The Warden's Son

by C. G. Cooper

  I scanned my mental map of the land but couldn’t find a single place to hunker down. I was probably passing one every few seconds; the adrenaline pumping through me gummed up all rational thought.

  Bruce veered right, his arms pumping. He’d gotten closer somehow. He was fast and seemed to be getting faster. Or was I slow and getting slower?

  The realization hit, I was running farther and farther from safety. The houses were out of earshot now. No one from the prison would hear me if I screamed.

  Had this been Bruce’s plan all along, to get me out in the middle of nowhere and kill me? Now that thought got me running, sprinting, a streak in the night.

  I looked back toward Bruce, and panic took hold of my guts. He was closer than ever.

  I pushed my body to the limit, past it. I wished I were Bruce’s size. With longer legs, I could’ve outrun him. I heard his breathing, hard and labored. It came in sickening animal grunts.

  Then, out of nowhere, a log I’d once used as a sniper’s den in my imaginary battles with redcoats popped into view. I ran for the tree trunk and its massive knot of roots on one end. I’d jump on top and over.

  That’s not what happened.

  My left foot planted on the first root and slipped farther to the left. I tried to compensate, the muscles in my legs struggling to right the ship. I managed a flailing that ended with a face plant into the side of the enormous mound.

  Momentum gone.

  Game over.

  It took a moment for the air to come back to me. I pushed myself onto my back, wincing at the pain in my ankle: a bad sprain, or a break.

  As a result, there was the taste of iron flooding into my mouth. The sting of some unseen cut on my lip hit a second later. I let out a moan just as that familiar shadow descended once again.

  Brady Bruce stood over me, his chest heaving, hands on his hips.

  He said, “Now look what you’ve done.”

  I cursed at him, feeling nothing except rage.

  And then whether from shock or pain I couldn’t say, but the black lines on the corners of my vision closed in like curtains.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The first sensation I had was rocking back and forth like I was on a little wooden boat in the middle of a lake. My eyes flashed open but closed just as quickly from the pain. Oh, the pain. It was everywhere. My face. My hands. My legs.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  Mom? Where was I? I wanted to ask, but all I could muster was a pitiful moan.

  “I can call the doctor,” a voice said.

  Now I had to open my eyes. Mom was hovering over me, a gentle smile belying the look of worry in her eyes. Then, to my abject horror, I saw Brady Bruce emerge from behind her.

  “Get out!” I screamed.

  “Shhh,” Mom said, caressing my head. “It’s okay. Brady found you.”

  “Should I call the warden?” Bruce asked.

  “No.” There was heat in Mom’s voice. “I can take care of James.”

  Now I wanted Dad there. I wanted him to throttle Bruce and drag him away in irons. No dungeon was dingy enough for that creep.

  I let out a pitiful groan filled with pain and frustration.

  “If that’ll be all, ma’am,” Bruce said, taking a step back through the door.

  “Yes, thank you, Brady.”

  I wanted to scream again, but my gritted teeth wouldn’t open.

  “Goodnight, ma’am. Jimmy.”

  I thought I saw a glimmer of satisfaction in Bruce’s eyes; however, I couldn’t be sure. What I do remember is the room spinning, me leaning over the side of the bed, then spilling everything I’d ingested in the last six hours onto the floor.

  And then the world went dark.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  The realization of what I’d done arrived along with the morning. Mom was sleeping in the bed next to me when I shifted to go to the bathroom. There was still a lingering smell of vomit, and my stomach lurched.

  Mom continued to sleep as I crept from the room and into the bathroom. The face that greeted me in the mirror looked like he’d lasted three brutal rounds with Mike Tyson. I was a mess. Half of my face was puffed and discolored while the other sagged from the strain of the night before. No way I was going to school. No way.

  My bathroom business finished, I crawled back into bed, careful not to disturb my sleeping mother. She looked so peaceful there, her chest rising and falling in a natural rhythm. I watched her until I drifted off too.

  The doorbell snapped me awake. When I looked at the clock, it was well past nine in the morning.

  “Oh, hello,” I heard Mom say at the front door. Pause. Some murmuring I couldn’t make out. “I’ll see if he’s up for it,” she answered.

  Mom came into my room and was fully dressed for the day, makeup and all. “Good, you’re awake. Carlisle’s here. He said you were going to help him with something.”

  “Yeah,” I said wearily, “I have to help him with something.”

  “After what you did last night, I ought to punish you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I explicitly told you not to go outside, and you disobeyed.”

  “I know, ma’am.”

  She paused, a smiled fighting its way onto her face. “You worried me, is all.”

  “I know,” I said again, ashamed.

  “But you’re here, and you’re alive and well. Almost well, anyway. I’m not going to punish you. At any rate, I don’t think you should get out of bed. How about I set you up on the couch? You can watch television to your heart’s content.”

  “I’ll be okay.” To show her I got to my feet, holding back the wince, and flapped my arms and legs around. “See. I’m fine.”

  Mom shook her head. “You look like a drunken man walking a tightrope.”

