The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  “How was your day?” Dad asked.

  “Good,” I said, trying not to sound too excited. “Lots of catching up to do.”

  “I’m sure you’ll take care of it.” That was the end of the questioning and Dad’s middling concern for my wellbeing. His attention went back to Carlisle. “Are we agreed?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll let you get back to it.”

  Carlisle nodded to my father and threw a quick wink at me before heading off.

  I went inside and unpacked my things, setting up shop on the kitchen table. I’d just cracked open the smelly history book when Dad came back in the room.

  “James, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, folding the book closed.

  He took a seat opposite me and folded his hands on the table. He reeked of cigarette smoke, more so than usual. He breathed heavily through his nose as he stared at me.

  “Sir?” I said, squirming.

  “The night of the escape, did you see anything?”

  “Did I see anything?”

  “That’s what I asked.”

  “Like what?”

  He squinted at me. “Oh, anything that might’ve . . . disturbed you?”

  “No, sir. Why?”

  He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth. “I have this feeling.”

  “About what?”

  Dad watched my hand running over the loose threads on the edge of the book cover. “Never mind. I’ll let you get back to your homework.”

  He left and returned to prison. I opened my book and breathed a sigh of relief into the spine. It was near impossible to lie to my dad. It was like he had a hand that could reach into my skull to rake out the truth. Somehow, I’d eluded the claw end of it.

  Homework would have to wait.

  Carlisle was in the greenhouse tidying up a stack of plastic buckets.

  “Hey,” I said by way of greeting.

  “Well, lookee here. How’ve you been?”

  I sped past the pleasantries. “One of the inmates who escaped came to our house.”

  Carlisle stopped what he was doing and looked at me. “Anyone know about that?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  He looked at me for a long time. “What did the man say to you?”

  I fished the key out of my pocket. “The prisoner gave me this.”

  Carlisle took it from my hand, turned it over twice in his, then turned his eyes to me once again. “Why didn’t you give it to your dad?”

  “I don’t know.” Then I told him everything the escapee had said.

  “Sounds like Parker. A good man.” He handed the key back to me. “I’m sorry if he scared you.”

  “He didn’t scare me. He was nice.”

  “He was. Not much time left here.”

  “Then why did he try to escape?” I asked.

  “No idea. That’s all everyone’s talking about. The three men who escaped were short-timers. They had nothing to gain.”

  “But what about the key?”

  He shrugged. “Could be one of a million doors that thing opens.”

  “We have to find out what it opens.” I don’t know why I was so urgent at the time. I guess you could say that I felt some invisible clock ticking down, second by second, kinda like a creeping dread at a threat yet unseen. I could feel it over my shoulder but didn’t know what it was. “Can you take it with you? See if you can find the door?”

  Carlisle held his hands up. “Oh, no. I get searched every time I walk back to the prison. After the ruckus the other night, things are getting serious. No passes for trustees. They even have one of those wand things.”

  I nodded in understanding. I’d seen guards waving the wands over visitors, even the governor.

  Carlisle took a sip from his tea. “How about we pray on it? I’m sure the answer will come.”

  I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t exactly in the habit of giving anything up to God quite yet. That would soon change. And in a big way.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  It became my personal mission to find the lock that belonged to the mysterious key. I tried every door in the house, nothing. I snuck the key into various cars I found parked outside the prison, and still nothing. I moved on to the other homes in the complex, over to Denny Bell’s house, where I heard his toddler whining. I tried the home of the other assistant warden several houses down, the one who liked to fart and blame it on his dog, who always accompanied him—perhaps for the very purpose of absorbing blame.

  I was soon out of options. The only possibility was inside the prison. Carlisle wouldn’t take the key inside, not even after I pleaded and insisted that the solution lie inside the barb-topped walls.

  “I don’t know what good snooping around will do,” he told me the day I appealed to him. He was working the soil in a pot of hydrangeas.

  “Things are back to normal, though, aren’t they?”

  “Hell, little man,” he said, smiling, turning his head to appreciate his work, “you been a warden’s son too long. It ain’t all about what it looks like from the outside.”

  “But even Brady Bruce,” I said.

  He looked up at me. “What about him?”

  I hesitated. “Bruce’s been . . . quiet.”

  “And how’s that supposed to be a comfort?” Carlisle said with a stone face.

  I had no answer.

  One night, a phone call came during dinner.

  “I have to take that,” Dad said. Mom gave him a look of disapproval. She didn’t like our dinners being disturbed. It was the one-time Dad would sit and be somewhat present. Dad answered the phone and quickly went around the corner. These were the days of phone cords that only reached as far as they stretched, good for twirling between fingers.

  “Sure. Yes, sir. I’ll be there in the morning,” Dad said.

  Dad came back, his face blank, and hung up the phone. He paused with his hand on it. “I forgot something at the office. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Oh, Dean,” Mom said.

  Dad whipped around so fast I thought he’d keep turning. “Leave me to my business, woman!”

