by Gwenda Bond
My phone buzzed near bedtime, and I picked it up, eager for today’s photos.
SmallvilleGuy: You still up? Sorry I didn’t message sooner. We just stopped at a hotel.
SkepticGirl1: Yep. Report please. What’d you see today?
SmallvilleGuy: Good stuff—in Indiana we visited a place you would love.
SkepticGirl1: Oooh, what was it?
SmallvilleGuy: Rotary Jail Museum. It has the only working rotating jail cell in the country. It rotates in a circle so eight cells could be brought around to the door separately. Only one guard needed. From the 1800s.
He sent a photo of a little cell with beige metal bars.
SkepticGirl1: That is indeed cool. I bet I won’t see anything like that tomorrow.
SmallvilleGuy: You ready for your big interview?
SkepticGirl1: Ready as I can be. What else from today?
I waited and another photo popped up. It was a bronze deer statue complete with horns standing at the railing of a bridge in a city.
SmallvilleGuy: Columbus, my fave because we only had to hop out of the car for this one. Tomorrow is our last day of driving, and then…
SkepticGirl1: Then you’ll be here.
We both typed in messages that popped up at the same time.
SmallvilleGuy: I can’t wait.
SkepticGirl1: I can’t wait.
I put my hands up to my face, then managed an answer.
SkepticGirl1: Jinx. You owe me a Coke.
SmallvilleGuy: You got it. Good night, Lois.
SkepticGirl1: Night, soon-to-no-longer-be-a-mystery boy.
Two more sleeps, and then Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
CHAPTER 12
But before Sunday came Saturday, and my first ever visit to a prison. Obviously I couldn’t tell Mom where I was going, so I planned to say to the Scoop. It was Scoop business after all.
I pulled on my leather jacket and, after a moment’s hesitation, put Reya’s drawing of the woman and the dragon in my bag. It might come in handy.
When I got downstairs, Mom was in the kitchen reading today’s edition of the Planet—which she’d insisted on subscribing to, Dad’s protests about the sensationalist media pressed aside by her allegiance to me and my employer. She looked at me over the top of it. “Where are you off to?”
“To commit journalistic enterprises,” I said.
“Carry on,” she said. “What time will you be back?”
Good question. I honestly had no idea.
“I’m, um, not sure. I’ll text.”
She shrugged. “Okay, well, have a good day, hon.”
Why, yes, I did feel guilty as I left and as I navigated the subway. From the appointed stop, I followed my directions to the dock for the corrections department’s ferry to Stryker’s Island.
Perry was already there, and he waved as I walked up. The West River shone flat and gray in the sunlight. It emanated a smell like old laundry and fish guts that made it hard to appreciate looks-wise.
The ferryman—noteworthy for his captain’s hat and friendly-walrus mustache—stood waiting on the dock beside the boat with a few other guards who apparently formed his crew. He held a clipboard and, when we approached, asked, “ID?”
I flashed my ID, and then nervously said, “This is my adult companion.”
“I figured, Ms. Lane,” the walrus-mustached man said, putting a check by my name and making Perry sign that I was under his supervision.
The ferry guy and his crew checked everyone against the list, marking them down or turning people who weren’t on it away. Then he climbed over onto the deck of the dingy white boat, which had the corrections logo on the side.
“All visitors to Stryker’s aboard!” he called.
There were about ten of us, a small contingent, who stepped over onto the wobbly deck. The boat was older, rough around the edges, with an enclosed cabin where we were made to sit on benches.
Perry and I got the front row, at least. And the boat had windows, so there was some view as we lumbered out across the water. The river was prettier with a buffer against the odor.
“At least on the way back we’ll have a view of the city,” Perry said.
“What? You don’t like looming fortresses?”
Stryker’s Island was already visible ahead. The prison was located on a literal island, between New Troy and Queensland Park. This, our mode of transport, was the only way for visitors to get there. A municipal ferry ran for employees only.
The prison was a towering structure, built high on the rocks of the island, getting larger as we approached. Not exactly a place that shouted “pleasant day trip.”
“You know what you’re going to ask Boss?” Perry asked.
“Of course,” I said.
I had made notes and scrawled some questions in my notepad in case I froze up. But my main plan was to wing it, and use what I’d theorized about his nature. “I thought I might try to get him talking a bit first, see if he gives us anything else interesting.”
Perry made an appreciative grunt. “I admit I’m shocked he agreed to see us. It would be great to get him as a source—but I want you to be ready for him to just be toying with us. I’ve covered him for a long time. He’s not known for being friendly to journalists.”
“Well, we’re not known for being friendly to mobsters, so I think we’ll get along with him just fine.” But I nodded. “Message received. I don’t expect him to be respectful.”
“This should be an interesting day, no matter what happens.” Perry leaned back against the seat. “What progress have you guys made on the other story? Do you think we should even do a story about those sightings at this point? Maybe it was just kids.”
Mayday. Proceed with caution here too.
“I have a feeling we haven’t heard the last of them. It’d be good to be prepared whenever they start up again.”
“You think it’s a group?” he asked, keying in on my use of “they.”
This had a logical answer. “It has to be, multiple sightings at different locations at the same time.”
“Right,” he said, but nothing else.
I stared at the fortress-like prison, looming so large now that we could only take in part of it. We could see the wire fencing at the bottom, segueing to barred windows as the levels went up. Then there was the dock. It offered a single entry from the water, leading to an imposing sliding warehouse-like entrance.
