Hell and Gone

16

These walls are funny. First you hate ’em, then you get used to ’em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them.

—Morgan Freeman, The Shawshank Redemption

OVER THE NEXT dozen shifts Hardie waited, learning the patterns. There were four shifts to cover the twenty-four-hour day. Not that they truly measured days—they had timers strapped to their wrists, not watches. Six hours a shift, one guard per shift, with another serving as backup. Each “day,” the prisoners removed their masks and were photographed with a handheld plastic digital camera. The guards took those cameras to the uploading room, and the images were sent to somebody in the outside world. A proof of life. Meant for whom? Who knows.

Hardie himself was on Prisoner Zero detail, checking pee tubes and IV lines twice a day and listening to the creepy son of a bitch grunt and wheeze and laugh to himself. Or to no one in particular.

Guh-huh. Huh-huh. Huh-huh-huhhhhhhhhhhh.

No one asked for Zero’s proof of life. Which was a relief. Hardie wasn’t in any great rush to see what was under that mask.

Otherwise, prisoners were confined to their cells for twenty-three and a half hours a day. Some form of disgusting breakfast food, barely heated in a battered, rusty toaster oven, was served during two of the three shifts that were considered “day.”

Hardie again thought about those food deliveries. If there was a way in for food and medical supplies, there had to be a way out, no matter what Victor said. And what about trash? Trash had to go somewhere.

“Whatever isn’t used, we burn,” Victor said. “But we tend to reuse whatever we can.”

“Doing your part for the environment.”

“All these questions,” Victor said, a curious smile on his face. “You do realize this is a prison, Warden? Maximum security and all that? Do you think the designers of this place would leave anything to chance, and let some prisoner shimmy up a vent or something? Do you think the designers of this place haven’t seen Star Wars?”

And Victor was the friendliest guard, in his own passive-aggressive way. The other three eyed him with suspicion. Worry. Hostility. Uncertainty. Maybe they knew what he was up to. Maybe they could sense he wasn’t taking this seriously. They’d be right, of course.

Hardie needed to gain their trust somehow, put them at ease. He couldn’t escape if his own staff was keeping a closer eye on him than the actual prisoners.

God help him…

He needed to hold a staff meeting.

After the fourteenth (fifteenth?) shift, Hardie asked Victor to gather everyone in the break room.

“Why? What’s going on?” Victor asked.

“Just get everyone together.”

“No sneak preview, Warden?”

Hardie shook his head no. Victor actually seemed hurt, then shuffled off to gather the other three guards.

“For those of you who don’t speak English,” Hardie said, “my apologies. Maybe someone can translate for you.”

Everyone just…stared, as if they had all lost the ability to speak or understand English.

Christ, Hardie hated this shit. Because you know what? He was used to being the one in the back of the room, giving the ice-cold stare. He was never the leader of anything. Not for more than a decade, anyway, and back then it was different. Nate Parish had often goaded him, asking him why he didn’t go legit, join the force, wear the badge and all that. One good word from me, Nate said, and you’d be in. But Hardie demurred. He wasn’t a team kind of guy. He preferred to be freelance. A consultant. Whatever you want to call it. He’d often tell Nate: “Problem is, there’s no ‘fuck off’ in ‘team.’” And Nate would just shake his head and smile in that sly, knowing way of his.

Somewhere up in heaven, Nate’s sides were probably killing him from laughing so hard. Look at Charlie Hardie, trying to lead a meeting.

So, Nate, what would you do?

Give ’em something. Something little. A peace offering. Let ’em know you’re working for them behind the scenes.

“I finally spoke with the Prisonmaster.”

Some eyes perked up a little.

“And he’s working on the heat.”

Yankee sighed. “Yeah, he always says that. And then it takes weeks, or more, to change it. You can push him a little harder, you know. You’re the new guy. You’ve got a grace period. He’s just testing you, see how far you’ll go.”

Hardie ignored him. “Food’s changing, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Victor asked. “When will that little miracle happen, exactly?”