  Everyone froze. Larry looked from Mom to Dad, lips puckering.

  Mom’s face went ruby red, all the way to the tips of her ears. “Go, then,” she said, her voice an ice pick.

  The front door slammed.

  “Don’t dawdle, James,” Mom said. “Eat your peas before they get cold.”

  I thought, What the hell is wrong with this family?

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  My eyes flicked open when I heard the front door close. It was half-past midnight. Dad never stayed out this late.

  I slipped from my bed and tiptoed to the door.

  The click of a lighter. The inhale of smoke.

  I snuck into the hallway, around the corner, and outside the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, sucking and puffing. I watched him for a time, wondering what was turning in his head. I never really understood my father. He had a way of blanketing his feelings behind a mask of authority. There was nothing I could say to help him. He was a tough man. I had faith that he would win whatever battle he was fighting. Impossible to think any different. While my mother was the glue that held our home together, Dad was the immutable force that propelled the family unit forward.

  Dad was reaching for another cigarette when I turned to go back to my room.

  “You might as well come in, James.”

  You don’t become a federal prison warden without having eyes on the back of your head.

  “Come on then,” he said, sending a fresh plume of smoke up to the brass chandelier above the table.

  I stepped to the other end of the kitchen table and stood there. Dad didn’t make eye contact, and that was fine with me. He let out a line of smoke like a spear, which then dissipated into a full plume. There was a hint of something else in the air. Alcohol.

>   “You want one?” Dad asked, tapping the cigarette.

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shifted in his seat, reaching into his pocket. His hand came back holding a slim jug filled with brown liquid. “I was your age when my father gave me my first smoke.” He unscrewed the bottle top and lifted the flask to his lips. The alcohol was half-gone already. No wincing like I saw on television. I didn’t know what that meant back then. “Had my first drink a year later. I suppose I’d be carted off by Social Services or paraded across the stage of the Donahue show if I were discovered giving you a taste of booze. Or a cigarette. But things used to be a lot different. Every boy I knew had an uncle who’d taken them aside and put a glass of whiskey in their hands.” He took another drag, then said, “I’m going to be going away soon.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He took another pull from the bottle. It was almost empty now. “To see my boss.”

  “Why?”

  I knew I was treading on thin ice by questioning him. Chalk it up to recent encounters with violence and death. Perhaps I was developing a taste for it.

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Is it about the escape?”

  “It is.”

  In for a penny. “Are you in trouble?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. “Could be.” He sounded half-asleep now.

  “Will we have to leave?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, setting the empty bottle on the table. His eyes became stony and looked like they were glassy.

  I exited the room slowly. I left my dad there, staring at the table like a convicted man.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  “They’re calling him to the mast,” Carlisle said, thoughtfully.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, nothing for you to worry about.”

  The way he tried to brush me off boiled my blood. “Don’t lie to me,” I said with a growl.

  Carlisle blinked. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Jimmy. I have to keep reminding myself that you’re not just any ten-year-old. As for your dad, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A man like your father has a gift for coming out on top. Probably gets it from your granddaddy.”

  “He talked about him last night.”

  “Is that so?”

  I mentioned the part of the conversation about cigarettes and booze.

  “Huh,” said Carlisle. “What else?”

  “Nothing. But Dad never talks about his father.”

  Carlisle looked up thoughtfully from his work. “When I first arrived here, I remember we had a guard who’d transferred from a place in Topeka. Name of Jarret. He was this big, grizzly man—arms like beer barrels. I became kinda sociable with him, as friendly as you can be with a guard. He had this scar on the back of his head. I asked him about it. He said he’d confiscated dice from one of the inmates and, against his better judgment, decided to start a game with his fellow guards on the sly. An impromptu match. Ever hear that word? Impromptu?”

  I shook my head.

  Carlisle smiled. “Nothing bad. It means they didn’t plan it. They’d snuck behind one of the washing machines, he and three others, and started throwing dice. Well, I don’t have to tell a warden’s boy about how that’s against the rules, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it so happens that your granddaddy was giving a tour of the place to some inspectors that had shown up. It was an impromptu visit, understand? They caught Jarret and his fellow guards. Your granddaddy was about to lay waste to all four of them. Then Jarret makes a speech. This was the stuff of legend. They say he was like . . . who’s that Revolutionary guy you told me about—the speechmaker?”

  “Patrick Henry?”

  Carlisle slapped his thigh. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Jarret was like him. Managed to convince your granddaddy that he alone was the one to blame, that it wasn’t right to punish folks he’d led astray. He was the one who should suffer the consequences of all four. They say the visiting inspectors were impressed, and one of them had tears in his eyes. Your granddaddy nodded and said quietly, ‘Very well, Jarret,’ he says, and then he reaches into his pocket and takes out a pen and drops it on the floor. He nods to Jarret and says, ‘Please.’ And Jarret bends down. That’s when your granddaddy turned his ring around. He wore this ring—did your daddy ever show it to you?”

