by C. J. Box
This was the first time she’d slept hard since they’d put her in the hole. The reason, she suspected, was that she was physically tired. Either that, or God forbid, she was getting used to being down here.
She was tired because, for the last day and a half, she’d spent every spare minute chipping away at the concrete-like compacted clay of the wall, trying to loosen a rock she’d discovered. The rock was round and smooth like a river rock but she had yet to find out how large it was. When she’d first uncovered the rock, the surface was no bigger around than a quarter. But when she began to dig around it with her fingernails, she found out it was much larger. Her fingernails were now sore and bleeding.
She’d used eating utensils after meals to dig deeper, using the tip of the butter knife and the handle of a spoon. More progress was made with the utensils, but she had to clean and return them so no one would suspect what she was doing. They always counted the silverware after they raised the bucket.
The face of the rock was getting bigger all the time. Her fear was that it was massive—too big to remove and too heavy to do her any good. Her hope was that it was medium-sized, maybe the size of a softball, and could be used as a lethal weapon.
Maybe they’d heard her digging and had come to punish her, she thought. But why after midnight?
The hasp snicked and the doors opened quietly. She looked up to see a large square filled with stars, and she felt a breath of cold air from outside.
Bull whispered, “Hey.”
She closed her eyes and felt her heart race.
He said, “I’m puttin’ the ladder down.”
Not now, she thought. It was too soon. Not until she got the rock out of the wall.
She whispered back, “Bull, are you sure about this? What if somebody sees you?”
He snorted and said, “We went out tonight. Cora Lee is passed out on her fat ass and snoring like a hippo.” He chuckled at his comparison.
Moonlight glinted off the rails of the aluminum ladder and she could sense it coming down. She shifted her position so the feet wouldn’t hit her on her legs or pin her blankets to the floor. Then she was up, standing, rubbing her eyes. Her face was gritty with dirt and her mouth tasted like metal.
The ladder groaned as Bull descended rung by rung. If only she could yank that rock out of the wall . . .
“I’ve been . . . stoked . . . ever since you . . . told me you was lonely,” he whispered. The exertion of climbing down made him short of breath. Exertion, plus gallons of alcohol. She could smell it on him as he descended. He was less sure-footed on the ladder than usual.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim starlight and she could see that even though he was “stoked,” he hadn’t forgotten the pistol in his waistband or the hot-shot that hung around his neck on a cord.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to work, she thought. Her hints were supposed to have gnawed at him over several days until he finally gave in. By then she’d be ready with the rock. She’d wait until he turned his back to her to climb up the ladder and she’d bash in his skull. But here he was, the same day she’d set her plan in motion. And the rock was still in the wall and as stuck as when she’d discovered it.
“Bull, are you sure about this?” she said.
His boots were on the floor now and he turned and held out something to her.
“I brung you this,” he said. It was a long-stemmed rose, the kind they sold for a dollar in bars. He’d probably bought it for Cora Lee and took it back while she was passed out.
She reached out for it and their hands brushed together. She guessed he liked that.
“Thank you,” she lied.
He towered over her. Now that he was close, she could smell the stew of alcohol on his breath and cigarette smoke on his clothing. Then he was placing his huge hands on her shoulders, stroking her.
A moment later, he reached down and grasped her wrist.
“Here, look at what you do to me,” he said as he pressed her palm to his groin. He was hard and huge beneath the rough denim fabric.
“What do you think about that?”
She purred. She didn’t know what else to do.
“Want to see it out?”
She thought, I’d like to rip it out by the root. But she purred again instead.
“Now, don’t try nothin’ stupid,” he said, “’cause you’re in for a treat. First time Cora Lee saw it, she said, ‘So that’s why they call you Bull.’”
He chuckled deeply at this.
His other hand left her shoulder and she heard him unzip and start to fumble with his underwear.
“There,” he said. “Where’s your hand?”
She closed her eyes as he guided her hand to him. It was massive and hot.
He said, “I suppose you’re used to this size.”
Before she could reply, Liv was bathed in harsh white light. She flinched and turned away.
Cora Lee screamed, “You fuckin’ no-good cheatin’ son of a bitch! I knew I’d find you down here with that whore!”
“Now, Cora Lee,” Bull said, stepping back and quickly stuffing his penis back in his pants and zipping up. “It ain’t what you think.”
“It sure as hell is!” she howled. “I ought to go get the shotgun and kill you both right now.”
“Cora Lee . . .”
“I’ll shoot you so many times, you’ll be nothin’ but a grease spot, you cheatin’ bastard.”
“Cora Lee, she lured me down here,” Bull said, squinting his eyes against the beam of her flashlight. His voice was whiny.
“Right, and she held a gun to your head and made you show her your dick, you no-good cheatin’ scumbag. I’m comin’ back with that shotgun.”
She started to yank the ladder out, but Bull realized what was happening and reached out and grabbed a rung. Bull and Cora Lee tugged drunkenly back and forth on the ladder for a half minute, Cora Lee screaming more obscenities at him the whole time.
