The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  “Here,” Kenji said, handing me my weapon.

  Something about the solidity of the object gave me strength.

  The truck was about fifty yards away now.

  “It’s time,” Kenji said, his eye fixed behind the eyepiece of the camera.

  I took a deep breath, took one last look at my brother, then marched out to meet Brady Bruce head-on.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The plan was to appear in the middle of the road and make my stand—a steadfast warrior facing down the enemy in a grand show of courage and self-assurance.

  I stepped into the road and tripped over a clump of dried mud. Tumbling once, then springing up in time to see the truck stop. Too soon. Too far away.

  I steadied myself. I saw the red hair in the driver’s seat, the cigarette dangling out of the corner of the mouth.

  I clutched the object in my hand and judged the distance. Too far.

  Bruce stuck his head out the window, the cigarette bobbing as he said, “What are you doing, kid?”

  I had nothing to offer in response. Now, all the words I’d rehearsed stuck in my fluttering stomach like dragonflies in tar. So instead of talking, I did the only thing that came to mind. I gave Brady Bruce the middle finger from my non-weaponed hand.

  The truck’s engine revved, and the old beast was grinding closer. My knees were knocking now. If this didn’t go as planned—that is, if Bruce didn’t do what Kenji said he’d do—I was dead meat walking.

  When I gauged that the truck was within range, I let my weapon fly. It was a perfect throw. Just perfect. The rock hit the smack dab center of the windshield.

  Vengeance was mine!

  Only there was none.

  No crack. No shattering of glass. No glory.

  The truck stopped, and Bruce put it in park and was out the door. This was it. It would all be on film. We’d gotten Bruce to fly into a blood-spattering frenzy of anger.

  Only not really.

  We wanted hellfire rage. Bruce gave us mild annoyance.

  “Now why’d you go and do that, kid?”

  “Fuck you, Bruce!” I put as much venom as I could into the words.

  Bruce took an extra-long drag and flicked the cooked cigarette off to the side of the road. A streak of red embers followed its arc. I steeled myself for the coming confrontation. I had to be brave.

  “That’s some mouth you’ve got there,” Bruce said. What the hell was wrong with this guy?

  Desperation time.

  “Did you hear me?” I said, my voice squeaking.

  “I heard you. Why don’t you run on home before I call your parents? Do they even know you’re out here?”

  That got my blood up. It was one thing to treat me like the ten-year-old I was; it was another to tell me where I should or should not be. I was Warden Allen’s son. My pride bubbled forth.

  “I know what you did, you sonofabitch!” I yelled. “And we’re gonna get you fired!”

  The words came out so fast I hadn’t had time to fix them. I knew my mistake immediately.

  “We?”

  “I mean me,” I corrected.

  Bruce fished the pack out of his pocket. Another cigarette appeared in his hand. He lit it slowly, and I watched every micro movement. The flick. The flame. The catch. The inhale. The puff.

  “Maybe I’ll take a look around, make sure there isn’t anything to get you in trouble.”

  Just then, Larry burst from our hiding spot. I heard Kenji whisper a harsh warning, but my brother didn’t listen. Larry made a beeline to me. He looked at Bruce without an ounce of fear. Larry had his hands on his hips like I’d seen Dad do a thousand times. He looked like Dad. He was Dad.

  Larry pointed his finger at the big man and said, “You leave my brother alone, Mr. Bruce. I’m gonna tell my mom on you.”

  Now that set the fire head off. The roaring laugh burst from Bruce’s lungs and went on for a good minute, maybe longer. He bent over, hands on his knees, and struggled for breath.

  “You've got balls, little man,” he said. “You James, you should take lessons from your kid brother. Good God, I think my chest is gonna burst!”

  He was still laughing like a mule when he drove off, giving us a two-fingered salute as he did.

  Just like that, Operation Tank Brady Bruce faded like spit on a blacktop.

