Escape Clause

by James O. Born

  Tasker stepped into the ward and found a small plastic chair and used it to inspect the top of the door. The mark went from one side to the other, changing from a scratch to a scuff. It was probably nothing, but he noted it. He nodded to the officer at the desk as he headed out to the dorm.

  He used his long, quick stride to cover ground and got to Dorm E in less than a minute. He noticed a few inmates milling around, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. At the entrance to E, there were four men talking in a group directly in front of the door.

  Tasker stopped and waited for the men to notice him and move. They kept talking and treated him like the correctional officers did. If he wasn’t so secure a person, he would’ve started to get a complex.

  Tasker said in a loud voice, “Excuse me, fellas.”

  The men didn’t look over at him.

  He stepped closer and said, “I need to get in the door.”

  Still no reaction.

  He started to feel his heart rate rise. Did these guys realize they were inmates? This time he left no room for doubt. “Move away from the door, now.”

  The men casually looked at him and split up. The largest of the four white men, a bruiser more than six-three, with a bandage around his gigantic right bicep, stayed right in front of the door.

  “You say something?” asked the big man.

  “You heard me.”

  “Around here people don’t talk to us like that.”

  “I don’t live here.” Tasker sensed the other men starting to circle him. His right hand instinctively dropped to his rear pocket. Calmly he felt the end of the closed ASP with his fingertips, thanking God he had forgotten to leave it outside. This was the second time in two days he had had to do that. He was starting to see a pattern.

  Luther Williams checked the clock. It was four-fifteen, time to get this show on the road. He was taking a few things on faith, but he felt confident the whole plan would work. It would either be a complete success or a total failure. There would be no middle ground. If he could’ve followed his own timetable, he would’ve waited another two weeks and spent the time ensuring everything was in place. But the suspicion on him for killing Vic Vollentius was too dangerous to ignore. At any time, Inspector Chin and her FDLE friend Tasker could have him sent to lockdown until they finished their investigation. At the very least he’d lose his trustee status and the freedom that gave him. No, it had to be today. Right now, actually, if things were to work properly.

  Luther went to the classics shelf and removed the sharpened support. He slid it into his waistband and then leaned out the door into the main hallway. He was prepared to go looking for the big-mouthed Robert Moambi, but was pleasantly surprised to see the younger man just down the hall leaning on his broom.

  Luther didn’t speak, he just rapped on the wall with his knuckle.

  Moambi’s head snapped up and he gave Luther a puzzled look. Luther motioned him toward the library with his right hand, like he had something he wanted to show the other trustee. Then Luther stepped back into the library and pulled the shiv from his pants.

  Moambi popped around the corner and said, “What do ya got? Something good?”

  “I think so,” Luther said, and casually swung his left hand over Moambi’s back and grasped his head firmly. At the same time, without telegraphing the move, he swung the shiv straight up into the soft flesh under Moambi’s chin. The combination of shoving his head down and driving the shiv up resulted in a devastating blow.

  Moambi never even gave any fight. He went from surprised to motionless in seconds, so fast that Luther checked his pulse to see if he had merely knocked the man unconscious. There was no pulse, and as a result, very little blood seeping from the metal rod that was wedged five inches into Robert Moambi’s head. Luther thought it must have penetrated his brain. No small feat considering the size of the target.

  Luther muscled the dead man to the window onto the entranceway. He set him in a sitting position, like he was looking out the window. Even with the metal rod sticking out of his head, he looked completely natural. The correctional officers were so used to seeing him lounge around instead of work, the whole scene just felt right. Too bad that wasn’t exactly what Luther needed right now.

  He checked the clock. Four twenty-two. He needed to get a move on.

  He glanced around the room quickly. Then he saw some of the twine that had been used to secure the boxes of books to be thrown out. He tied a loop around Moambi’s arm and then strung it across the doorway to the admin hallway. He tied it off on a chair that sat right next to the door.

  He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. Everything looked right, he just needed to catch a break or two.

  Luther did one more check of the room. Aside from a body with a metal rod sticking out from under its head, everything looked in order. He checked his pockets. All he had was the key, which his lady friend had left for him. The same key he had killed Vic Vollentius over. It had been tough to get into the prison, but no one ever searched him coming out. He was all set and headed to the front door. Things would start hopping soon.

  Lester Lynn had been a correctional officer for three years and generally just did what he was told, no matter what the policy or cops might say. Here in the control room, his dream job, he had failed to mention certain things he’d seen on the monitor, but it was all minor stuff with inmates. This time, Sergeant Janzig had just told him to ignore anything he saw on the monitor looking over Dorm E. Lester had figured it was another lesson they had arranged for some inmate who didn’t know his place in this fine world.

  Lester had noticed the Aryan Knights. Those were the guys the officers used most often when they needed someone’s ass whipped. What surprised Lester was their target. He happened to glance at the monitor and saw the FDLE agent walking up to the dorm, and now he was squared off with the great big Aryan Knight who was in here for beating up a cop.

