by Dakota Chase
Maybe it was the shape of the head, or the color of the hair, but he recognized Ash instantly and relief washed the last vestiges of panic from his body. There he is! He opened his mouth to shout out Ash’s name but stopped himself. Something was wrong. It took him a minute to figure out what it was, and once he did, panic begin to claw at his gut again.
Ash was on the wrong side of the bars.
How could this be? Was it a mistake? Why the hell would Merlin send him back as a guard, but Ash back as a prisoner? And just how in the blue fuck-all were they supposed to get Capone’s pendant when Ash was stuck inside a cell? If they weren’t together, they couldn’t go home!
“Hey you, er…. Officer Vaughn. Keep up.” Merloch’s voice caught Grant’s attention, as did the use of his last name. Merlin’s magic, it seemed, was powerful enough to list Grant as a guard on the Alcatraz roster Merloch held.
“Y-yes, sir. Coming.” Grant moved forward with an effort. He didn’t want to leave the corridor of the cell where Ash currently resided, at least not until he was able to signal Ash that he was there, but he also couldn’t risk Merloch discovering he had more than a passing interest in one of the inmates.
Okay, calm down. It’ll be okay. After all, Ash is in a cell, and like Merloch said, nobody escapes from Alcatraz. He’ll still be there when I get back. We’ll figure it out then. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, let it out, and trotted after the rest of the guards.
Chapter Three
ASH PACED back and forth in his cell. It wasn’t a very long trip considering how small the cell was. In fact, the pacing only seemed to make him more anxious. He suddenly knew how it felt to be a tiger in a cage and felt sorry for the ones he had seen in the zoo. The bars on his cell added to the illusion that he was a caged animal too.
His anxiety ratcheted up a notch when he realized it wasn’t just an illusion. He really was an animal in a cage—or at least a human in a cage. He couldn’t just open the door and stroll out. They’d locked him in, and they held the key. A feeling of claustrophobia, something he never thought he suffered from, began to scratch at him with prickly claws. A pins-and-needles sensation crept over his skin, raising the hair on his arms. His chest heaved rapidly as he fought to breathe in a cell where it felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out.
Pinpoints of light began to dance in his peripheral vision, and he wondered if he was going to pass out. He fought the feeling, trying to slow his breathing, to relax. He sank onto the narrow cot and let his head hang between his knees. Get hold of yourself, Ash. This isn’t the worst place you’ve ever been. Remember medieval Germany and how rank it smelled? People and animals pissed and crapped all over, and there was no such thing as deodorant. They barely had freaking soap. At least this place has electricity, showers, and toilets.
Of course, it was barely a step up since the showers were communal, and the toilet in question was in his cell, right out in the open in full view of anyone who cared enough to look.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn’t get out. He was literally a prisoner.
Oh God, I’m going to pass out and throw up.
How freaking embarrassing would it be to faceplant into a pool of his own vomit on his very first day in prison? The other convicts would never let him live it down. It would be like pissing your pants on your first day of kindergarten—that sort of shit could stay with a guy for years.
Not that he was going to be in Alcatraz for years. Oh hell no. Grant was here somewhere, and as soon as Ash found him, they were going to find the damn locket and get the hell out. It’d be the first successful escape from Alcatraz. The thought almost put a smile on his face. Almost, not quite.
After a while, though, he began to feel better—not as if he wanted to run a marathon or anything, but enough to feel like he wasn’t going to keel over if he stood up. It was a good thing, too, because not a few minutes later he heard a clanging sound coming from down the hall.
“Let’s go. Head count! Up and at ’em, boys!”
He dragged himself to his feet and looked out between the bars. Guards were walking up and down the halls, both downstairs and up. They were banging on the bars with their nightsticks and counting out as they went.
Counting heads, he realized. It was sort of a roll call, to make sure everyone who was supposed to be in a cell was inside it. He wondered if it was a once-a-day thing, or if it happened more than once, then figured he’d find out if he was around long enough.
