by Dakota Chase
“Shit.” Hocks looked as if he was going to hit Capone, or maybe Ash again, but then he jammed his blackjack through the loop on his belt. “Get this piece of crap out of my dining room.”
“It’s not your dining room. You didn’t make lieutenant yet. And if you keep beating the inmates, you’re not likely to. You know how the warden feels about stuff like this.” Merloch snarled at Hocks. “However, I am a lieutenant, and you’ll speak to me with some goddamn respect, got it?” He motioned to Grant. “Come help me. We need to get this con over to medical.” He addressed the remaining guards. “The rest of you, get these men back to the cells for afternoon count. Then get ’em out to their assignments in the shops.” He leveled a sharp gaze at Hocks. “You get yourself together or sign out for the day. Understood?”
Hocks nodded, but it was obvious he wasn’t happy about being lectured in front of the convicts and other guards. “Yeah.”
Merloch glared at him. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.” It sounded as if each word was being pulled out of Hocks’s mouth like a rotten tooth.
Grant grabbed Ash under the arms, while Merloch grabbed Ash’s feet. Together, they carried him out of the dining hall and up Broadway, then under the west Gun Gallery to the stairs leading up to the medical unit.
By the time they reached the set of rooms that served Alcatraz as a hospital, the muscles in Grant’s arms and back were practically screaming. Ash weighed a ton. He was seriously putting Ash on a freaking diet when they got back. What the hell had Ash been eating? Rocks?
They entered the first room, which held five hospital beds. The beds were neatly made with crisp white linens. All the beds in the unit were empty, and they laid Ash on the one closest to the door.
It didn’t look like any hospital Grant had ever been in before. There were no machines, no oxygen tanks, no medical personnel walking around in squeaky white shoes. Instead, there were five beds, a single scale, a glass cabinet containing various jars and bottles, and a white, tri-fold screen in one corner.
A man entered the room dressed in a suit and tie, with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. It was the only indication that he might be a doctor. “What happened here?”
Merloch nodded to him. “Doc Kearney, good to see you, sir. This inmate fell in the dining hall. Hit his shoulder.” He removed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and used them to cuff Ash’s uninjured arm to the metal frame of the hospital bed.
Grant frowned at the lie. He opened his mouth to correct Merloch, but a sharp look from Merloch silenced him. It wouldn’t do Ash any good for Grant to get into a fight with Merloch. Besides, the doctor was certain to believe Merloch over a guard he’d never seen before.
Or maybe not.
Kearney smirked. “Seems to me your prisoners are getting more and more accident prone of late, Lieutenant Merloch. Am I correct in surmising Officer Hocks was also in the dining hall when this convict slammed his shoulder into the floor?” He waved a hand. “Never mind. It’ll be in my medical report. I’m sure the warden will take matters well in hand. Go on, get back to your posts.”
“He’s going to be okay, right?” Grant broached the subject that should’ve been foremost in everyone’s mind but seemed to be shoved to the side in favor of cellblock politics.
Merloch snarled at him. “It’s just his shoulder. He’s fine.”
“Oh, and here I thought I was the physician.” Kearney sniffed at Merloch. There was no doubt in Grant’s mind that Kearney regarded Merloch as little more than a thug in a uniform. “I’ll examine him thoroughly and treat him accordingly.”
A deep scowl creased Merloch’s face, but he didn’t say anything further to Kearney. Instead, he spun on his heel and motioned for Grant to head out of the medical unit. They walked in silence, although Merloch’s anger was almost palpable. It seemed to come off him in waves, and that worried Grant. Between Merloch’s simmering fury and Hocks’s outright abuse, things in the cellblock could get ugly fast.
Plus, he was worried sick about Ash, who remained unconscious. Had he hit his head when he fell? Grant didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure. What if Ash wasn’t just unconscious? What if he was in a coma?
He glanced back over his shoulder as he followed Merloch out of the medical unit and back toward the cellblock. There was only one way to find out—he was going to have to sneak back after his shift and see for himself.