  Normally, Lester would’ve worked his radio by now, attempting to short-circuit the brewing situation. Instead, he used all his willpower to look at another monitor so later he’d be able to say he hadn’t seen a thing.

  Bill Tasker took in the scene. The odds weren’t that good if it was just him and the big guy, but the other three made him a Vegas nightmare: No one would’ve bet on him. His hope was to make it last long enough that someone noticed his situation.

  He shifted his weight to his rear foot slightly and followed the big man right in front of him as the man looked to move one way or the other.

  Tasker let his right hand slip into his pocket and grip the closed ASP. No matter how he looked at it, things were going to get ugly.

  The standoff continued for over a minute and Tasker started to wonder why no one had seen him. Why had no correctional officer passed by or why had no one seen it on a monitor? Maybe it was like the lockdown attack. If it was, he was on his own and this time there were four attackers.

  After finding no opening, the big man just lunged straight ahead at Tasker.

  It was showtime.

  twenty-nine

  Luther Williams actually smiled at the correctional officer sitting at the reception desk at the front door to the admin building.

  The burly officer said, “Done for the day, Williams?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Janzig told me to be back at the dorm by four-thirty.”

  “You better shag that black ass if you want to keep that ornery som-bitch happy.”

  “Yes, sir. On my way.”

  Luther kept his cool walking out the door, hoping that someone didn’t find his surprise too early. Outside the admin building, he turned like he was going to the visitors’ center. Everyone knew he had a certain visitor every Sunday and Wednesday at exactly four-thirty. Let’s hope she knew it. This was his biggest gamble—that his so-called girlfriend would be in the lot with her Cadillac at four-thirty. He needed the diversion to confuse everyone just long enough for him to turn toward the lot instead of the visitors’ center.

 
Luther slowed his stride as he untied the orange trustee vest over his drab, gray uniform. There were two correctional officers walking toward him, so he kept his course and nodded to them as they passed.

  “Sirs,” was all he said.

  As usual, the big white officers didn’t even acknowledge his existence. They kept right on toward the admin building.

  Luther didn’t have a watch, but knew he had to make his move soon. He couldn’t believe no one had run across Moambi’s body yet.

  He slowed as the walkway cut off toward the parking lot.

  Captain Norton couldn’t sit still in his big leather chair. There was too much going on right now to be calm.

  He stood and stretched at his desk, then decided to check in with the lovely Inspector Chin. Her smile usually took his mind off his day-to-day problems.

  When he found her office empty, he cut down the hallway toward the front desk to see if anything was new. He didn’t want to go inside the perimeter right now. He came to the library and turned into the doorway. One step in, he felt something on his ankle.

  “What in the hell is this shit?” He bent down like a frustrated parent picking up after a messy child. He held the twine that he had stepped into and then froze. Could this be the trigger to a bomb? He held the line and let his eyes follow it up to the form of a resting trustee.

  “Luther? You napping on the job?” He straightened and realized the man was not Luther Williams. He stepped toward him as he jerked on the line. The sudden tension in the line pulled the man off the windowsill onto the floor with a hollow thump. Norton took a quick step and knelt by the man. That’s when he saw the metal rod coming out of his chin and realized it was the new trustee, Moambi, and he was as dead as a rabbit in a burnt cane field.

  “Shit.” He jumped to his feet and yelled, “Bobby, go to lockdown, go to lockdown, right now.”

  Within a few seconds, the alarms all over the facility started to sound and every correctional officer had a job.

  Tasker let the big man charge him, then in one motion raised his hand with the closed ASP and sidestepped the lunging bull of a man. Tasker brought his hand down hard, the force causing the ASP to extend on the way down, catching the big man across the shoulders and neck. He froze in mid-stride and dropped to the ground in a heap.

  Tasker immediately turned to the other three men with the extended ASP. “Who’s next, gentlemen?”

  Before he had to deal with the obviously eager men, a siren started to blast.

  One of the remaining inmates looked at another and said, “Shit, lockdown.”

  Before Tasker had a chance to vent his frustration, all three men were running toward their dorm.

  As soon as the alarm sounded, Luther turned calmly toward the parking lot and started in a quick pace toward the visitors’ lot where he hoped to see the Cadillac parked. If he was real lucky, his lady friend would already be at the visitors’ center and have to walk back to the car.

  He skidded over the rough gravel-and-lime lot searching for the pearl-white car. His heart started to race as he considered just making a run for the road. Where in the hell was she?

  Then, in the third row, he saw the car. It was empty. To one side he saw several correctional officers fanning out toward the edges of the prison grounds as per policy. One had a Remington shotgun.

  Luther ducked low between two cars and made his way to the Cadillac. He reached for his small silver key and slid it into the trunk. It opened easily. Damn, Cadillac made a good car, Coupe DeVille or not. He opened the lid a few inches so as not to draw attention to the lot. The trunk had boxes of pink merchandise that looked like Mary Kay bullshit. He didn’t have time for comfort so he just climbed in on top of the boxes, which gave way under his weight and actually formed a comfortable cushion. The trunk was completely void of light except for the glow-in-the-dark safety release over his shoulder. Luther could hear his own labored breathing. How long would he have to wait? Would they search her car? It didn’t matter. So far he had done all he could do.