Which he sincerely hoped he wasn’t.
The guard nearest his cell stepped in front of him. A whack with the nightstick against the steel sent Ash jumping back a foot. If that thing hit his fingers instead of the bar, he figured he’d need to learn to write with his feet.
“Fourteen!” the guard yelled, although Ash had no idea who he was yelling to. Maybe nobody. Maybe they just did this to irritate the prisoners.
Ash breathed a sigh of relief when the guard moved on to the next cell, then the one after. “Fifteen, sixteen!”
“Aw, shut your pie hole. We’re all here, same as yesterday.” The new voice was high-pitched but gravelly, like the owner had been gargling glass.
“You want I should take a swing at your head, Capone? You might’ve been a big shot at Eastern State Pen, but you ain’t worth the paper I use to wipe my ass with in here.” The guard followed his words with another clang of his blackjack against the bars, almost like an exclamation point.
Capone? Al Capone? Ash risked pressing his face up against the bars to try to see into the next cell, but all he could see was the back of the guard continuing down the row. He stepped back and sat down again. A small smile lifted his lips and for the first time since arriving at Alcatraz, he felt a tiny tickle of hope. Capone was in the cell next to his, and Merlin said Capone never let the locket out of his possession. So, the locket must be in the cell next to his too. It was right there on the other side of the wall, almost close enough for Ash to touch!
Every other time Merlin sent them back in time, they’d had to fight tooth and nail to find the object they needed to fetch back. That’s what took up most of their time, and what put them in the most danger. But this time, he’d planted Ash right next door to the artifact!
All he had to do was… was….
Was escape from his cell in an escape-proof prison, find Grant—who could be anywhere, including not on the island at all—break into Al Capone’s cell, and steal the locket all without getting knocked on the head with a blackjack or shot.
Yeah, sure. It was going to be a piece of freaking cake.
He frowned and, as every bit of his newfound enthusiasm leaked out of him like air out of a slashed tire, sat back down on the cot. I should’ve known better than to think Merlin would’ve thrown us a bone. Nothing Merlin sends us back in time to do is ever easy.
“Hey, new fish!”
Ash looked up at the sound of a voice outside his cell. A guard was standing there, tapping his blackjack against the palm of his hand.
“You hear me, or are you deaf? Lunch is right after headcount. Let’s move!” The guard unlocked the cell door and slid it open.
Ash gained his feet and realized prisoners were walking in a single file down the corridor. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah? You see that book?” The guard motioned to the slim volume Ash had noticed earlier. “You better memorize it, or next time I’ll feed you your own teeth for lunch. Now get in line!”
Ash scrambled to slip past the guard and get into line with the other prisoners. Wow. I didn’t think I actually had to read the stupid book. I figured it was like the book you see in hotel rooms that has the directory in it. You know it’s there, but you only look at it when you need a phone number.
The man in front glanced back at Ash. He stood about five feet ten, and was built like a bulldog with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and short, thick legs. His dark hair was badly receding—the hairline was halfway to the back of his head. His
face was doughy and his lips thick, reminding Ash a little of a cartoon fish he’d once seen on television. Those lips tilted in a little smile before the man turned to face front again. Ash couldn’t decide if the smile was meant to be friendly or menacing.
If he was shooting for friendly, he sort of missed the mark. Intimidating, though, now there he hit a home run. That smile was freaking creepy.
He followed as the line of men walked briskly down the hall. One thing that struck him was how quiet it was—except for the guards’ voices, no one spoke. It was a little surprising, because even at school there was always whispering and low laughter when kids got in line to go from one place to another, even when the teachers demanded otherwise. How did the guards keep hardened criminals on such good behavior?
He wanted to ask but didn’t think the guard would appreciate his curiosity, so kept it to himself. He’d find out later. Maybe the book would explain.