Hardie felt a little sucker-punched there. Victor was turning on him now?

“He’s working on it,” Hardie said.

“Same old shit,” Yankee muttered.

So much for giving ’em something, Nate. Maybe he should just get to the point.

“I want to talk about the breakout from a few days ago. What you people did to Horsehead. I don’t know what’s gone on in the past. And I really don’t give a shit. But that’s not going to happen anymore. Not without my authority. You understand me?”

No one spoke at first. The four of them seemed to be waiting him out, the same way you wait for some crazy crackhead with a gun to run out of bullets before you calmly step out from the shadows and put him down with two to the chest.

Yankee coughed and raised his hand briefly. “Warden.”

“Yeah.”

“Respectfully, how do you suggest we control the prisoners? When they escape, do we pat their hand, tell them that’s okay, everything will be all right?”

“No,” Hardie said. “But you don’t beat the living shit out of them, then nearly electrocute them to death.”

“The batons are designed to be nonlethal,” Yankee said quietly. “It’s impossible to kill someone with them.”

“Bullshit. I saw what you guys did. And like I said, I don’t care how it was around here before, I don’t care what the previous wardens did, I want it to stop.”

“So,” Yankee said, drawing the word out until it almost purred. “The next escape attempt we’re supposed to just hang back until you tell us what to do? That will be interesting. What if you’re asleep? Or taking a shit? You expect us to just wait until you’re done?”

“Yeah, I do.”

The moment the words left Hardie’s mouth he realized it was a tactical error. Because what he said was stupid. See, Nate, this is why you can’t put me in front of a room. I’m not a leader. I’m not a policy maker. I’m a doer. You know that better than anybody.

“Bool-sheet,” X-Ray said. The German guard may not have been able to speak English, but he could understand enough of it.

“No, that’s actually brilliant,” Victor said. “While we wait, maybe the loose prisoner can help free his friends. And then they can come after us and kill us all, and the Prisonmaster can send down another group of guards with yet another lame-ass warden for them to torment.”

“Enough!” said Yankee. “We’re ignoring the real problem here, and that’s the obvious plant among the staff. Horsehead didn’t just walk through solid bars. He had help.”

“Uh-huh,” Whiskey said.

“Listen to me: those cells cannot be opened from the inside. It’s impossible. I’ve checked them. They can only be opened by a guard. So you’re telling me these cell doors just pop open all by themselves? Presto, bingo? Like magic?

“What are you saying?” Hardie asked.

“It’s obvious. Someone in this room is collaborating with the prisoners, trying to engineer a revolt.”

“Who?”

Yankee looked away. “I’m not that insane.”

That’s when Hardie realized that the staff distrust didn’t apply just to him. The whole guard staff didn’t trust each other. When something went wrong, like a prisoner busting out of his cell, they all started looking at each other.

“Nobody’s going to say it out loud,” said Yankee. “But we all know who’s responsible.”

“Who?” Hardie asked. He felt stupid again—repeating who like a goddamned owl. Wasn’t this his meeting? What had happened?

Yankee now stood, smiled, and pointed at Victor. “Anybody ask Victor there where he was right before Horsehead broke free?”

“What?” Victor said, now sliding up to a full sitting position. “Fuck you, mate! Have you lost your mind?”

The room jolted, as though someone had sent a current up through the very floor.

“You haven’t told him, have you?” Yankee asked.

“Told me what?”

Hardie gave himself credit. At least he hadn’t asked: Who?

“Nothing,” Victor said.

“Nothing my ass.” Yankee turned to address Hardie. “Your boy there, your lead guard? He’s real close with one of the prisoners.”

“Shut up.”

“No, it’s true. Prisoner Three. You haven’t heard him speak yet, but when he does, it’ll be with an Australian accent. That’s because the prisoner and Victor over there used to be partners in the outside world. Oh, yeah.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m warning you! Am I the only person who remembers the rules in this place?”

“Ol’ Victor there’s sworn his allegiance up and down, renounced his old buddy and everything, but none of us ever believed him. And we think he’s taking advantage of your arrival to make his play.”

