by Randy Mason
At 2:00 a.m., unable to sleep, he got dressed and went out in the frigid night air to smoke, the wooden deck creaking beneath his feet. Primordial and untouched, the land stretched out on all sides, disappearing into an unseen horizon. He was very aware of being alone. Bathed in light from the glowing orb above, he could feel the power emanating from the darkness, the tall trees standing silent as if guarding secrets in the forest beyond. And then a huge bird, majestic and graceful, flew across the sky, its silhouette visible when it crossed the almost perfect circle of the moon. Earthbound below, he felt small and inconsequential.
The next couple of days were spent much as they’d planned: walking, driving, and cross-country skiing. But Saturday night, as he was lighting kindling in the fireplace, Cynthia finally broached the dreaded subject.
“Let’s face it, Jim, things have changed between us. And I guess it’s my fault: I can’t be involved with two men at the same time. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t.”
Straightening up, he faced her. “And I—obviously—am the loser, right?”
A couple of tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The phone’s brash ring interrupted, and Cynthia, being closest, answered. And though Baker purposely hadn’t left the inn’s number with Heyden, he thought of Micki.
Wiping away tears, Cynthia said, “Mom?”
Based on Cynthia’s side of the conversation, Baker gleaned something bad had happened. And when she hung up the phone, she looked dazed.
“That was my mother,” she said. “My father just had a heart attack.” But it wasn’t until Baker had wrapped her in his arms, kissing the top of her head and rocking her gently from side to side, that she broke down and sobbed.
They immediately drove to the hospital, where an initial flurry of activity devolved into long hours of waiting and dozing off in uncomfortable chairs—countless rounds of tears, stress, and bad coffee. Every hour, Cynthia and her mother took their allotted ten-minute visits to see her father—first in the ICU, then later the CCU—while Baker stood by with nothing to do.
As the next evening approached, Mrs. Winthrop insisted Baker stay at the family home in one of the guest rooms. “We’ll both feel better,” she said, referring to herself and Cynthia, “knowing there’s a big, strong man around to protect us.” And she smiled fondly.
Though Baker accepted, he knew Cynthia’s father—a cold, unyielding man who was nothing like his wife or daughter—would never have allowed such an arrangement. If he’d had any say in the matter, he would’ve cited the appearance of impropriety, even though, closer to the truth, it would’ve been his feelings about Baker. As a cop—blue collar—Baker wasn’t deemed an appropriate suitor. And then there was the age difference. But Baker was certain that what was really getting under the man’s skin was knowing Baker was sleeping with his daughter though there were no plans to marry. And while Baker hadn’t been happy that Mr. Winthrop was ill, it had been a relief not to have to see him.
Rolling smoothly down the highway again, he switched the radio back on to ease the now oppressive sense of solitude. Badfinger’s “Baby Blue” tumbled out, the first two lines cutting through with painful, uncanny insight. And as he squinted ahead, searching for the exit in the dark gloom of the highway, he wondered if he’d uncovered the real issue behind his problems with Cynthia: they’d been seeing each other for over two years, and he hadn’t proposed—hadn’t even mentioned the possibility. And now there was this actor in her life … And yet, while Cynthia was herself pursuing acting, Mr. LA had to rank even lower than Baker did on the scale of eligible suitors. At least, according to Cynthia’s father. In fact, to Mr. Winthrop, Baker might be looking pretty damn good right now.
As if that actually counted for anything.
♦ ♦ ♦
BAKER KILLED THE ENGINE. Enveloped in darkness, the juvenile detention facility had taken on a completely different personality. The high-powered security lights illuminating the perimeter brought the barbed wire atop the walls into harsh relief, the graceless main building—now fully dominating the grounds, making the cottages appear secondary and insignificant. Colorless and thrown into shadow, the landscaped evergreens looked almost sinister despite the frosting of snow.
He closed the Camaro’s door, which, in the early-morning stillness, sounded unusually loud. Then he breathed in the cold, crisp air and looked at the snow-covered roofs, trying to savor the last few moments he had all to himself. It had been almost meditative to get up in the dark without radio or TV, then shower, dress, and eat breakfast—all in blessed peace—before going into Cynthia’s room to kiss her goodbye. Suitcase in hand, he’d then wound his way down the spiral staircase a final time, the carved mahogany banister softly gleaming. Wedged between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table, his thank-you note to Mrs. Winthrop was left to convey (convincingly, he hoped) his regret at having to leave. But after two days full of anxious conversations, running errands, and hanging around the hospital, he’d been grateful for a reason to head back to the city. The drive had been invigorating until he’d hit that first patch of ice.
He approached the main building, and the entrance door opened. But something felt off. And by the time he reached the top of the stairs, Deputy Warden Stanton was standing fixedly in the doorway. Behind her—flickering in and out of shadows cast by a single row of overhead fluorescents—he saw only office furniture.
“Is Micki ready?” he asked.
“Under the circumstances, I’m afraid she’ll have to remain here. I would’ve called, but you didn’t leave a number where I could reach you.”
He pushed past Stanton. “Where is she?”