The guards stood to the side as the prisoners filed into a large room filled with long, picnic-style tables. At the far end of the room were several windows, pass-throughs to the kitchen beyond. A line of prisoners snaked in front of the windows, each man leaving carrying a tray laden with a dish of food, a cup of coffee, and silverware. They quietly took their food to their table and sat. No one touched their food, though. They just sat there, waiting.
Ash’s turn at the window came, and he was handed a tray. On it was a cup of black coffee, a plate holding a wedge of some kind of brown meat—he thought it might be meatloaf—a lump of mashed potatoes splashed with congealing gravy, and a spoonful of green beans. There was a thick slice of bread, a fork, and a napkin as well.
He followed the same man he’d been following since leaving his cell to the table since he had no idea where else to go. No guard seemed forthcoming in telling him where his assigned table was, but he doubted it was open seating. It made sense to think he would be sitting in the chair next to the man who lived in the cell next to his.
No one objected when he placed his tray on the table and took his seat. He was hungry enough to eat anything but refrained from touching his plate until everyone else did. What the hell was everyone waiting for?
His question was answered in another few minutes when the last of the prisoners took their seats. The same gray-haired man who’d met them at the boat strode in and walked to the front of the room. Warden Johnston, he remembered. A second man, this one a little younger and slimmer, but also dressed in a suit and wearing the same stern look on his face, joined Johnston at the head of the room.
“Bow your heads for grace,” Johnston said. “Assistant Warden Swope will lead us in prayer.”
Ash watched the room from under his eyelashes. Not one head that he could see lifted until the prayer was finished. There was also no sound except for a single “Amen” at the conclusion of the prayer. Then silence fell again, broken only by the clinking of silverware on china.
It’s like being in one of those monasteries where the monks take vows of silence. How can they stand it? He picked up his fork and prodded the meat on his plate. Then he shrugged. It can’t be any worse than the mystery meat they serve on Thursdays at Stanton’s. He cut a small piece and ate it. It wasn’t five-star cuisine, but it wasn’t totally inedible either.
No matter how bad it was at Alcatraz, at least it seemed as if he wouldn’t starve to death while he was there.
He eyed the cup of coffee, though, and fervently wished he had a Coke instead. No way he was choking down a cup of whatever thick black mess they’d brewed up in the kitchen. The only coffee he could tolerate was the kind they served at Starbucks, frozen with whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel over it.
“You ain’t gonna drink your coffee?”
The hoarse whisper, barely audible, caught his attention. He looked at the fish-lipped prisoner he’d followed from the cellblock. He shook his head, unwilling to talk and risk finding out what the punishment was for breaking the silence rule. Instead, he just slid the cup toward the man.
“Obliged. I’m Al. We’ll talk more later.”
Oh my God! Al? Of course, this was the man who lived in the cell next to him—Al Capone. He hadn’t put it all together before. And Ash had just done him a solid by giving him a cup of coffee. He smiled but covered it by shoving another forkful of meatloaf into his mouth.
“Should’ve known you’d be an ass kisser.”
This whisper came from his other side. He glanced up at the next table over. The sneering face staring back at him was familiar, and the name came to him a minute late. Billy Ray, the guy who’d threatened him earlier at the clothing issue window.
Great. Just freaking great.
A loud crack made Ash jump. A guard had struck the table next to his with a nightstick, rattling the plates and silverware, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. “Billy Ray! You know the rules. No talking except to ask somebody to please pass the salt. You’re officially on report, boy. Get up. A few days in the Hole will teach you how to remember the rules.”
The glare Billy Ray cast at Ash as he passed was not menacing—it was positively murderous. He made a mental note to stay the hell out of Billy Ray’s way.
He watched the guard escort Billy Ray out of the room just as every convict in the dining hall did, but then he saw something there that made his eyes widen and brought a smile to his lips. One of the guards, the youngest one from what he could tell, walked in and stood at the rear of the room, looking a little uncertain.