  Chapter Forty

  “Maybe I can splice something together,” said Kenji. He’d been trying to mollify me all afternoon. I could not be quelled for all the Snickers in Candyland.

  “Seriously. My dad has a friend who edits VHS tapes at his house.”

  “Rat bastard,” I said.

  “Language, James,” Mom said from the kitchen. She was making another feast in honor of our guest.

  “Rat bastard,” I said again, softly.

  Kenji was fiddling with the video camera, and I was staring at the ceiling when the doorbell rang. I jumped to my feet.

  “It’s Brady Bruce,” I said, my body tingling with anticipation.

  “Maybe it’s not.” Kenji lay the camera down and got to his feet. I saw him flinch at the act, but I didn’t ask why.

  I heard Mom’s voice and the murmuring of a man.

  “Come on,” I said.

  We snuck our way to the front room.

  “I’ll tell him you came by,” Mom said and closed the front door.

  “Who was it?” I asked, my voice thin with anticipation.

  “It was Carlisle,” she said, her voice uneasy.

  “Why’d you say it like that?”

  “Well, because . . . because Carlisle didn’t look well.”

  “What did he want?” I said, testing the boundaries of spy hood.

  “He wanted to talk to your father.”

  “About what?”

  Mom threw me one of those looks. “That’s your father’s business.”

  “But I just ask—”

  “Question time is over, James. You and Kenji go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  We retreated to my room. I closed the door, so Mom couldn’t hear.

  “You have to cover for me,” I said, slipping on my shoes.

  “Where are you going?” Kenji asked, alarmed.

  “I have to talk to Carlisle.”

  He heard it in my voice. I would not be swayed.

  “What should I tell your mom?”

  “You’re the smart one,” I said. “You’ll think of something.”

  The spy was back in full form, out the window and sprinting before my feet hit the deck.

  I checked the greenhouse first. Empty.

  I patted the flattened four-wheeler as I sped by. Poor Marauder. We shall have our bloody revenge soon.

  I was about a hundred yards from the front gate when I saw him.

  “Carlisle,” I whispered.

  He was slow to turn like the very act took a considerable effort. I’m pretty sure I gasped when he finally faced me.

  Ever see what an orb spider does to a beetle? It was like that. Everything had drained from the man, and nothing was left but a flaking shell in its place. I hadn’t realized until then how much of Carlisle’s physical appearance was made up of sheer confidence alone. There wasn’t even a ghost of it left.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Carlisle?” I said again, my voice wavering. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I went a few steps closer, fighting the urge to go and hug him. He looked like he’d break from it. Or maybe I would.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “No one hurt me.”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “Let it be, Jimmy.”

  “Bruce.”

  Anger flashed in Carlisle’s eyes and was gone just as quick. “I said, let it be.”

  He turned to go. I grabbed his hand, cold and lifeless.

  “Carlisle,” I said again, tears beginning to well in my eyes. Dammit, Jimmy, you’re a man, not a little girl.

  I felt him shudder. “You stay clear
of me, Jimmy.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He wouldn't look at me now, but he didn’t let go of my hand. “I came to tell your dad that I’m volunteering for laundry duty. They need help getting things in line. And besides, it’s my time.”

  He started to let go of my hand. I wouldn’t let him. “You can’t give up. You can’t. You said we were friends.”

  Now he turned.

  “We are friends, Jimmy. It’s just... aw hell, Jimmy.”

  “You’re giving up. You’re letting Bruce win.”

  He exhaled. I could see he was looking for the right words to dump on a kid. “It’s complicated, Jimmy. You wait ‘til you’re a little older, then you’ll understand.”

  That bugged me. My tears stilled, I said, “I’m old enough, dammit.”

  “I can’t,” he said and pried my hand from his.

  “Carlisle.”

  “Take care of yourself, Jimmy.”

  And that was that. Carlisle was gone, and I was alone. I couldn't hear the birds or the rustling squirrels. I cared for nothing. Not the fort, not exploring the grounds, not the crawdads in the creek or the faded, distant summer; not Marauder, or Warden Allen, or the Dungeon Master, or goddammed George Washington.