“We need to question him,” Whiskey said.

Yankee looked around the room. “Any objections? Shall we finally get to the bottom of this bullshit and stop these escape attempts?”

Victor slid out of his chair and started to move toward the door. Yankee moved to block the door while Whiskey and X-Ray removed their batons from their belts. Victor, back now against the wall, darted his eyes around nervously. The man knew he was outnumbered; his play for the door was more a reflex than a real plan. He muttered, “I don’t believe this shit” to himself. And stole a glance at Hardie.

“Do it,” Yankee said. “Warden, consider this a favor. A little welcome present. Taking care of a problem so you won’t have to.” Sparks popped from the end of Whiskey’s baton. They moved in…

“No.”

Hardie, cane and all, put himself between Victor and the other guards. He didn’t know how to lead, or motivate, or any of that shit. But he wasn’t going to let these people devolve into savagery.

He was no fool; he knew this would end badly. It was three on two, and he was lame and weaponless. Still, Hardie could feel the lizard part of his brain twitching. Scanning the room, building a futile plan of attack. If he could count on Victor to take out X-Ray, maybe he could use his cane and whip Whiskey across the shins, take her down. If it breaks, so be it. He’d take the jagged edge and use it as a knife…

Then something strange happened.

All three of them—X-Ray, Whiskey, and Yankee—smiled. They even started to applaud.

From behind, Victor slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s all right, mate. We just had to know.”

Later, Victor showed up in Hardie’s room, hands hidden behind his back. “Got a little surprise for you.” Victor revealed his treasure: two bottles of nonalcoholic beer. Left over from a case that was sent down a long, long time ago, Victor explained. He’d hoarded them away. Hardie stared at the bottle before accepting it. “Near beer sucks,” he said.

“It does suck,” Victor explained, “but it’s better than no beer at all.”

Hardie took one, twisted off the top—of course it would be a twist-off—and took a swig. The beer tasted like it had skunked sometime around the turn of the century. If you’d been given one in a blind taste test, you’d be hard-pressed to identify the liquid as anything close to beer. Hardie drank it anyway, knowing that he’d need to down at least a case of these to feel even the slightest buzz. The near beer made Hardie miss the real thing all the more. But he didn’t say anything to Victor. He didn’t want to offend his new bestest friend.

After the meeting broke up, Victor had stayed behind and explained:

“Really sorry about that, but we had to be sure. A new warden comes down here, and right away he’s aligning himself with the prisoners…well, you can see how that can be troublesome. They don’t tell us anything, other than that a new warden is coming down. You understand, right?”

Hardie had nodded, his nerves still jumpy from the confrontation. Sometimes the anticipation of an ass-beating could be worse than the actual ass-beating.

“But you stuck up for me—and you just won major points in everyone’s eyes. Just like I told them. I knew you’d be all right. They only send the best down here, and I suspect you’re better than anyone realizes.”

“Thanks,” Hardie had said, then made a beeline for his room. He wanted to sleep. Think everything through with a fresh brain. So far, that hadn’t happened. Every time he woke up, he felt more confused, more fuzzy. There was no sleep that left him feeling refreshed. Even when he slept through two shifts in a row.

What was this place? Was he really down here to reform it?

Now Victor was here with his near beer peace offering, and in the mood to talk.

“How was that?” he asked, a big grin on his face, tipping his own bottle of near beer toward Hardie’s.

“Good,” Hardie lied.

“I wanted to level with you up front, but we have to be cautious,” Victor continued. “Prisoner Three was indeed my partner. We worked in Syd…well, you know I’m not allowed to tell you anything. Rules are still rules. But we were close. Completely different in skills and styles, mind you, but I considered him a blood brother. I didn’t learn his true side, the side he kept hidden behind a human mask, until it was too late. Sometimes I think I’m here to keep an eye on him. My own personal burden, you know? As if he’s still my responsibility, even though he’s locked up here forever.”

