “Is there a backdoor?” Henry questioned.

  “Backdoor?” John repeated, and Henry could hear more voices and papers in the background. Henry hung up the phone quickly. He had barely done so when Azzi walked into the room. Henry breathed a sigh of relief. His heart pounded so fast he could hardly breathe. He was sure Azzi would notice how he was sweating. His face burned and he was sure he must be flushed.

  “Hey,” Azzi greeted.

  He didn’t appear to notice anything suspicious.

  “Hi.”

  “I think Marty was lookin’ for you to get lunch ready or something.”

  “Okay. I’ll go see what he wants.”

  Henry tried to calm himself as he went to find Marty. Marty would see through him. Marty would know that he was up to something. He was too good at reading people not to know. Henry found Marty in the main control room. Henry glanced at the main computer, flushing guiltily. He suddenly really needed to use the toilet.

  “Hey, Specs. Anything good down in mess?” Marty inquired.

  “What do you want?”

  “Burgers and fries.”

  Henry frowned, thinking about it.

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Henry puttered around the kitchen, trying to think about his cooking and not about what he was doing. He tried to block out the phone call, the computer, and everything but making dinner. He had to block it out, keep his mind separated from everything else.

  After a while, Marty came down the stairs into the kitchen, sniffing the air.

  “Something sure smells good down here! What’re you making?”

  “I disassembled a couple of frozen dinners to take out the beef, and put’em in a bun,” Henry explained. “I can make’em like sloppy joes or beef dip, or put ketchup on them. And I took some scalloped potatoes without the sauce and I’m roasting them in the oven. I can put ketchup or gravy or whatever you want on them.”

  “You’re a genius, kid. When we get put back behind bars, I want you staying on
as my personal cook. Maybe I’ll make it one of my demands, huh?”

  Henry tried to smile, but he knew it was a stretch. Marty chuckled.

  “You gotta laugh at yourself sometimes, kid.”

  “Sorry, I’m wound pretty tight,” Henry acknowledged.

  “Azzi says you got a good sense of humor. How come you never joke around me?”

  “I guess because I’m scared of you,” he answered honestly.

  Marty laughed.

  “There you go. So how long before this is ready?”

  “Just a few minutes. How do you want the bun and fries?”

  “Ketchup on the bun, gravy on the fries.”