The Orion Plan

by Mark Alpert

  Joe stopped crying. His nausea and dizziness also eased a little. The pictures in his head were literally sobering. He let go of the table and rested his hands in his lap. He stared at the food on his tray.

  Another hamburger patty hit him in the shoulder. This time he saw the person who threw it, a burly Latino guy with gaudy tattoos on his arms. The guy yelled something in Spanish and the other inmates at his table laughed in response, but Joe ignored them. He kept his eyes on his tray. He stared at it so intently that after a couple of minutes the food no longer repelled him. The hamburgers were just slabs of protein and fat. And he needed the nutrients to survive in this place.

  He picked up one of the patties and forced it into his mouth. Then he started to chew.

  * * *

  After dinner Joe didn’t go back to his cell. Instead, he paced up and down cellblock D’s corridor, always staying within sight of the guard station. Calling it a “station” was a bit of a stretch; it was just a steel-walled booth at the end of the corridor, next to the barred gate that was the cellblock’s entrance. The booth had a window made of protective glass, and through it Joe saw a pair of correction officers reclining in their swivel chairs and staring at the video feeds from the jail’s security cameras. They looked like they were bored out of their minds.

  The cells in D block were still open, and there were at least a hundred inmates in the corridor. Some of them wandered back and forth, like Joe, but most clustered near their cells in groups of three or four, either talking in low voices or shouting insults at each other. Joe threaded his way through the crowd, following the red line that ran down the middle of the corridor. He swiveled his head as he walked, looking in all directions. At any moment he expected Curtis and Daryl to pop up behind him and shove him into one of the cells. If they did it quickly enough the guards might not notice. And the cells had no security cameras.

  Joe glanced at the clock on the wall: 8:56 P.M. He’d already gone up and down the corridor a dozen times, and there was still more than an hour to go before lights-out. His stomach churned and his head pounded. At nine o’clock he stopped to catch his breath, but the inmates standing nearby glared at him, so he moved on. He walked past the guard station again, then turned around at the barred gate and proceeded in the opposite direction.

  Don’t stop now. Just keep going for one more hour. Then you can go back to your cell and the guards will close all the doors and you’ll be safe till morning.

  Joe knew he shouldn’t make eye contact with the other inmates, so he focused his attention on the two guards, scrutinizing them every time he passed their station. One was middle-aged and heavy and prematurely gray, the other young and thin and pimply. They wore black uniforms and carried nightsticks and handcuffs on their belts, but no guns. They were clearly no match for a hundred angry prisoners, and now Joe understood why the correction officers rarely ventured from their station—they were badly outnumbered. If there was a riot, the guards could lock down the jail and call for reinforcements, but until help arrived the inmates could do whatever they wanted.

  As Joe approached the station once again at 9:08 P.M. the middle-aged guard rose from his swivel chair. He exited the booth through a door at the back and reappeared a few seconds later on the other side of the barred gate. The younger guard buzzed the gate open, allowing his gray-haired partner to step into the cellblock. Judging from the tired look on the older guard’s face, Joe assumed he was close to the end of his shift. He was probably getting ready for lights-out, making a final inspection of D block before herding the inmates back to their cells. As the guard marched down the corridor he removed the nightstick from his belt and held it ready. The name on his uniform, Joe noticed, was BILLINGS. Then, to Joe’s great surprise, Officer Billings pointed the nightstick at him.

  “You, Joseph Graham!” The guard’s voice was stunningly loud. “Turn and face the wall!”

  Joe was too alarmed to move. What did I do?

  “Are you deaf?” The guard raised the nightstick a little higher, preparing to swing. “Face the wall and put your hands behind your head!”

  Swallowing hard, Joe turned to the wall and raised his hands. They were trembling again, but after a few seconds he managed to lace his fingers together behind his head. The other inmates in the corridor watched with amusement. Several imitated him, shaking their hands spastically.

  Officer Billings frisked him. Joe was at a loss, his mind racing. He turned his head and tried to catch the guard’s eye. “What … what’s going—”

  “Shut the fuck up! If you say one more word, I’ll bash your fucking head in!” He slapped Joe’s hips and legs, checking for anything tucked into his sweatpants. Then the guard leaned close enough to whisper something in Joe’s ear. “I got a message for you. From Frank Patton.”