“In solitary. Maximum security.”
“Maximum security?”
“She destroyed my office and attacked me; that more than warrants her being detained here.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What happened?”
“What happened? Nothing happened. She simply acted out the way she always does.”
“No.” Baker shook his head. “No, there’s got to be a reason.”
“Is that so!”
“Where’s Warden Morrow?”
“It’s not even six o’clock in the morning, Sergeant. It was decided yesterday that only one of us need be present to take care of this matter.”
And that just happened to be you, Baker thought. Though he barely knew Stanton, he despised her with every ounce of his being. She was a holdover from Warden Loren’s days, and her whole demeanor smacked of vicious self-satisfaction.
“I want to see her,” Baker said evenly.
“I hardly think—”
“I want to see her now.”
There was a tiny twitch of Stanton’s lip, a thin film of sweat cropping up on her brow. “I think it would be easier on everyone if you accepted the situation and left without further interference. We both know she should never have been released in the first place. This is where she belongs.”
Baker looked at her with disgust. “You don’t know anything about what I think, and I’ll decide where she belongs.”
“Deciding may very well not be your prerogative anymore.”
“I’m not about to just leave her here—not without seeing her.”
“I’d think you’d be happy to be free of the responsibility. From what I understand, you didn’t exactly embrace it.”
“And just how would you know that?”
With a triumphant little smile, she said, “I have my sources.”
“Yeah? Well maybe your sources have their heads up their asses. Now I want to see her, and I want to see her now. How many fucking times do I have to say it?”
“Well!”—little beads of sweat had broken out in earnest on her puffy face—“I see the two of you have much in common.”
She patted her short, curly hair, then smoothed the skirt over her wide hips. “Very well,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led him to a room with no windows and only a table and two chairs. He unzipped his jacket a couple of inches more before lighting a cigarette to wait.
No one had asked him to hand over his gun.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI HAD ALMOST FALLEN asleep when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Taken out of her cell in handcuffs, she was told someone wanted to see her. The ominous and cryptic announcement left her imagination open to the worst possibilities. And though her hands were shackled, she considered resisting.
The guard pulled out his baton. “You’ll do what you’re told if you know what’s good for you.”
She thought it should be obvious to everyone by now that she didn’t know what was good for her, but she decided she didn’t want to feel that wood bludgeoning her anymore. They went down to the first floor and into the administrative wing. But as soon as she saw Stanton waiting at the end of the corridor, she balked. The guard’s grip became painful as he yanked her the rest of the way.
Opening the door to her right, the deputy warden told the guard to take Micki inside and remove the cuffs. And when Micki saw Baker, her eyes grew large. She appeared ready to pounce the instant her hands were freed. But then Baker stood up. And after five days of not seeing him, he seemed much taller—and much bigger—than she remembered. She must’ve been out of her mind the times she’d physically confronted him.
Baker hurriedly extinguished his cigarette.
“What the fuck didja come back for?” Micki asked. “Didja finally get the balls t’tell me the truth y’self? Huh? Y’gettin’ a good laugh outta this?”
He crossed the room to shut the door for privacy. Micki scurried as far away from him as she could.
“I must object,” Stanton said. “She’s become extremely violent.”
“Then why did you remove the cuffs?” Baker asked.
“Because—well—”
“I know what you’re up to,” Baker said. “Just get the hell out.”
“I’m liable—”
“Cut the crap. I release you from liability, okay? The guard’s your witness. Now get out.”
The deputy warden appeared to have shrunk under his gaze. She left with the guard and closed the door.
Pale and gaunt—her hair a dirty, wild mess—Micki stood before the far wall in an orange prison jumpsuit. Just below the short shirtsleeves, some bruises were visible on her left arm.
Back at the table, Baker sat down and lit another cigarette. “You asked me why I’m here: I’m here to pick you up, just like I promised.”
“Y’so full a shit! You were supposeda be here Sunday! Y’said Sunday. Today’s Tuesday.”
“I know what I said, Micki, but something happened, and I couldn’t make it then; I couldn’t get here until today.”
“Fuckin’ liar! You were never gonna come get me!”
“Then why am I here?”
“You fuckin’ tell me.”
Playing with the pack of cigarettes, he exhaled thoughtfully. “Why did they have to lock you down?”
“What the fuck d’you care?”
“Talk to me,” he said.
She looked at him sitting there, so calm. So collected. She imagined not saying anything and just watching him smoke. Until he finally got up and walked out. “I wrecked the fuckin’ bitch’s office,” she said. “And if I could’ve, I would’ve ripped her fuckin’ head off, too. Okay? Didja get what y’want? Y’happy now?”
“But why did you do that?”
“The bitch told me y’weren’t comin’. She knew all along y’were gonna leave me here.”
With a shake of his head, Baker said, “No. I called Sunday to let her know about the change of plans. I told her then that I’d be here today.”
A sickening knot was forming in the pit of her stomach. “She—she just said y’weren’t comin’.”
“I want to know everything that happened and exactly what it was she said.”