  As if I’d just remembered it, I touched my face, though not too hard. The little touch sent searing pain along my jaw and up the side of my face.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I really am sorry about last night.” My voice wavered, and tears stung my eyes.

  “Give me a hug,” she said, opening her arms. She let go with tears of her own.

  She very nearly crushed me with that hug. My body wanted to scream. The pain shot down every extremity like jets of fire.

  “You’re alive,” she said, crying. “I was so worried.”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  My renewed energy from breakfast had convinced her to let me go and see Carlisle.

  He was in his office, sipping from his dented mug, hat perched on his lap.

  “Well, if it ain’t the Prodigal Son.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind. Have a seat. You look like something out of a monster movie.”

  I slumped into the chair across from Carlisle. I wished it was a cushy recliner instead of a metal thing that dug into my back.

  “I heard about last night,” he said.

  “You did?”

  Carlisle nodded, taking another sip of the steaming tea. “Word gets around. You know that.”

  “But who told you?”

  “A little birdie. Anyway, I wanted you to come today because, well, I was thinking about your key. I thought maybe I could take it inside, see if we might get lucky.”

  I perked up at that. I’d exhausted my efforts with the mysterious key. I’d started to think that it was some random key given to me by that escapee, making me believe it was something valuable to buy my silence.

  “I can go get it,” I said enthusiastically.

  I was halfway to the door when Carlisle said, “Hang on. I need you to do something for me.”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  I was in a conciliatory mood, considering what he’d promised. And besides, this was Carlisle. There wasn’t anything he could ask me that I wouldn’t do. At least that’s what I thought before I heard his request.

  But when he asked, I felt like he’d punched me in the st
omach, and then the side, and then the side of the head. I had to grab the door jamb to keep from reeling.

  “No way,” I said, my voice creaking. “Please don’t make me do that.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  “You owe him a chance,” Carlisle said, his face passive.

  “I don’t owe Brady Bruce an apology!”

  “We were wrong about him, Jimmy.”

  Carlisle was taking crazy pills. That was the only answer. There was no way in the world that my friend, the man who’d been on the receiving end of rage from the very person he wanted me to apologize to, no way he could want this to happen. I wanted to pinch myself to see if I was asleep, but I didn’t know where on my tender body I could without sending the needling pain shooting again.

  “He’ll be waiting for you.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “I won’t make you go, Jimmy, although I’ll tell you that things will be a lot better if you do.”

  I thought about lying to him. I’d tell Carlisle that I’d do this thing and run home instead. My shoulders slumped. My lie would come back on Carlisle somehow. They’d take a warden’s son’s word over an inmate’s any day. I couldn’t allow that. I realized how selfish that act would be. Then I remembered what he’d said about people holding power and those who follow their every word, and it became a little clearer to me.

  And so, not for the first time, I put my trust in Carlisle.

  I nodded toward the floor. “Okay,” I said softly.

  Carlisle stood and set the empty cup on his desk.

  “I’m proud of you, Jimmy.” He patted me on the back. “He’s waiting for you by the creek. Do me a favor. After you finish, come back to see me.”

  Off I marched, to my doom, to do the one thing I never in a million, billion years thought I’d do.

  Apologize to Brady Bruce. God help me.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  The shakiness in my legs soon turned to a rage-infused stiffness that made me walk like a knight in plated armor.

  What am I doing? I thought. This is stupid. So stupid.

  And it was. The enemy was awaiting my surrender. I saw his face in my mind’s eye, leering, jeering, smug satisfaction at my defeat and humiliation.

  I wondered what the hell had made Carlisle come to the conclusion that Brady Bruce was worth the spit it took to apologize to him.

  I focused on the pain that still radiated around my ankle. Mom had said it was a bad sprain. I’d fix my thoughts there because it grounded me—the pain. Focus on the pain, I told myself. Every jab and jolt of it was a reminder of who put it there.

  There were fifty yards between us now. Bruce puffed away on a cigarette, fast, like he was racing to the finish. The smell of cigarettes was starting to get to me. I’m not sure if it was because Dad hit the pack more when things weren’t going right. Like now, it was evident since he’d returned home that things weren’t their normal kosher. I’m pretty sure he sucked down two to three packs a day.

  There was no raised hand in greeting from Bruce. We weren’t friends, so I didn’t expect it. Then I was there, staring up at him, hoping that all the rage I felt was shooting from my eyes and burning a hole into him. If it was, he didn’t flinch. In fact, it seemed like he didn’t even see at all. His eyes were hollow pits of nothing.

  He flicked the cigarette away, and the smoke dissipated. That’s when I saw his eyes, rimmed in red, raw, and puffy.

  Was he crying? No way.

  “Thanks for coming to see me, Jimmy,” he said.

  He shuffled uncomfortably, one foot, then to the other, like a kid sent to the principal’s office. It didn’t look like he was going to keep the words coming.

  Might as well push the conversation along. “Carlisle said you wanted to . . . see me?”

  A loud, jarring laugh came out of his mouth. “That Carlisle, he’s a real piece of work.”

  I was fully prepared to mount an assault in defense of my friend, even though it was that very friend who’d put me in this shit situation.