  It took Joe a second to realize who Billings was talking about—Officer Patton, the big redheaded cop from Inwood. “What? What does—”

  “You ruptured his spleen, you stupid fuck. When you hit him with the nightstick.” Billings punctuated the sentence by jabbing his own nightstick into Joe’s back. “And Frank Patton happens to be my brother-in-law.”

  The jab was painful but not excruciating. Billings couldn’t hit him hard in front of the security cameras in the corridor. But Joe knew the punishment was just beginning. He should’ve seen this coming. Patton had said many times that he had friends at Rikers.

  Billings stepped backward. “Okay, Graham, you’re coming with me. Turn right and walk down the corridor.”

  Joe did as he was told. The other inmates obligingly cleared a path. Some of them laughed and others shook their heads, but there wasn’t any surprise on their faces. They all knew he was charged with assaulting a cop. Everyone in the cellblock must’ve heard the story by now. Now the guards were going to make an example of him.

  Billings followed Joe down the corridor, staying a few feet behind. They went past the long rows of cells, then up a flight of stairs to the TV room, where a Spanish soap opera was playing on a wall-mounted screen. Then they walked toward another guard station, a bigger one. There were three correction officers behind the protective glass, all of them young, brawny guys with thick necks and broad shoulders. When they saw Joe and Officer Billings they looked at one another and grinned. They’re in on it, Joe thought. Those are the guys who are going to beat the crap out of me. He slowed his pace, his throat tightening, afraid to take another step. But Billings ordered him to keep fucking going and they went past the guard station and up another flight of stairs.

  They walked into an enormous kitchen full of industrial-size ovens and freezers. The place was deserted; the inmates who worked there had already gone back to their cells after cleaning up the remains of the putrid dinner. Joe assumed the other correction officers would meet them there and the beating would begin, but instead Billings led him past the ovens and out of the room. They entered the jail’s laundry, which was also silent, the giant washing machines and dryers shut down for the night, and then they marched down another corridor. Their journey through the cellblock was taking so long that Joe started to wonder if his original assumption was correct. If the guards were going to beat him up, why didn’t they just do it in the empty kitchen or the laundry? Why was Billings taking him on such a long excursion?

  At the end of the corridor they came to a black door pocked with fist-size dents. Billings opened it and pushed Joe into a large dank bathroom. A dozen showerheads jutted from the grimy walls, and the tiled floor sloped downward to a rusty drain in the middle of the room. Standing by the drain were two familiar men in white T-shirts and gray sweatpants.

  Joe spun around but Officer Billings stood in his way. The guard winked at him. “This is how it works here. We let the big boys take care of our problems.” He looked past Joe and waved at Curtis and Daryl. “Have fun, guys.”

  Then he left the shower room and closed the door behind him.

  * * *

  Joe backed up against the wall. Daryl saun
tered toward him, in no hurry, his huge torso swaying, his big sneakers squelching on the wet floor. He casually positioned himself between Joe and the door, then looked over his shoulder at Curtis. Daryl waited for instructions, but Curtis said nothing. He just stood there, his face blank, his muscled arms glistening with sweat. He looked like he’d just finished a workout in the exercise yard. He turned to the side and gazed at the showerheads for a while, as if trying to decide whether to wash up. Then he turned back to Joe and smiled. “Hey, Doc. What did you think of the chow? You like those hamburgers?”

  Joe’s legs went rubbery and he slid to the floor. His butt hit the wet tiles and soon the moisture soaked through the seat of his sweatpants. He felt so weak and frightened he could barely shake his head. “Please … please don’t…”

  “Sorry, begging won’t help. The deal’s already done.” Curtis turned to Daryl. “I feel a little sorry for the doc, don’t you? All he did was knock some cop on his ass.”

  Daryl nodded. “Yeah, he just picked the wrong cop.”

