by Simon King
“In addition to normal correctional staff, the prison also houses dozens of support staff, partners if you will. These include medical staff, educational staff and other various support roles. My thoughts are to send you in as a therapist. A mental health therapist, to be exact. This will give you not only access to all the units of the prison, but also put you in the position of working with pretty much any prisoner you need to.”
Once he finished talking, John paused and waited for Sam to answer him. She looked as if thinking over the possible role, but failed to give her approval.
“John, I’d love to say yes, but I don’t know the first thing about psychological support. If I was questioned on this,” she began. John looked a little annoyed with her opening sentence, but listened the way he always did. It was one of his defining qualities and one that Sam respected him for most. He was always open to suggestions, no matter how strongly he felt for his own ideas.
“You’d rather go in as an officer?” Sam slowly nodded, feeling as if she was somehow letting him down.
“Here’s the deal. I have no contacts inside that place. Once you two are inside, you’re effectively on your own. No back up. No escape. No hitting the big red button and ending the game. Whatever goes on inside, you two will need to work through. Having said that, we do have one small bonus on our side.” John picked up the remote and pointed it at the television monitor. It sprang to life, paused on the blue start-up screen, then displayed a photo of an old man, one Sam recognized immediately.
“Dyson Montgomery?” John looked at her surprised.
“Yes. The ex-warden from Folsom State. I’ve known Dyson for almost thirty years. He may not know my entire business, but I can remedy that to a certain degree. His son-in law happens to be one of the shift supervisors at Bolton. If I get Dyson to have a word in his ear, it may get you in through the doors wearing an officer’s uniform. I’d still prefer the other way, but if this is what you choose, Sam, then you know I’ll back you.”
“Thank you, John,” she said, a faint blush rising in her cheeks.
“Now listen, guys,” John started, leaning forward in his chair. “I don’t need to remind you that this is uncharted territory for us. You will only have each other once inside. Find whoever is doing this shit, then get out. Same rules apply as always. Prove who’s doing this and end them if you need to. Know I won’t rest easy ‘till you’re both safely home.”
“We’ll be careful,”Tim offered, still coming to terms with his role in the operation.
“Mumma? Anything further to add?” All eyes turned to her and now it was her turn to feel a little heat in the cheeks, not one for unwanted attention.
“The only contact we will have is before and after each shift,” she began, speaking to Sam. “Officers don’t carry cell phones and I don’t trust the rest of the communications network not to be bugged. We can’t risk getting caught out and as usual, have to assume everyone is in on it. Until we find a name, you’re well and truly on your own.” She turned to Tim and Sam noticed her demeanor change. “I wish there was some way we had of keeping in contact, but with strip searching, other inmates and the risks of anything being found, I’d say we’re best off laying as low as possible.”
“Alright,” John said, reclaiming their attention. “Tim, you’ll meet with a Sheriff Augustine at this location on Tuesday morning.” He held out a small slip of paper and Tim reached for it. His face remained blank. “Roger will take you into custody and drive you to the prison himself. He’ll be the only one who knows the reason for your incarceration. Once inside, keep your eyes and ears open. Anything you need to relay back to us will be via this number.” He handed Tim a second slip. “That number is a private line that feeds back to Mumma. Have it added to your prison phone list when you can and remember that when speaking with her, the lines are monitored. Oh, and I was thinking that the code you guys used during that operation on the tug boats would be perfect here.” Tim looked up.
“The dogs?” Mumma giggled a little.
“Oh lord. I forgot all about them.”
“The dogs?” Sam asked curiously.
“We had radios to communicate with while hunting a killer a few years ago. Open mics, that kind of thing. We used famous dog’s names as a code. You know, Cujo was the killer, Lassie was one of the captains, the littlest hobo was this random guy that kept popping up.” Mumma laughed.
“The littlest hobo. He was so funny,” Mumma cooed. Sam watched on, amused at the reactions the memories brought back. But then she saw Tim’s expression change as dramatically as Mumma’s laugh cutting off. Something unwanted had resurfaced and both knew it almost simultaneously.
“I’m sorry,” Mumma whispered. Tim shot her a brief smile, a wink and picked up his cup, hiding his face behind it as he sipped. Sam didn’t need to ask, suspecting that somehow, Evelyn Jansen was the reason behind the change of mood. Tim’s girlfriend would have died after the tug boat operation, during a subsequent case and Sam assumed she may have been part of this memory.
“Alright then,” John interjected, breaking the spell of the moment and bringing them back to the matter at hand. “I think that covers everything. Any more questions?” No one spoke. “Then I think we’re good to go. Keep us updated as much as possible and if anything begins to look like either of you are about to end up in the shit, phone Mumma. I don’t care if I have to land a fucken helicopter extraction team in the main yard of Bolton Prison to get you two out.”
John stood and walked to where Tim was sitting. He stood beside him and held is hand out. Tim rose and shook with his mentor, then pulled him in for a hug. The back slapping that men always seemed to add followed. Once done, John walked to Sam and repeated the sequence, minus the back slapping.