Finally, Bull’s strength won out and the feet of the ladder crashed to the floor of the cellar. Before he climbed up the ladder, he shot his arm toward Liv, threatening her with the hot-shot not to try and follow him. But he mistimed the threat and the hot-shot crackled when it touched her neck and the jolt threw her on her back.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. Then he went up much faster than he’d come down.
“I’m gonna kill you, you cheatin’ douche bag!” Cora Lee yelled.
When Bull got to the top, he pulled the ladder up so hard it went airborne and clanged on the ground as it landed. Liv trembled and hugged herself.
He leaned down over the opening and said, “Now see what you’ve done,” and closed both doors so hard they sounded like gunshots.
With her eyes clamped shut, Liv heard Cora Lee and Bull go at each other over a mild buzzing in her ears. Cora Lee called him names Liv had never heard strung together before, and Bull kept shouting that he’d been tricked, that he only loved one woman, that he must have drunk too much and let the wrong head do all the “thinkin’.”
After five minutes of shouting, an actual gunshot rang out.
Then silence.
Brenda’s voice: “Shut up, the two of you, and go to bed. We’ll sort this all out in the morning.” She spoke calmly but with authority.
Cora Lee said, “I found him down there with his dick in her hand. The ladder was down and they was writhing around—”
“I said, shut up,” Brenda said, barely raising her voice. “Or the next shot won’t be in the air.”
“Okay, Ma,” Bull said. Liv thought he sounded like he was ten years old and had been caught stealing from her purse.
“I ain’t sleepin’ with him in the trailer,” Cora Lee spat.
“You can sleep on our couch.”
“C’mon, Cora Lee,” Bull whined.
Cora Lee said, “It’
s over, you cheater. Over!”
“I bet the two of you woke up Dallas,” Brenda said, sounding sad.
—
LIV WAITED. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the cellar doors opened and Brenda, or Cora Lee, or Bull appeared holding the shotgun. There was no place to hide.
But they never came. There was nothing but silence until the coyote came back and sniffed around the opening.
—
FEELING SLOWLY RETURNED to Liv’s body, but there was still a buzz in her ears. Two wounds, like a vampire bite, stung on her neck above her collarbone.
As her heartbeat returned to normal, she realized her hand hurt. She opened it to see that she had gripped the stem of the rose so hard the thorns had pierced her flesh. Her palm was sticky with coagulating blood.
Then, in the dark and with the stiff stem of the rose, she resumed chipping away the clay that held the rock.
Maybe she’d get it out by dawn.
18
Timber Cates sat alone at a round Formica table under a television set that was mounted high on the pale green cinder-block wall of the inmate visiting room. He had dark eyes and hollowed-out cheeks, and his prison uniform hung on his thin, tight frame. His dirty-blond hair was buzz-cut and the three-inch knife scar on his scalp showed through. When he got angry, which was often, the scar turned from white to pink.
Although his head and shoulders were still, his right leg kept a manic rhythm of its own under the table and he kneaded his fingers together on the tabletop. He exuded quiet menace. No one came near him. It was an aura and a look he’d worked on for years and still practiced in the polished-steel mirror of his cell. He could go for minutes without blinking his eyes.
A couple of small kids had wandered over ten minutes earlier, but when they saw him up close, they turned and ran back to their mother on the other side of the room. The mother shot him a disapproving look for upsetting her children and he didn’t flinch. She turned away with a visible shiver and whispered something to her inmate partner. He refused to follow her gesture because he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Timber Cates.
Timber was fine with that kind of reaction from visitors and fellow inmates. He was used to it and it now afforded him a zone of peace.
It was Sunday, family day in the contact room at the Wyoming State Penitentiary in Rawlins and he was waiting for his family to arrive. He looked nervously at the clock on the wall above the reception desk, where a guard sat monitoring the inmates and the visitors in the room. The guard was old, fat, and bored. He had a comb-over that started an inch above his left ear. The guard would call out, “You two—that’s enough,” whenever an inmate and his woman hugged too long or made a display of their longing for each other. Hand-holding was permitted. Kissing, hugging, and fondling were not. Testosterone seemed to hang thick in the air like smoke from burnt meat on a barbecue.
Sometimes, inmates made deals with each other where one would distract the guard so the other could grope a quick feel or jam his woman’s hand down his pants. They tried to do it out of view of the cameras. Even if the guard didn’t see them, someone in the video room usually did. By the time the guy in the video room sent a message to the desk guard, it was too late.
Timber Cates didn’t participate in bullshit like that. He had nothing to gain from it. The only female who ever visited him was his mother.
—
THEY CAME into the room fifteen minutes late. His father was wearing his gray C&C Sewer uniform shirt and a stained trucker hat he probably didn’t even know was back in style. As always, his father kept his head down and looked furtively around the room. He was embarrassed to be here and felt put-upon by having to surrender his watch, pocketknife, coins, and anything else that was metal in the lobby.