  “That’s for sure. Never mess with Billings.” Curtis looked Joe in the eye. “See, Officer Billings is the king of D block. He smuggles in our dope, carries messages in and out, all that good stuff. So we can’t turn him down if he asks us for a favor, you know?”

  “And what…” Joe’s throat was so tight, he couldn’t get the words out. He swallowed hard. “What’s the favor?”

  Curtis shrugged. “He told us to beat the hell out of you. Do some permanent damage, he said.”

  He bent over and stretched his right arm down to his left sneaker. Slipping his fingers under the sneaker’s tongue, he pulled out a stubby prison-issue toothbrush. The bristles had been cut off the end of the brush, and wedged into the rubber in their place was a slim, shiny blade, removed from a disposable razor.

  Curtis stepped forward with the makeshift weapon in his hand. Daryl stood beside him, ready to help. Joe sat on the floor, cringing, his arms around his knees. He heard the static in his head again, the same awful noise he’d heard before when Curtis had attacked him in his cell. He’d assumed then that Curtis was mentally disturbed, but now he realized that the man wasn’t any crazier than the other inmates here. This place was simply evil, and so was everyone inside it.

  Curtis came closer and waved the razor blade in Joe’s face. “Here’s the deal, Doc. I’m gonna hurt you pretty bad. But I’m gonna try not to kill you. Okay?”

  Joe stared at the blade. He focused on the thing with all his might, struggling to concentrate. There had to be a way out of this. He had to think of something.

  Pressing against the wall behind him, Joe lifted his butt off the floor and rose to his feet. His legs trembled, but he managed to stand up straight. “I’m a doctor. I have money. I can tell my wife to send some to you.”

  It was a bald-faced lie, but it got Curtis’s attention. He cocked his head and pulled back the hand that held the blade. “Well, that’s very generous, Doc.” He nodded in appreciation. “So how much money are you talking about?”

  “I have plenty in the bank. Thousands of dollars.” Joe nodded too, trying hard to look sincere. “Just tell me what you want.”

  Curtis glanced at Daryl. “You hear that? We can have as much as we want.” He smiled. “How much should we ask for? A million? Two million?”

  Daryl smiled back at him. “Ask for ten million. In twenty-dollar bills.”

  “Yeah, good idea.” Curtis turned back to Joe. “We want crisp, fresh twenties, Doc.”

  Joe’s heart sank. Curtis and Daryl were just playing with him. They leered like ten-year-olds sharing a good joke. They thought it was funny.

  After a few seconds Curtis stopped smiling. He raised the blade and took another step toward Joe. “Okay, where should we start? I could cut out one of your eyes. That sounds like permanent damage, right?”

  The razor blade was just inches away, glinting under the shower room’s fluorescent lights. But strangely enough, Joe was calmer now, less panic-stricken at the sight of it. The static in his head had died down and he could think again, because he felt something stronger than fear. Now that the worst was about to happen he just felt angry. He wanted to scream at Curtis, to curse the shit out of him. Although Joe kept his mouth shut, the words rang inside him: What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re a fucking animal!

  Then Joe heard something else in his head, but it wasn’t his own voice. It was his daughter’s.

  Look at them, Daddy. Look at both of them very carefully.

  Annabelle’s voice was so clear. It sounded like it came from just a few feet away. Joe swung his head from left to right, scanning the shower room, frantically looking for her.

  No, don’t look for me. Look at them. I need to see them.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you!” Curtis leaned closer. He stretched his arm and held the razor blade against the side of Joe’s neck. “You better pay attention, Doc, or else I’ll just end this quick and cut your throat.”

  Joe looked at the man. Curtis stood there with his right foot forward, knees bent, back slightly hunched. Daryl stood about a yard to Joe’s left. His feet were widely spaced, his arms folded across his chest.

  That’s good. Now do what Curtis wants you to do. Raise your hands and beg for your life.

  It made no sense, but Joe listened to the voice in his head. He slowly raised both his hands in surrender. They trembled on either side of his face. “Please … don’t kill me.”

  Curtis smiled again and pulled his arm back, taking the blade away from Joe’s neck. “That’s better. Now I’m gonna give you a choice, Doc. Left eye or right eye? Which one should I cut?”