“Please be safe. Take care of each other and if you need anything.” He didn’t need to finish the sentence, everyone only too aware of the dangers ahead. Things were about to become more serious than Sam had ever known, in a place where options were as limited as exits. They were headed to prison: one of the most unpredictable places on the planet.
4
“A felon,” Tim whispered as Sam pulled her Mustang out of the Pogrom compound a few minutes later. It made sense to ride-share considering they both lived within the company housing complex set up by John Milton himself, one of the many rewards he bestowed on his team. Sam was only too willing, having missed her wheels, one of the first benefits she’d received after joining the secretive organization.
“You’re worried?” Sam asked, guiding the car slowly down the drive, back towards the main road.
“Nervous, I guess. Never been to prison before.” He waited as they neared the road, knowing Sam was about to do her thing. Despite being a main road of sorts, it ran very little traffic at the best of times and almost none at five in the morning. He reached down beside himself and gripped the edge of the seat, preparing for her usual play.
As the Mustang rolled onto the road and Sam made sure no headlights were approaching from either side, she floored the gas pedal, the engine roaring to life as Tim was pushed back into his seat. He looked across at his partner and saw the exhilaration race across her face almost as fast as the car sped down the road. Sam’s eyes remained locked on the road ahead, flicked from second to third, then third to fourth once the revs reached fever pitch again, before finally easing off the gas. She looked at Tim who was staring back and shaking his head.
“What?” she asked, giggling a little.
“Such a kid,” he said, reaching absently for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket. Sam’s look morphed instantly and he simply tapped his pocket while nodding. “Sorry. Forgot.”
“All I can say is get your story straight. I’ve watched prison shows before, on National Geographic and stuff. They always question newbies. Always. The good thing is you won’t need to prepare for it the way I do.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because as a first-timer, you’re expected to know nothing. No-one i
s going to be looking for an undercover agent, except maybe for whomever is responsible for the killings. Just be as wide eyed as possible and you’ll be fine.”
Tim nodded, but just enough to show Sam that he was listening. Inside he was nervous, more nervous than he’d ever been before.
With Tim living in the home directly behind Sam’s, she pulled into her own driveway, with her partner wishing her a good sleep, before disappearing into what was left of the night’s darkness. Sam waited until he’d turned the corner before hopping out of her car and making her own way inside.
But once Sam was standing in her kitchen, any thoughts of sleep quickly disappeared, instead grabbing her laptop and popping it on the kitchen table. Once she’d fixed herself a cup of hot milk and honey, she sat down and began to google pages upon pages of prison information. While Tim didn’t need to know a single thing about prison life and protocol, the same couldn’t be said for her. As an experienced officer, she would be scrutinized, by the prisoners as well as the staff, especially those involved in her recruitment process.
There were procedures to learn, ranks, as well as rules and regulations. But above all, it was the prison lingo that she needed to memorize, the kinds of weird words prison people used instead of proper English. With a very limited amount of time before she would be expected to make an entrance, every second counted.
Sam sipped her milk, a special concoction her father had introduced to her. It was something he’d always had whilst on deployment, perfect for a pick-me-up and something she now needed. Jetlag had never been something she handled well and with the added stress of a new job at hand, it was taking its toll on her. The milk was the perfect comfort.
Flicking through the pages, Sam lost herself in a world that felt completely foreign to her. Prison had never been something she’d thought about and given Pogrom’s stance on serial killers, not somewhere she ever considered following one into. But now that she was destined to see the other side of the walls, her curiosity had taken over, taking her from one subject to the next, in a kind of endless web surfing session.
It wasn’t until she looked up again, that she saw the wall clock reading almost noon. Her shoulders ached and as she sat forward, noticed the weights attached to her eyelids for the first time. A yawn gripped her so suddenly that for a moment, she thought her mouth would split from the sudden reflex, an experience she’d had on more than occasion.
After rinsing her cup and placing it on the dish rack, Sam headed for bed, crawled under the blankets and closed her eyes. Words like shank, iced, bang and Chester continued to circle her mind as she struggled for sleep to take her. And when it finally did, it was familiar territory she found herself in, where Harry Lightman was already waiting for her.
Despite knowing she was dreaming, Sam somehow hoped that she wasn’t. She was standing in a vast field, the hill one of many dotting the landscape. The sky was fiercely blue overhead, but for some reason, the air felt as if it was about to rain. It was just another confusing aspect that highlighted where she was even more.
There was a cabin a few hundred yards away, a simple log hut with a couple of windows and a chimney, beautiful whips of smoke climbing into the sky. Sam looked around and found a clump of trees some distance away, the bird song coming from it sounding sweet.
But as she turned back to the hut, a dread began to build inside her, one she recognized instantly. The hut wasn’t real and neither were the birds behind her, nor the grass beneath her feet. Waiting inside that single dwelling was a presence she knew she couldn’t outrun, no matter how fast she sprinted back down the hill. That presence was connected to her, in a way that parents would sometimes sense when their baby was in danger or needed help. It was a connection on the most spiritual level, but neither a benefit to her, or something she wanted.