Ash figured it made sense, since the young guard was Grant! Grant would have as much an idea of what to do as a guard as he did as a prisoner.
Then it struck him, and the smile slipped from his face, and his eyebrows knit in a frown. Why the hell did Grant get to be a guard while he was a prisoner? How fair was that? Was Merlin playing favorites? Was it because Grant’s family had money and Ash’s family didn’t?
“Hey, you. You got a problem with one of my guards?”
Ash was still scowling when he looked up to see a guard glaring down at him. “No. Sorry. I’m good.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t like the look on your face. Looks like maybe you’re itching for trouble. Gotta prove yourself, new fish? Is that it? Show the rest of these boys what a big tough guy you are?”
“No, no, sir. That’s not it. I just thought—”
“You thought what? If you could think, you wouldn’t be in here. You’d be outside, being a, what do they call ’em? A contributing member of society. But you’re not, are you?”
Ash blinked, unsure of what the guard wanted his reply to be. “Um, no?”
“Damn straight no. Get up. I’m going to teach you what we do with smart-mouth guys like you.” The guard drew his blackjack from the loop at his belt. His smile was cruel and left no doubt how much he was going to enjoy educating Ash.
“Aw, now, Hocks, he’s just a kid. He’s a baby fish. He don’t know no better, see?” Al Capone spoke up. “Give him a break, huh? It’s his first day here.”
“You want it instead, Capone? You don’t get to call the shots in here. You’re just another con like everybody else. Maybe I need to pound a reminder into that thick skull of yours.” Hocks bared his teeth and brandished his blackjack.
Another guard, one who’d been standing in the back of the room with Grant, hurried to Ash’s table. Ash was glad to see Grant following him.
The second guard grabbed Hocks’s arm. “Hocks, stand down. Neither of these two did anything bad. It was Billy Ray who broke the rules, and he’s been taken care of.”
“No?” He pointed to Ash. “This one was looking like he was going to kill somebody, and he broke the silence rule. We all heard him.” He gestured toward Capone. “And this one thinks he’s king of the hill, talking like he’s in charge instead of a convict. They need to learn who’s boss.”
The second guard was having none of it. “The kid only spoke because you asked him a question. And Capone was only trying to calm you down.”
“Calm me down!” Hocks threw off the guard’s arm. “Since when do convicts run this prison?” He raised his arm high.
Ash saw the blackjack swinging in an arc toward Capone’s head, and all he could think of was the locket he knew was either somewhere on Capone’s body or in Capone’s cell. If Hocks caved in Capone’s head, how would they ever get the locket? Acting on instinct, he threw himself between Hocks and Capone, catching the blow on his shoulder.
The pain was instant, so big and powerful it cut off Ash’s breath and made the room spin crazily. He didn’t know if Hocks had broken his shoulder, but it sure felt that way. Broke it, splintered it, smashed it into bone mush. He heard a hoarse scream and realized it was his own. Then it was lights out, and he sank gratefully into the darkness.
Chapter Four
ANY EXCITEMENT Grant felt at seeing Ash sitting at a table in the dining room vanished when Hocks began shouting. Oh man. Leave it to Ash’s mouth to get him into trouble in the first five minutes he’s here. He trotted forward, threading his way between the tables of gawking convicts toward where Hocks and Lieutenant Merloch stood arguing.
As he got closer, he caught the name “Capone” and realized who the stocky convict was who sat next to Ash. It was Al Capone, the man whose locket they needed to get!
Hocks raised his baton as if to strike Capone when, to Grant’s horror, Ash threw himself in the way of the blow. He yelped and cringed as the blackjack made contact with Ash’s shoulder, knowing how much it must’ve hurt. His gaze met Ash’s just before the light went out in Ash’s eyes.
“Hocks, if you don’t get control of yourself, I’m going to call for the warden!” Merloch bellowed, his voice ringing in the dining room. “Enough is enough!”