  The only thing that mattered at that moment was that Brady Bruce had taken my friend.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Days went by, misery being my only company.

  Kenji tried. He asked to spend time at my house. He invited me to his. I brushed each and every invitation away.

  When I wasn’t at school practicing educational self-destruction, I was at home moping, waiting for some glimpse of Carlisle. I got nothing. Nothing on patrols. No whispers from the guards passing by. One day, the mystery got to be too much. I saw Harley ambling up toward the greenhouse and ran after him.

  “Harley!” I called.

  He stopped and did a half-turn, saw it was me, then continued walking.

  “Hey, Harley!” I repeated.

  “Why are you always underfoot?”

  “Where’s Carlisle?”

  He turned away. “I ain’t the warden, kid.”

  “Come on, Harley,” I said as I caught up to him and grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Is he okay?”

  He looked at me like he didn’t know whether he could trust me. I didn’t like that look one bit. Then he shook his head and said, “Best not to talk about it.” He brushed off my arm, told me to get on home, and that was the end of the discussion.

  I saw Brady Bruce soon after. I hadn’t planned on a meeting. He was heading back from lunch and caught my eye. I stared mouth agog like some bumpkin from the low country.

  “Well,” he said with a jovial smile. “If it ain’t Killer Allen, the terror of Virginia. Afternoon, Killer.” He tipped his hat like a country sheriff doing rounds and went on his way.

  Slowly, very slowly, a plan formed in my mind. At first, it was the idle daydreaming of a boy in pain. But thoughts had a way of solidifying in my life. This one began as small as a pebble, morphed into a quarter-sized dream, then kept on swelling. It was orange, a basketball, then a house. Soon, the idea became the only thing that could keep my interest.

  You may not know what it’s like to become taken hold of by a single obsession. But I do, because of the way that plan usurped all my thoughts at the time. Now, these many years later, I can understand addicts and alcoholics, and I can see underneath the crazed ramblings of religious zealots. And prisoners. They were held in place by iron and concrete. I was held in place by a mind that could focus on nothing else besides the undoing of my greatest enemy.

  I decided to apply myself in my schoolwork, if only partially, and for no other reason than to keep my parents at bay and give me more time to work on my idea.

  But late at night, when sleep came in fits and starts, my idea fed on the surreal morsels my dreams left for it, a breadcrumb trail leading me to the dark side of my soul.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The roving patrol came to a stop next to my now fixed four-wheeler. I waved to the guard and plastered what I thought was a more than a passable smile on my face. The new me did not smile unless he had to: all part of the plan.

  “Good morning, Jimmy,” said the guard, a middle-aged man named Skip. He was pleasant if a bit dense. They didn’t let him near any of the prison’s hard cases. Patrols were okay enough for Skip.

  “You’re up early.” He spat a glistening stream of tobacco to the grass.

  “Wanted to get a ride in before the snow.”

  Skip looked up at the sky and shivered. “I don’t know how you northerners live with the snow. Me here, well, I’m happy with hot, hot, hot.”

  He laughed, and I with him.

  That was the thing about being the warden’s son. Everyone got a turn at kissing your butt, and this was Skip’s turn, and he knew it, so he nodded once and moved along.

  I watched the truck go. Waited. Watched. Waited some more.

  Coast clear.

  I revved the four-wheeler to life. It purred under me for a moment, then roared, and I gunned the engine.

  Skip’s truck stopped at Pat Garvey’s house to pick up laundry. Funny story there.

  I’d overheard Mom on the phone one day.

  “Well, she’s got no business running a home. Yes, it’s true . . . really, did you . . . no!”

  This tone of hers, the kind a mother uses when there’s something juicy on the other end of the phone line, was like dangling a candy bar in front of me. I backed up to the wall and listened to the rest of the conversation.