  Tasker stood over the man he had clubbed with his ASP, waiting for someone to come help with the beaten inmate. He checked his pulse and breathing. The big guy was half-conscious and moaned as he tried to shake off the blow.

  “Just lay there,” Tasker said. “Someone will come back to help us out soon.”

  He was right; within minutes two correctional officers, trotting toward Dorm E, stopped and stared at Tasker and the man.

  “Little help here, fellas.”

  “What happened?” asked one of the officers.

  “He attacked me.”

  “What’d you do to him?”

  “Hit him with this.” He held up the ASP.

  The officer stepped forward and snatched the ASP out of Tasker’s hands. “You the reason for the lockdown?”

  Tasker shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You better come with us.” The two officers leaned down and helped the inmate to his feet, then led him toward the medical section with Tasker trailing behind.

  Correctional Officer Fitzhugh Simmons had been at Manatee Correctional his entire two-and-a-half-year career with the Florida Department of Corrections. It was much nicer than the facility he had worked in in his native Jamaica for eight years, though not nearly as lucrative, because the administration here actually frowned on bribes and gratuities.

  This was the third full lockdown in the past few weeks. Over his radio he heard it was because of a murder, not an escape, so he wasn’t as concerned. His job now was to walk the three visitors who hadn’t checked in yet back to their cars. Visiting hours were canceled. The two big white women were crying a little, but the elderly black man almost looked relieved that he didn’t have to deal with whoever he knew that was locked up here.

  The small group paused as the first lady stopped at her pickup truck. He looked in the cab and the bed was empty, so he just let her ride off. The old man had a Toyota Camry. Again Fitzhugh just glanced in the passenger compartment. He didn’t want to bother this man to open his trunk. It was too small to hold a full-grown adult anyway.

  The third visitor, a big white lady in a loud flower print dress, blew her nose at the door to her nice little Cadillac CTX. She said, “Thanks,” like he had done her a favor, and got inside. Fitzhugh saw the passenger compartment was clear and she didn’t seem the type to hide anyone, and after all the alarm was for a murder not an escape. He let her drive off, too.

  He watched as the Caddy headed out the main row and slowed near the standing officers with shotguns. Fitzhugh waved to them and gave them a thumbs-up as the Caddy approached.

  They signaled the lady on past.

  Fitzhugh Simmons started the long walk back to the visitors’ center, where he figured this whole thing would be called off and he could get back in the air-conditioning.

  thirty

  Bill Tasker knew something didn’t feel right. He saw Renee a few feet away, mocha skin, smooth and as flawless as he had imagined. Her long, slender legs melding into her lovely hips and black pubic hair. She hadn’t said anything as he stood there, staring at this remarkably beautiful woman. Then he heard something, distant but powerful. He tried to ignore it, block it out of his mind as he became aware of what it really meant. The pounding became more defined, and then he heard a man’s voice yell, “C’mon, Tasker, answer the door.” He gave up and let the pounding seep into his conscious mind.

  He opened his eyes and now, still in bed, alone, he heard the loud knock on his door again. “Fuck,” he muttered, as he rolled out of bed and rummaged in the dresser for a clean T-shirt. Out of a habit developed here in Gladesville, he grabbed his Beretta from the nightstand and crammed it in his shorts at the small of his back.

  He padded from his bedroom, through the living room to the front door. He opened the old wooden door a crack and peered out. Rufus Goodwin stared back at him.

  “C’mon, open the door.”

  Tasker stepped back and complied. He was still exhausted from he
lping the staff at Manatee look for the missing Luther Williams. A thorough search of the outer field and Gladesville had failed to produce the missing inmate. Likewise, the dogs had failed to pick up much of a scent. Tasker wasn’t surprised the wily Luther Williams, aka Cole Hodges, had outsmarted the staff of Manatee.

  Tasker stood at the open door looking at Gladesville’s lone detective. His eyes were bloodshot and his white short-sleeve shirt had coffee stains on it. His usual clip-on tie had been discarded altogether.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Tasker.

  “You mean, besides an escape at Manatee?”

  “I was out most of the night, too.”

  Rufus said, “That and talking to my suspect must’ve worn your ass out.”

  Now Tasker realized the source of the hostility coming from Rufus. “Look, Rufus, c’mon in.” He motioned him into the small apartment. “I wasn’t trying to cut in on your case, but I had to see the guy you thought killed the professor.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “You know what I learned.” He looked at Rufus for a reaction. “Why’d you grab a poor stiff like Rubie?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Give me a break, Rufus.” Tasker flopped down on the couch. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. That little crazy fucker is no more responsible for killing Warren Kling than you are.”

  Now Rufus had to sit down. He took the lone padded chair across from the couch. He rubbed his eyes and kept his mouth shut.

  Tasker knew he wouldn’t get much, but he pressed the detective.

  “You under that much pressure that you’d stick a homeless guy with a murder charge?”

  “Look, it wasn’t like that. He is a suspect. A vagrant. Had the credit card.”