“Come and see me, Samantha,” a voice spoke inside her mind. It was Harry, calling to her from inside that building. “We have so much to talk about.”
“We have nothing to discuss,” she whispered, taking a step forward defiantly.
“You’re wrong. We have plenty to discuss.”
Sam turned sharply, almost scoffing at the voice and began to walk back down the hill. It was the first time she noticed her bare feet, now painfully maneuvering through jagged pebbles and stones as the soft grass began to thin.
“Samantha?” a new voice called, although this one as real as any she’d ever heard, the sound gentle and soft. She turned back and saw a woman standing halfway between the cabin and herself. “Sam?” It was her mother, of that she was sure, despite the woman appearing closer to her own age than what she was when she died.
“Mum?”
The figure simply waved to her, beckoning for her to return. Sam paused, held her breath and watched as her mum carefully stepped towards her. She felt the surreal emotions, but still questioned whether it was the dream, or that other presence, the one she knew to be controlling this entire spectacle.
“Sam?” her mum called again and Sam watched as the woman grabbed at her abdomen painfully, before falling to her knees.
“MUM,” Sam shouted, then broke into a run, the pain of her feet cutting across the sharp rocks unnoticed.
She reached the figure in seconds, slid down to her knees a few paces from where her mother was kneeling and came to a stop almost beside her.
“Mum,” she whispered again. Her mother was still hunched over, her face pressed almost against her knees. She seemed to be hiding something and Sam began to feel uneasy as she sat next to the woman. Finally, the figure raised her head a little, still hiding her face.
“There’s no running from him, Samantha,” the voice whispered. “You have to face him if you want to beat him. Up there, in the cabin. He’s waiting for you. And when you’re near him…” but her voice faded out as a scream rose from somewhere behind them. Sam turned and looked up the hill, saw two people standing on the small veranda. Harry Lightman grinned back at her, his face a grotesque mass of scars and rotting flesh.
“This bitch is too weak to help you,” he snarled, the voice more inside her own mind than out in the open. He had one arm around the chest of a woman, the monster standing behind her as if using her as a shield. His other hand was cupping the woman’s chin, forcing it to stare back at her.
It was her mother, standing before Lightman like a sacrificial lamb. Sam looked back down to where her mother was actually kneeling, but of course she’d vanished. This was Lightman’s world, one he controlled with mere thoughts.
“Too fucken weak to help you,” he snarled again, then whipped the woman around and buried his face deep in the crook of her mother’s neck. Sam didn’t know whether the scream was her own, or her mothers, the shrill voice piercing the blue sky as it instantly transformed into thunderclouds, sunshine instantly disappearing behind a wall of stormy wrath. A second scream rose into the sky and Sam watched as her mother crumpled to the ground, revealing a grinning Lightman, his face smeared with the blood of a victim he’d brutalized again and again. The third scream was enough to bring Sam…
…back to reality as she fought frantically to loosen the blankets that had entwined her legs like shackles. Sam looked around the room, the sun streaming in through the window, the heat blasting through the room like a furnace. Her brow felt drenched and when she wiped her face, the sweat dripped down her fingers in little rivers.
“Prick,” Sam muttered as she pulled the blankets back. The dream began to fade almost the moment her feet hit the floor, save for that final grinning apparition of the monster still living inside her. For the first time in a long time, she suddenly had the taste in her mouth, the taste that drove her own insatiable appetite for flesh.
Without hesitating, Sam went into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Coke and snapped the top. The first gulp barely touched the sides, refusing to do what it was meant to. But as Sam chugged a couple more times, the craving began to subside, just the way it always had. It was the best trick her father had ever taug
ht her, the simple art of deflection working its magic.
Once Sam was sure the craving had disappeared, she dropped the dead soldier in the trash and headed for the bathroom. Her clothes still clung to her uncomfortably, the sweat barely pausing with the cold beverage. A minute later the shower turned on and shortly after, Sam hopped in for a cool moment of tranquility.
Tim dropped by a little after the sun went down, letting himself in through the back door. They had an understanding and as their homes sat front to back, had organized a gate to be installed along the dividing fence.
“You eaten?” she asked as he came into the kitchen.
“Nah. Not hungry,” he answered, hopping up and sitting on her counter the way he always did when watching her cook.
“Eaten anything today?” Tim shook his head. “Need to eat. Especially now. Who knows when you’ll get another proper meal.”
Not bothering to wait for an answer, Sam went to the fridge and began to pull various ingredients out, depositing them on the counter next to Tim.
“I’m just nervous, you know? It’s weird. With everything we get up to, why the hell would this make me nervous?”
“Know when you’re going in?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Was a slight delay, but now it’s all set. Meeting is at 2 in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Flying out early morning.” Sam continued to build the salad as two steaks sizzled in the pan. She paused when hearing the fear in his voice.
“Together, remember? We’ll get through it together.” She dropped the knife and lettuce and went to him, put her arms around his neck and gave him a hug. There was nothing sexual about the move and both understood what it meant.
“Thanks,” Tim said as Sam pulled away and resumed prepping. “Did you hear there was another one?”
“What, a murder?”