  I shook my head.

  “One day, he will. Big old jewel right in the middle of it. Big ring. Your granddaddy had big hands. When Jarret bent over to pick up the pen, your granddaddy turned that ring around, so the big sharp jewel was facing down, and he lays his hand on the back of Jarret’s head. They say the huge grizzly bear went down as if he’d been hit with a bullet. Blood poured out the back of his head. Your granddaddy says to the other guards, ‘Clean up this mess boys and continues the tour with the inspectors.”

  I had nothing to say to this. My mouth hung open.

  “You wanna know the strangest part of the story? Remember, this was Jarret himself who told me this story. He rubbed that scar and said, ‘I deserved every bit of it. A good man, the warden. A good man.’”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Why what? Why was he a good man?” Carlisle shook his head. “Power is like that. When folks have power, folks like us naturally assume they have it for a reason. If they hurt us or use us or humiliate us, well, it would be far more disruptive to our view of the world if we suddenly thought they hadn’t earned that power because they were wise. You understand?”

  I didn’t. “All I know,” I said, “is that a man who hurts people for no reason isn’t a good man.”

  “You’re a good boy, Jimmy,” said Carlisle. “You keep thinking the way you think. Don’t let the Brady Bruces of the world allow you to think otherwise.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  On the first night of Dad’s trip, Mom made sure every door was locked. Twice.

  “No one goes outside. You hear me?” Mom said when she tucked me into bed.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Good.” She kissed me on the forehead.

  With the mystery of the key, Dad’s sudden departure, and my schoolwork, my brain was overflowing. No chance I was going to sleep anytime soon. I clicked on my reading light and grabbed one of the D&D manuals Kenji had left. I flipped through slowly, marveling at the pictures and reading each of Kenji’s handwritten notes in the margins.

  I was halfway through when I heard what sounded like the mewling of a cat. Long and drawn out. Then it came again. It wasn’t a cat.

  I went to the window. There it was again.

  A patrol truck drowned out the sound as it trundled by. Then I heard it again. It was coming from the Bells’ house. Had to be, no lights on next door.

  I thought about going to tell Mom. That thought evaporated with the heat of an idea—an adventure opportunity. My nerves had received a booster shot by pictures of paladins vanquishing writhing monsters with gleaming bastard swords.

  I slipped into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. My shoes were at the front door. I made it there without incident and was sliding the first shoe on when I heard a squeak from the kitchen. The light above the stove flicked on, and I saw Mom filling a glass with water. I stood, frozen, waiting. She could turn my way. But she didn’t, she went the other way.

  With the glass filled, the light went out again and Mom went back to her room. I breathed a sigh of relief. She very well might’ve tanned my backside if she’d seen me.

  Thankfully, the front door was creak-free. I was outside without a sound, padding my way around to where I thought the cacophony was coming from. I paused every few steps and cocked my ear. The noise kept coming—definitely, not an animal, though something like it. My skin pricked up at the idea. My heart thumped in my throat, but I kept on.

  It was coming from the Bells’ house for sure.

  Still no lights on. I wondered if Denny had bought his
kid a dog. Could a dog make that kind of sound? No, it had to be the kid. I kept going. The strange sound was, for sure, coming from Denny’s house. I should have let it be. I didn’t.

  And so, before I knew it, I was standing under one of the Bells’ windows. The mewling was inside it. I took a chance. Standing on the tips of my toes underneath a window, I looked inside. What I saw froze me to the spot.

  I was so consumed with the performance inside that I didn’t notice the specter descending upon me from behind.

  Chapter Seventy

  Kids are quick.

  Today, with my middle-aged bones and faulty vision, and my reaction time diminished to that of a sloth, I would’ve been a goner. But back then, I needed only the faintest movement of a shadow or the whoosh of air to stir behind me. Therefore, I did what any good spy would do. I dropped to the ground and rolled to the side. Perfect timing.

  I finished the roll on my feet and sprinted away. I took a glance back as I did.

  Brady Bruce stood there, unmoving. He clutched his nightstick, which rested on the palm of his opposite hand and gleamed in the moonlight. His eyes pierced the darkness, sending a stab of fear into me.

  On I ran and quickly realized I was going the wrong way. I chanced another look back. Bruce was gone.

  My house was falling away by now. I fell into a steady rhythm, figuring I would make a long loop around the reservation out onto familiar territory. There was plenty of light cast in the clear night. I jumped over the rock outcropping and my favorite creek. Heck, I could keep this up all night. Something about the darkness made it feel like I was running at three times my speed.

  I was rounding a proud maple that had graced us with its beautiful fire plumage in the fall when I saw Bruce coming at me, matching my speed and path. Those eyes cut through the dark. It was like a cruel game of tag where only your eyes did the tagging, and Bruce was winning.

  I needed a place to hide. There was plenty of night left to wait him out. He had his uniform on. He had to go back to his shift at some point.