  “Yes, well, we were there about a week ago. We’d sat down to have a glass of sweet tea? Alma pulls out this awful-looking sponge. I mean . . .”

  Alma. This was Alma Garvey, no doubt.

  “And she wipes out the glass with this nasty rag and hands it to me as if I’d think it was perfectly fine to drink out of it. Ugh! And the laundry . . . yes, you did . . . how? I don’t know how Pat can stand it. He had a stain on his pants that could only be mustard, and I swear it was a week old.”

  I don’t know why I thought it necessary to tell Harley about it. It was one of those things I blabbed out while hanging around him while he worked. I thought he was half-listening.

  My only guess is that Harley told someone else about it, maybe a guard, who knows?

  Then, well, you know how these things get around.

  Pretty soon, because of your humble servant’s prying ears and big mouth, The Garveys began sending their laundry out to be cleaned by the inmates, who had plenty of time to spend on mustard stains.

  Once the Garveys hopped on the laundry train, two other families hopped on too. Skip was there to pick the laundry up. This was the last of three stops.

  Dad always said that a routine was bad. Routine makes you lax. Routine exposes your weaknesses. I used that to my advantage, of course. A good spy always exposes weaknesses. General Washington would have been proud. The audacity of my plan. Yes.

  I watched Skip take the overstuffed laundry bags from Mrs. Garvey. She was pregnant again and didn’t look so hot. I had no idea what women went through in pregnancy and didn’t care. All I knew was that her condition helped my plan along.

  “Have a nice day,” she said with mock cheer, one hand on her stomach and her face the color of an old frog. Then her eyes went wide. She pressed a hand to her mouth and rushed back inside.

  Skip shook his head in commiseration, then stacked the laundry bags on top of the others. He closed the tailgate and whistled his way back to the driver’s seat. As usual, he didn’t get in the truck until he pulled another pinch of chaw from his Levi Garrett pouch and stuck it in his cheek. Like he always did. Routine. Your worst enemy. My best friend.

  I made my move, timing my climb into the truck bed perfectly. I was probably too light to make the truck bed buck, but it made sense to time my climbing to match Skip getting into the cab. He never looked in the rearview mirror, nor turned around. He slid the keys into the ig
nition, turned the engine over and pressed the gas twice. Just like every time before.

  Then we were off. Me covered in cloth laundry bags, smelling the stink of three families, and Skip humming along with the radio.

  The truck stopped at the gate, and I heard Skip making small talk with the gate guard.

  “What’s that song, Skip?”

  “A new one. Something about a prayer. The group’s called Banjo Jehovah.”

  “Who?”

  “Banjo Jehovah?”

  “Ban—Jehovah? You mean Bon Jovi, you idiot?”

  “Who?”

  “Bon Jovi. That’s the name of the band.”

  “Huh. Well, that makes no sense.”

  “Livin’ On A Prayer” crooned from the radio as I held my breath. I heard the crunch of footsteps as the gate guard did a whirl around the truck.

  “You’re good to go, Skip.” The guard patted the side of the truck, a move that made my skin prickle all over. “You better turn that radio off before you go inside.”

  “I know, I know. Wouldn’t want the warden to catch me.”

  The radio clicked off, and on we rumbled. I heard the squeak of the gates closing behind us. I parted two laundry bags to the slightest slit to make myself a peephole and saw the guard refocused on the outside.

  And just like that, I’d snuck into the prison. Operation Find Carlisle was a go.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The truck came to a stop outside the laundry facility. The tumble of washers and dryers greeted us as the garage doors slid open. The radio clicked off.

  “Hey, Skip,” someone said.

  “Have you seen the warden around?” Skip asked.

  “Nope.”

  “All’s well then?”

  “Just a squirrel lookin’ for a nut.”

  “I hear you. Catch you on the flipside.”

  Grownups and their codes.

  The radio clicked on again and in we went, slipping deeper inside the laundry sanctum.