  Bruce still didn’t register my hostility. That gave me pause, but not much.

  “I . . . I’ve changed, or at least I’m trying to change.” The cigarette pack came out of his pocket, and he shook it, winced, then squashed it. “Damn.” He stuffed the empty package back in his pocket. “I sure could use another one. Hell, I sure could use a drink. Look, Jimmy, I’ve done some things that I’m not proud of. A lot of things. Carlisle’s helped me realize how fucked up I’ve been. Sorry for my language.” His hands twitched as they interlaced.

  Then it was like something in his throat became uncorked, and he let out a stream of words with no end. It was all I could do to stand there and take the slap of shock.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  “You’ve got a good dad, kid. Do you know that? My dad . . . used to . . . aw, hell.” Bruce dragged his arm across his eyes and sniffled. “My dad used to wallop me quite a bit, you know? A lot of the time I didn’t know I’d done anything wrong. It would be during dinner, say, and I’d be enjoying my meal, laughing with my brother, and the hand would come in from the side and smack me . . . hard. He did the same thing to my mother. You grow up like that . . . hell, it’s not an excuse. Let’s say it takes a guy some time to unlearn the lessons of his youth, you know? Shit, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  I shuffled uncomfortably. “What about Carlisle?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You said Carlisle’s been helping you?”

  “Oh, yeah. You see . . .” He licked his lips. “One time I was . . . mean to him.”

  He shuffled again, and I could tell it was because he was trying to speak to me using kid language.

  “I was mean to him. I liked doing it, you know? It made me feel good because I . . . I kind of hate myself. And when I could be mean to someone, it made me feel like I was right for hating myself. It’s hard to explain. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “I hate myself because my dad made me feel worthless. At least that’s what my brain tells me.” He stared at the ground, chewing his bottom lip. “Anyway, one time, I was being mean to Carlisle, and I did something I never did to him before.”

  My hands automatically balled into tight fists.

  “I . . .” he continued, “I looked into his eyes, really looked into them. I saw how we’re both humans—brothers under the skin and all that. I’d never had that feeling before with anyone I was . . . mean to.”

  I nodded, processing.

  He held out his hand, palm down. “See this? Can’t even hold my hand still.” He clenched the hand into a fist and shoved it into his pocket. “I have to go, but I didn’t want to leave without saying sorry. I’m sorry, kid, for everything. You got caught in the middle. It wasn’t your fault. I take responsibility . . . for everything I did. Tell the warden if you want. I won’t lie. I’ll admit to it. I promise.”

  He put two fists to his eyes, like a little boy. “I thought maybe you could find it in your heart not to tell, to forgive me. I’ll change. I am changing.”

  I was too dumbstruck to respond. I wasn’t going to hug the guy or anything. Even a lion can play possum if he wants to. But here was this lousy bad guy begging me to believe his contrition. How could I not give pause?

  An idea bubbled from somewhere inside me.

  “The escape.”

  Bruce looked up, recognition in his red-rimmed eyes.

  “Why did it happen?”

  He shook his head. I saw the lie coming. Old habits don’t scare away in a day. “I don’t know. Just some crazy inmates.”

  “Don’t call them that!”

  He dropped his chin to his chest, chastised.

  “It was your idea, wasn’t it? You made them do it.”

  He covered his face with his hands. “I might have made them do it. But it wasn’t my idea. I promise.”

  He was making a lot of promises.

  “You’re a liar,” I said. There was th
is strange vacillation of emotion inside me. Pity gave way to compassion, which gave way to resentment, then anger. I couldn’t keep track of, or a firm hold of any of them.

  The hands came down, and he nodded stupidly. “I am. I’m a world-class fucking liar. I’ve done a lot that I’m not proud of. In spite of all I’ve said and done; I swear kid, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “Then whose idea was it?”

  He shook his head, so vehemently I thought his neck might snap. “No. I can’t say anything. He’ll kill me.”

  A dead calm spread through me. “Who?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Tell me who.”

  Holy cow, how his eyes bulged. “No, kid. I can’t. I swear, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Bruce grabbed my hands. His were ice slab cold and rough as cheese rinds. I tried to pull away, but he had me vise-like. His putrid breath assaulted my nose, and I started to panic.

  “Look, Jimmy, your dad’s a good guy. A good boss. Best warden I ever worked for. He’s fair, and he gives a shit. Because of that, you have to tell him to get the hell out of here.”

  “Why?”

  “Convince him to leave, that’s all. Come up with something. Maybe Carlisle can help. He’s a smart cookie.” He chuckled at that. “Can’t say I’d ever said that about a con. But talk to him. He’ll know what to do. I really am sorry, kid. I mean it. Can you forgive me? Please?”

  I can’t properly explain what I saw in his face. The pleading. The shell he’d become.

  The vacillation of emotion occurred once again, shifting me along its confusing spectrum.

  “Okay,” I said. “By the way, I’m sorry too.”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Carlisle was in the same spot I’d left him, sipping a fresh cup of tea, as if nothing of consequence had happened.