Brenda trailed him. She had on a large print dress and heavy shoes. Her hair was up and looked welded to her head. She saw Timber first, and jabbed Eldon in the ribs and pointed him out. They waded through the children playing with toys on the floor and made their way to him.
Eldon sat heavily and leaned back in his plastic chair as if trying to maintain as much distance as possible from his son. He looked tired and beaten. Four hours in the pickup with Brenda could do that to a man, Timber thought.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” he said.
“Sorry we’re late,” Brenda responded, settling her bulk into a flimsy plastic chair directly across the table from him. “We had a long night. Bull and Cora Lee were going at it again. We had to stay long enough this morning to make sure they wouldn’t wake up and remember the fight and try to kill each other.”
“Cora Lee,” Timber said derisively. “She’s a real c—”
“Don’t say that word,” Brenda snapped. “You know I hate that word.”
Timber bit his lip.
“You were right about Nate Romanowski’s release from the feds,” she said.
He nodded. “Guards talk to guards and things get around real fast in here. Some of us knew they were cutting him loose before he even did.”
“You’re wearing a blue shirt,” Brenda said, studying him. “That’s good.”
Timber nodded. In prison, new inmates wore yellow, death row wore white, violent felons wore orange, and the general population wore blue or red. Up until a month ago, Timber had worn orange.
“So you’re keepin’ your nose clean,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“You’re so pale and thin. Are you eating right?”
“The food is shit.”
“You need to eat it anyway. I wish they would let me bring you some home cooking. You need to get strong again.”
“I’ve been working out,” Timber told her.
She said, “We got a letter stating you might be released tomorrow. Have they said anything to you about it?”
He scowled. “Nothin’ official, but they moved me to a new cell. It’s how they do it—they move you to a kind of holding area while the paperwork clears. Then they give you back the clothes you wore when you came in and let you go. I’m thinking they’ll release me any day.”
Brenda bobbed her head. She was thinking. He wondered if she’d ever get new glasses.
“I’m not fond of those tattoos on your neck,” she said.
He raised his hands in a What you gonna do? gesture.
“Is that a skull?” she asked, peering at the left side of his neck.
“A flaming skull,” Timber corrected.
“Oh, it has to be flaming, does it?”
He grinned, but he wasn’t sure it looked like a grin as much as a grimace. Under the table, his leg twitched harder. He was afraid it might start drumming the bottom of the table like a jackhammer, so he slipped his hand down and tried to take control of it.
“Can you get it removed later?” she asked.
“Ma, is this what we’re going to talk about? My neck? It’s just a thing. It don’t mean nothin’.”
Brenda looked to Eldon, and Eldon said, “Don’t sass her.”
Timber leaned back and held his tongue. When he extended his leg, it didn’t bounce so high. He wondered if she’d always have that effect on him.
—
SINCE HIS INCARCERATION, Brenda had sent him envelopes filled with newspaper clippings of Dallas winning rodeos all over the country. Sometimes she included a note. The note was usually about Dallas. If she knew that Timber tore up the clippings and never even read them, she’d disown him and he’d be out on his own with his demons. So he never told her to stop sending them. She assumed he was as proud of Dallas as she was, when all he wanted to know was, What about me?
He’d told his cellmate about the “Chicken Thigh Game” they used to play at home. Brenda would assemble all three of her young boys shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen and ask, “Who loves their mama the most?” The winner would get an extra fried chicken t
high.
Bull would go first. He’d say he loved his mama the most because she was the best cook in the world and he loved her food. Brenda would urge him to go deeper, but Bull had never been deep. Instead, he’d repeat what he’d said the first time, but with more emphasis.
Timber would say he loved his mama the most because she stood up to the neighbors and she was a good driver. He varied his response from game to game in an attempt to finally hit a chord that resonated with her. He said she was the smartest, prettiest, funniest. She’d nod along until it was Dallas’s turn.
Dallas would squirm and smile and turn red. He looked cute doing it. He’d say, “I love my mama more’n anything in the whole wide world.”
Dallas would get the chicken thigh.
Timber still didn’t know what to say or do to make her love him best.
—
“YOU’VE GOT TO STAY CLEAN and keep your head down for one more day until they let you go,” she said to Timber. “You should have been out months ago. I want all my boys back home. It’s time to be a family again. Dallas is there now, you know.”
“You told me.”
“So it’s time for you to come home. Try not to get into any more trouble in here. It’s only twenty-four hours. Sometimes you gotta turn the other cheek for the greater good of your people,” she said. “You need to think long-term, which is something I know you’ve never been very good at. But if you lash out every time somebody does you wrong, you’ll stay in this damned place forever.”
Timber said, “If someone does something to you in here, you gotta retaliate or it just gets worse. This is a fuckin’ jungle.”
She looked around the room at the families, and the children scrambling around on the floor.
“It ain’t like this inside,” Timber said wearily. “There ain’t a bunch of rug rats crawlin’ around.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Eldon said, “since I was never dumb enough to get caught and sent to prison.”