Barely able to breathe, Micki studied Baker’s face. For quite a while. And then said, “It was just after dinner when a guard told me Stanton wanted t’see me. He took me t’her office, and she, real obnoxious-like, said, ‘I guess by now y’realize he’s not comin’ today. Looks like y’gonna be here a little longer.’ And then she started laughin’—laughin’ her ass off. But, like, it was the way she said ‘little’—y’know, like she meant the opposite—y’know, like I was gonna be here forever—”
“I understand,” he interrupted. “But the truth is”—he leaned forward—“I told her at ten o’clock that morning that I’d be coming today instead.”
Hands in her pockets, Micki hung her head: Baker was telling the truth. “Yeah—well … I got myself inta really big trouble here; she’s not gonna let me leave.”
“Well, I’m not going to let you stay.”
Her eyes shot up to his.
“Come here,” he said.
“I don’t smell too good.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She moved a little closer.
“Did they do anything to you?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Not really? What does that mean?”
“After I went after Stanton, I didn’t exactly let ’em take me easy.”
The black-and-blue marks. “But did they do anything to you after that?”
“Just stuck me in a cell.”
He stood up. “Where’s your stuff?”
“I dunno; they made me wear this orange thing the whole time.”
Baker strode around the table and yanked open the door. “I want the kid’s things brought here immediately. And I want the papers to sign her out.”
“After what she’s done,” Stanton said, “there’s no way she can be released back into your custody.”
“You think I don’t know what kind of head games you’ve been playing with her?”
“I don’t think—”
“I don’t give a shit what you think. You get those goddamned papers for me; ’cause I swear, if you don’t, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Micki’s mouth fell open.
“Are you threatening me, Sergeant?” Stanton asked.
“I’m making you a promise. See, I have connections, too—reporter friends at the New York Times—and they’d love to get their hands on a story about the shit that goes on in this place.”
“You’re making a serious mistake!” Stanton’s cheeks were mottled with angry, red blotches. But when Baker stood firm, she turned on her heel and headed back to the front office.
He stared after her.
Voice very small, Micki said, “Sergeant Baker?”
Still looking at Stanton’s back as she waddled down the corridor, he replied, “What is it?”
“Can I take a shower?”
“Go ahead, but make it quick. I want to get the hell out of here.”
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI SHOWERED AND FOUND her clothes waiting for her. Outside it was still dark, a thick cloud cover foretelling a grey and dreary day. Taking a deep breath of the cold, clean air, she paused to look at the fresh snow.
Baker threw her bag in the trunk next to his suitcase. As he unlocked the car on her side, he said, “C’mon, get in.”
Giddy with her newfound freedom, she almost smiled.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE BLACK TAR OF the highway contrasted sharply with the white snow piled in mounds on the median and shoulder. Headlights of oncoming cars glittered like diamonds through the misty air. Peculiarly hypnotic, the coarse hum of the tires on the road seemed to blend with the heat coming through the vents.
&
nbsp; Baker’s voice broke through. “Are you hungry?”
Her stomach was squeezing and grumbling. “I guess so,” she said.
“When we get to the next exit, we’ll get off and stop for something, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
He glanced over and saw her eyes fastened on the dark scenery. He let it go. “So tell me,” he asked, “why would Stanton have it in for you?”
Micki looked at him, but his gaze was focused on the road again. She said, “She and Loren, the old warden, were real tight. Some of the girls said there were rumors it was ’cause of me that Loren got canned. Though I don’t get it, ’cause I never said anything—not even to Sergeant Kelly.”
The car skidded, and Baker fought to keep it under control. He downshifted. “Put your seatbelt on; there’s a lot of ice on the road.”
They continued to the next exit, where they left the thruway and found a diner.
♦ ♦ ♦
THEIR BOOTH HAD A view of the parking lot and the highway. Far away, mountains covered in snow were slowly and resplendently taking shape in the somber shades of dawn. The waitress brought them coffee and asked for their order. But before Baker could say a word, Micki said she wanted pancakes. Baker, having had breakfast, wasn’t hungry, but ordered anyway. While he sipped his coffee, he surveyed the other patrons.
A pair of truckers sat at the middle of the counter. They were shoveling food into their mouths while grinning, talking quietly, and throwing furtive glances at him and Micki. At the end of the counter, closer to the restrooms, a grizzled old man sat drinking coffee. And in the corner booth furthest from the door was some sort of businessman jotting down notes in a small, leather-bound diary, a messy collection of papers spread out over most of his table.
Micki was flipping through the selections in the little jukebox attached to the window frame. With a decisive snap, the metal pages clicked against each other as they turned. Most of the songs were current ones she hated or—though it was still a month away—Christmas tunes, their cards a special pinkish red with little sprigs of holly and mistletoe decorating the corners. Almost at the end, buried way in the back, she found a few songs she actually liked, like “Rocky Mountain High” and “Maggie May.” But since she didn’t have any money, she simply stared out the window and drank her coffee. After spending about thirty-six hours locked up in solitary, just to see the sky and be clean again felt exquisitely rich. Hot, airless, and rank, the tiny cell she’d been in, with no windows and almost no light, had been more like a tomb, every hour like a year.