Hardie nodded. He’d had a partner once. A blood brother. And things had not turned out the way he expected.

“Anyway,” Victor continued, “that’s why I don’t have a cute nickname for him. His real name is bad enough. It burns a hole in my mind as it is. Better to think of him as a number. Nothing more.”

“What did he do?”

“Eh?”

Hardie looked at Victor. “What did he do, to deserve being here?”

Victor took another swig of beer, stared off at the far wall of Hardie’s room. He swished the beer around in his mouth before he worked it down his throat.

“You know I can’t say anything. But think of the worst kind of betrayal, at the worst possible moment…and then multiply that by a thousand. The man’s a monster. He had been the whole time. And I’m ashamed it took me so long to recognize that.”

Victor seemed convinced that his former pal was a monster. But monster was a word that was thrown around a lot. What was he—a cold-blooded hit man? A secret serial killer who dressed up in a black leather gimp suit and sliced up entire families in suburban houses?

See, the thing that bothered Hardie the most was that he had no files on these “prisoners.” There was no rap sheet, no news accounts. They were just human beings, boxed up for someone’s convenience. But whose? And why? The Industry, as Mann called it, certainly had enemies.

Or was he simply allowing Prisoner Two to color his thinking? Maybe she was every bit as diabolical as Victor claimed she was. Wouldn’t be tough to dig up old newspaper articles about Hardie’s exploits in Philadelphia involving his good friend Nate Parish—and, by extension, FBI agent Deke Clark. She could be one of those savants who easily matches names to faces. She could be a brilliant actress, expressing surprise when Hardie popped out of that shower drain—and instantly knowing what to say to make him doubt everything.

There was, of course, a way to find out.

Before Victor left, Hardie gestured for him to come closer. “Now that I’ve cleared my name, I really need a favor.”

“That’s the last of the beer, I swear.”

“Two favors, actually.”

“Okay, let’s hear them.”

“I need a weapon.”

Victor stared at him for a moment, a smile almost breaking out on his face before he turned serious again. “A weapon? For what?”

“For the second favor, which you’ll hear about in a second.”

Victor gave it a moment to roll around in his mind. “I don’t know what to tell you, mate. Weapons are rationed out here. You’re given what you’re given, and that’s it. You’ll notice I don’t carry one of those electrified baton things. That’s because I broke mine during an altercation, and the Prisonmaster didn’t see fit to send me a replacement. You’re not going to find any other guards willing to give up their weapons, either. Even to you.”

“So I’ve got no options.”

“You’ve got your cane. Maybe that was intended to double as a weapon.”

“Sure. I can poke a prisoner to death.”

“And…oh, hell. What do you need a weapon for?”

“I’ve got to have something,” Hardie pleaded. “Come on. I feel defenseless down here. What if I get into a jam?”

Again Victor let Hardie’s words sink in, but this time he was looking at Hardie with a guilty expression. Finally Victor reached around, fished something out of his back pocket, handed it to Hardie. It looked like a black pen, complete with a pocket clip. Only the tip didn’t feature a rollerball or anything else that carried ink.

“What the hell’s this?” Hardie asked. “A pen?”

“No, sir. That’s a Smith & Wesson tactical pen. Police and military version, which is longer, and skips the screw-on cap.”

“This is your idea of a weapon?”

“Like I said, I lost my baton. Here. Let me show you.”

Victor took the pen back, holding it up as though he were a spokesmodel. “Made from aircraft aluminum. This end’s the fun end. Jam it into a nerve bundle, your opponent goes down. Jam it into an eye, no more 3-D movies.” He pulled off the cap on the other end, which took a bit of effort. “Other side, ballpoint pen. You can fill out your tax forms. Genius, isn’t it?”

“A pen?”

“Best I can do.”

Hardie took it anyway, slid it into his right trouser pocket. Great. Now he was fully prepared to cross a street and fill out a parking ticket. “Thanks.”

“What’s the second favor, for which you require a weapon?”

“I need you to sneak me into a cell.”