“You new recruits are all the same. Always so concerned about the inmates. Smarten up, that’s what you need to do. These cons would just as soon stick a knife in your gut as look at you.” Merloch spun around and glared at Grant. “And a word of warning. Don’t ever speak out of turn again. You got a question about an inmate? You ask me. Nobody else. Got it?”
“Um, yeah, sure. I got it.” Grant nodded. There was no doubt in his mind he’d need to be uber careful from here on out. Merloch could get him booted off the island, and then there’d be no way for him to get to Ash or steal the locket from Capone to get them both home. They’d be stuck in time, and Ash would be condemned to living as a convict until whatever length sentence on his file was served.
And here they thought being sent to juvenile hall would be the worst thing that could happen to them.
He swallowed a groan and forced himself to follow Merloch down the stairs to the corridor known as Times Square. This area ran the length of the cellblock and overlooked A, B, and C Blocks. It opened to Broadway, Seedy Street, and Michigan Boulevard, giving the guards a clear view of everything and everyone in the cellblock. Since no guns were allowed on the cellblock floor, the guards in the gallery were tasked with keeping order by watching for trouble. In the rare instance when force was necessary, they could and would shoot to kill. Grant was not anxious to be placed among their ranks. The only experience he had with guns was of the video game variety, and he doubted that would stand him in good stead now.
Merloch gestured above their heads to the Gun Gallery. “It’s policy to assign new recruits to posts that don’t deal directly with the convicts. You’re assigned to the Gun Gallery for now, where I can keep my eye on you.”
Well, of course he’d be assigned to the Gun Gallery. It was almost as if Merloch could read his mind. If there was a worst-case scenario, somehow Merlin would find a way to plop Ash and him right smack in the middle of it. Why the hell couldn’t anything ever be easy?
Grant nodded and followed Merloch up the stairs leading to the gallery, where he was introduced to the guard already on duty there. “This is Officer Spencer. He’ll tell you all you need to know about patrolling the gallery.”
Without another word, Merloch headed back downstairs. Spencer wasted no time. “Okay, it’s easy. You got to go down to the office to get your weapon and the keys, if you’re first on duty. We’re only up here when the prisoners are in their cells or walking to meals or to the shops or the recreation yard. You’re new, so you’ll probably pull the graveyard shift, so you’ll be here for a full eight hours overnight. It’ll be mostly quiet when they’re asleep. Some get night terrors and wake up screaming. You’ll get used to it.”
Grant didn’t think he could ever get used to the sound of grown men screaming in their cells, but he said nothing, just nodded as if he agreed.
“Never turn your back on ’em. That’s the key. You never know what they’re gonna do. Got the worst of the worst in here, you know. Murderers. Rapists. Sodomites.”
Grant blinked. “What?”
Spencer’s lips curled over his teeth. “Yeah, if you can believe it. Got five or six of ’em in here. We keep ’em separate, of course. For obvious reasons.” He pointed to a cell toward the end of the row. “Alan Hood is down there. Five years, caught polishing knobs in Honolulu. Then there’s Joseph Harrison. He was in the Army, got caught bumping rifles with another soldier. Disgusting, huh? He got five years too.”
Oh my God. Sodomy? These men were in prison just because they had sex with another man? He knew it happened, understood gay rights wa
s a relatively new movement, that LGBTQ people were still fighting for equality and protection under the law in the United States in his own day, but prison? Spencer put them in the same category as murderers and rapists! It didn’t seem possible, yet he knew it was. It was horrifying but true, and it brought the importance of fighting for queer rights home for him, made it real. He had to bite his tongue hard to keep from telling Spencer exactly what he thought of the situation.
“So, yeah, got to keep your eyeballs peeled, kid. Now me, personally, I ain’t never had to fire my weapon in here, but I know men who have, so you got to be ready just in case. And if you need to fire, shoot to kill. It’s less complicated that way. Dead and done, am I right?”
“Oh yeah, you’re right. Sure.” Grant didn’t think Spencer caught the sarcasm in his voice, which was a good thing, because he really didn’t need to make any more enemies at Alcatraz. Not that he’d ever consider being anything but cordial with Spencer from now on, not knowing how he felt about gay men. In fact, he’d just as soon not need to exchange another word with the man, but he had to do what he had to do to get out of Alcatraz and back home.