  Keep begging. Promise him more money.

  “I … I have money. I’ll give you all of it.”

  Curtis laughed and turned to Daryl. “Are you listening to this shit? The fucking guy still doesn’t—”

  Joe’s hands stopped trembling and shot forward. He didn’t consciously decide to move them. His arms swung toward Curtis on their own, as if someone had yanked them with a string. Joe’s legs shot forward too, yanked by their own strings, and he lunged at Curtis like an exceptionally acrobatic marionette. The strings pulled both of Joe’s arms toward Curtis’s right hand, the one that held the razor blade. Joe’s hands clasped around Curtis’s and squeezed it so tightly that the man couldn’t let go of his weapon. Then, using his forward momentum, Joe swiped the razor blade across Curtis’s neck.

  The strings also turned his head to the left so he could watch Daryl. The attack on Curtis was so quick that Daryl hardly had time to react. He was just starting to move toward them when the strings spun Joe counterclockwise. Curtis was tipping backward, blood spurting from beneath his jaw, so it was a simple matter for Joe to shove the falling man at his partner’s knees. Daryl slipped on the wet floor and toppled forward, his bald head knocking against the tiles.

  Then the strings were cut and Joe almost fell too. He regained control of his arms and legs, which felt tight and hot and tingly, as if he’d just done a hundred push-ups. When he looked down he saw Curtis writhing on the floor next to the drain. He’d jammed both of his palms under his chin, trying to stanch the bleeding. Joe hadn’t cut the carotid artery—if he had, the blood would be spurting even worse—so he guessed Curtis would live. He couldn’t offer a prognosis for Daryl, though. The man lay facedown on the floor, not moving at all.

  Curtis had dropped the razor blade. It glinted on the tiles, still attached to the stubby toothbrush. Joe snatched it off the floor.

  Now go back to your cell, Daddy. Walk, don’t run.

  He scanned the room again, looking for Annabelle. She had to be hiding somewhere nearby, he was still convinced of it. He opened the door to the shower room and peered down the hallway, but it was empty. Officer Billings had apparently gone back to his station.

  “Annabelle!” he shouted. “Where are you?”

  First go back to your cell. Then we’ll talk.

  * * *

  Joe walked
across the cellblock, retracing his steps through the laundry and kitchen, fighting the urge to run. He was especially nervous when he passed the guard station near the TV room, but the correction officers were making the final preparations for lights-out and no one noticed him. He returned to his cell at 9:50 P.M., sat on his cot and waited. Five minutes later he heard the sound of guards rushing down the corridor, but they ran past his cell. Maybe they were heading for the shower room, maybe not. After five more anxious minutes, D block’s buzzer made its loud high-pitched noise and all the doors to the cells automatically closed. Then the lights went out and Joe sat there in the darkness.

  It’s a withdrawal symptom, he thought. I’m hallucinating her voice. But over the past hour all his other symptoms had disappeared. He wasn’t dizzy or nauseous anymore, and his hands were steady. His headache was gone and even his cracked ribs didn’t hurt. He took a deep breath of the cellblock’s fetid air. Truth be told, he hadn’t felt this good in years. Then I must be going mad. None of this is real.

  No, Daddy, it’s real. You’re in jail on Rikers Island.

  Joe jumped to his feet and looked around his cell. He couldn’t help it. “Annabelle?” he whispered into the darkness.

  You don’t have to talk out loud for me to hear you. I’m inside your mind. I can hear everything you’re thinking.

  The voice in his head sounded just like his daughter, but the words weren’t right. They weren’t the kind of words a child would use. The real Annabelle didn’t know what Rikers Island was. She knew nothing about jails or inmates or how to fight off a couple of sadists like Curtis and Daryl. So the person who’d saved Joe in the shower room couldn’t have been his daughter. It was an impostor, someone pretending to be Annabelle. He felt a surge of anger.

  “You’re not Annabelle.” He continued to whisper, defying her. “Who are you?”

  Close your eyes and I’ll show you.

  “No, tell me.” Joe kept his eyes open. “How did you get in my head?”