“Okay. So, you won’t work tonight, but I bet they have you scheduled starting tomorrow. Best if you went down to the office and found out. Plus, they’ll need to show you to your quarters. Dinner is served at the mess hall. The office will tell you where it’s at.”
Grant nodded and left as quickly as he could. He’d run to the office, get his schedule, find out where he was sleeping, and then sneak back to medical to find out about Ash.
THE SLEEPING quarters for bachelor correctional officers—he’d been instructed in the office that, as per the warden, there were no “guards” on Alcatraz, only “correctional officers”—were dorms, reminding Grant of his and Ash’s room back at Stanton’s, except here each room had two sets of bunkbeds with space for four men. He was directed to the top bunk on the righthand side of the room and given two drawers in a dresser along with space in a standalone closet.
In the office he’d been given a key to a locker. Inside, he found a spare uniform, a pair of pants, two shirts, and several pair of socks and underwear. He also found a sidearm, a rifle, and ammunition for both. He left the guns in the locker, grateful he didn’t need to touch them yet, but grabbed the clothing. Now he hung the uniform in his side of the closet and folded the rest of the clothes, putting them neatly in the drawers. That done, he returned to the prison.
He was confronted by the guard stationed at the entrance. Grant was surprised; he hadn’t anticipated one guard stopping another and questioning his right to be on the cellblock. “You can’t be due on the gallery, yet. Shift change ain’t for another hour.”
“Um, no. I need to go to the office and ask a few questions. And there’s a paper I need to sign.” He mentally crossed his fingers and hoped his lie would hold water.
Luckily, it did. The guard didn’t seem suspicious. In fact, Grant got the impression he wasn’t the first to need to go sign something at the office. “Okay. Be quick about it, though. The office closes in fifteen minutes and don’t open again until Monday morning.”
“Will do. Thanks.” He trotted past the guard into the cellblock but bypassed the office and headed down Broadway toward the dining hall. He kept his head down, ignoring the curious whispers from inmates who noticed the new guard hurrying down the corridor. When he reached the other side of the building, he made a beeline for the stairs that led up to the medical unit.
His heart was pounding. He still had no idea how badly Ash had been hurt. Would he find Ash alert and okay? Or would Ash be unconscious… or worse? Would he be there at all?
He practically burst into the medical unit, skidding to a stop in front of the bed he’d laid Ash on when he and Merloch brought Ash in.
The bed was empty, stripped clean of its bedding, and Ash was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Five
ASH WOKE up handcuffed to a bed with a strange man palpating his stomach. He jumped and immediately regretted it—a sharp pain sliced through his shoulder drawing a groan from his throat. He instinctively curled up as if trying to protect himself.
“Oh dear. Yes, that must hurt. You took quite a blow on the shoulder. Luckily, no lasting damage was done. You’ll be right as rain in a few days. I’ll give you aspirin for pain, then it’s off to your cell.”
He looked up, trying not to move too much. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Kearney. You’re in the medical unit. Do you remember what happened?” Kearney cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’m told you tripped over your own two feet, fell, and hit your shoulder.”
Ash blinked. “I didn’t fall. Hocks tried to hit Al Capone with his nightstick, and I got in the way.”
Kearney nodded. “I thought so. Nobody likes to talk about correctional officers striking inmates, but it happens. This injury couldn’t have happened in a fall.” He shrugged. “In any case, it could’ve been worse. Do you remember hitting your head?”
“No. I remember getting hit, then everything went black.”
“Probably shock caused by the pain. Knocked you out for a while. You’ll be fine now.” He turned away and walked to a glass cabinet. A moment later he was back with two pills and a glass of water. “Here. Swallow these. Then I’ll go call for an officer to escort you back to your cell.”
Ash took the pills, grateful for them even if they were only aspirin, then lay back against the pillow. His shoulder ached, but that wasn’t his biggest worry. Hocks was a bully, and bullies had notoriously long memories, at least in Ash’s experience. Ash had impeded Hocks’s attempt to beat Al Capone, one of the most infamous prisoners at Alcatraz. That probably embarrassed Hocks, and Hocks didn’t seem the type of man who would let a slight like that go unanswered. Sure, Ash took a good blow to the shoulder, but it was accidental. Hocks would want to make sure Ash hurt intentionally.
Plus, he still didn’t know where Grant was. He’d spotted Grant briefly in the dining hall, which gave him heart—at least he knew Grant was here on Alcatraz—but he had no idea where Grant had gotten to since. He was surprised when he woke up and didn’t see Grant in the room. He would’ve thought Grant would be there, making sure he was okay. First he felt disappointed, but then he got a little angry. What the hell was Grant thinking, leaving him when he was out cold? Didn’t that knucklehead have any feelings for him at all? Didn’t he care?
Ash decided it was a good thing Grant wasn’t in the room because if he was, Ash might just bash the asshat over the head with the nearest bedpan.
He stewed for a while, feeling sorry for himself and pissed off at Grant until another guard came into the room. It wasn’t Grant, but it wasn’t Hocks, either, for which Ash was grateful. The guard uncuffed Ash and motioned for him to take the lead walking back to the cellblock.
Nothing had changed inside his cell, at least not from what Ash could see. It was still tiny, still drab, dreary, and drafty. At least Hocks wasn’t in there waiting for him. He sat down on his cot and tried to ignore the metallic scream as the guard slid the door shut and locked it.
Then he was alone, and the silence around him seemed deafening. Aside from an occasional cough, sneeze, or fart from somewhere in the cellblock, there was no sound. It was positively eerie.
“Hey, kid.”
He started at the sound of a whisper coming from the cell next door. Ash stood and moved to the corner of the room closest to where he thought the whisper was coming from—cell 181. Al Capone’s cell. “Yeah?”
Al’s answering whisper was barely audible. “Keep your voice down! You want us both to get thrown in the Hole?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Listen, I just wanted to say thank you for what you did today. That big gavoon would’ve bashed my brains in if it wasn’t for you.”
“Glad I could do it.”
“You okay? You get hurt bad?”
“Nah. Just a bruise.” It hurt like hell, but Ash didn’t think admitting to pain
was a smart move when talking to Public Enemy Number One.
“Good. Still, I remember my friends. Just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks, Mr. Capone.”
“Mr. Capone!” There was a soft chuckle. “Now, there’s something I ain’t heard in a long while. You can call me Al, kid.”
“Um, okay. Thanks… Al.”
Ash smiled, feeling a step closer to getting his mitts on Al’s locket. Then silence returned to the cellblock and his smile faded. After a few minutes when Ash was sure Al wasn’t going to start talking again, he returned to his cot. This no talking rule is stupid, and it’s going to be really hard to remember. It’s even worse than at school. You talk in class, and you get yelled at. Do it more than once, and maybe you’ll get detention. I don’t know what the Hole is, but I’m betting it’s not an air-conditioned library where I can hide my phone under the table and play Angry Birds while the teacher corrects papers. Maybe I better take a look at that booklet and see what else I need to know about this place before I get myself in even worse trouble than I’m already in.
He took another look around his spartan cell. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.
The booklet was thin, printed on cheap paper. This wasn’t a glossy, colorful magazine. This was a no-nonsense, bare-bones directive. Ash thought it looked like something you’d find in some Army guy’s footlocker. A military manual, maybe.
“Institution Rules and Regulations, United States Penitentiary, Alcatraz, California. Ooh, riveting. I wonder when they’ll make it into a movie?” Ash snorted softly as he read the cover. He opened the book and read the first page, which contained only one paragraph. “This set of Institutional Regulations is issued to you as Institutional Equipment. You are required to keep it in your cell at all times.”
The table of contents was next, and it blew Ash’s mind. Good Conduct, Privileges, Disciplinary Action, Contraband…. Okay, I get all that. But the booklet included things like Bathroom Rules, Haircuts and Shaves, Medical Attention, Use of Typewriters, and something called a Good Time Law.