The lack of exits and the barbed and shock-wave-capable high-tech fencing was smart, or inmates would constantly be trying to jump into that fishy, stinky water and swim away. The prison’s website touted its lack of successful escapes. The fencing was supposedly the only high-tech innovation, besides thumb-keyed doors that prevented inmate substitutions or disappearances within the facility.
The website made these claims as proudly as a tourism board would. Which I supposed the Metropolis tourism group might: “Come visit! Don’t worry about escapees from our world-class, grim prison out on the river! Most of the convicts there aren’t even from here!”
“Remind me never to become a criminal,” I said.
“I’m not worried.” Perry grew serious after that, though. “It is good to see the consequences of putting people away. And of freeing them.”
We were both thinking of James’s dad, I knew. He’d been here. Through no fault of his own. We’d cleared his name. But Donovan was still out there…
A sense of responsibility sank onto my shoulders, and I knew I’d carry it with me inside.
The boat docked, and we disembarked along with the other visitors on the transport. We were being given somewhat privileged treatment, if I wasn’t wrong. We had been seated at the front, and we were now ushered off first and maintained the first place in line.
The guard who’d been on the ferry stopped at the enormous mud-colored s
liding door, then knocked on it with a thump against the thick metal. Someone inside levered it open with a loud cranking noise.
I saw that a solidly built woman was manning the other side of the door as it slid to reveal a broad entrance. Both visitors and supplies must use this same door—there was no reason for its size otherwise.
Several other guards stood farther back in a line. The space behind the door was cavernous, some fluorescents overhead giving everyone’s complexions a waxy cast. The floor was plain concrete, and stacks of boxes were visible along one wall.
“This way,” the guard from the boat said.
I looked at him and smiled as we entered. I didn’t know what else to do.
“You’re the ones here to see Mannheim?” he asked. “Not what I expected.”
“Why?” I asked. “What do his regular visitors look like?”
The man sniffed. “Lawyers.”
“Figures,” Perry said to me as he steered us through the door.
The cavernous chamber had another door at the end, which led to a long, soul-crushingly repetitive hallway. Lights flickered overhead. The guard from the boat and the woman guard led us and the other visitors along the hall, turning to head past a cellblock (empty at present).
I couldn’t imagine living in such a small space. Some cells had two bunks, some had four. So make that an even smaller space. The lights continued to flicker, giving the whole place a horror-movie vibe.
“They could use some updates,” I muttered.
“Write a story,” Perry said mildly. “Their budget gets cut every cycle.”
“I’ll petition James’s dad.”
“A subject it might be better not to mention during our interview,” he said.
Another hallway, this one with doors that had nameplates with titles like “Vice President of Therapy,” “Vice President of Prisoner Relations,” and “Vice President of Prisoner Facilities.” Apparently, if you were an administrator at Stryker’s Island, you eventually became a VP of something.
Finally, we approached a room with small tables and a glass wall that allowed guards to monitor it. The sign beside it said: Visitors’ Lounge.
Yeah, some lounge. All luxury.
The guard opened the door, and we walked through it into the lounge. It swung closed behind us. With our escort on the other side.
“Perry,” I said, turning to see the rest of the visitors and guards standing on the other side of the glass. Our escort had his hand up, explaining something to them. There was, however, a female guard already in the lounge with us.
Perry asked her, “Why aren’t the others coming in now?”
“Mannheim asked to see you two alone. I just work here,” she said.
And Mannheim was just supposed to be a prisoner.
“Lane, we can leave if you want,” Perry said, ready to argue the point. Clearly.
“No,” I said. “I’m not afraid of him.”
The guard looked at me with something that was half “you poor girl” and half “if you mean that, then respect.” She pointed as a door at the other side of the room opened and another guard brought in—handcuffed—Boss Moxie. He looked exactly the same as he had on the outside. From the thick neck up, anyway. The prison jumpsuit was different.
He shuffled along, choosing a table for us. I shrugged to Perry and we crossed to take the chairs on the other side of the table.
Moxie was looking at me in a mocking way that made me want to put him away all over again.
“The famous Lois Lane,” he said. “I was thrilled to get your request. It seems fitting to sit across from one who has gotten the better of you. For now.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
Perry coughed, and Moxie’s eyes shifted to him. “There are two guards with us. You’re perfectly safe with me,” the inmate said.
“Forgive me for doubting.” Perry and his sarcasm.
Mannheim frowned. On anyone else, it was a facial expression. On him, it managed to be a threat.
“It’s so quiet here,” I said, interrupting whatever was going on between those two. “Downright peaceful.”
“Not usually,” Mannheim said. “But I asked people to be nice for your visit. We want you to come back, after all.”
No thanks, I thought. But who knew when we’d need him again?
“Thank you for seeing us.” I pulled out my notebook. “I thought it would be good for us to chat. We do both care about Metropolis. It’s something we have in common.”
He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He just stared at me, my notebook, my pen in hand. I willed my hand not to shake, and felt grateful when it obeyed.
I’d forgotten somehow, or maybe never understood, because I’d been able to stay away from him… This was a very dangerous man. Still. Even in here.
Yes, that’s why you came.
“Yes, yes, it is,” he said finally. “My city, going to the weeds with me not there.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.
Perry coughed again.
“Do you need a candy or a drop of some kind?” Mannheim asked him. “You really shouldn’t bring germs into such confined quarters.”
“I am not sick,” Perry said.
“He’s high-strung,” I muttered, a wink to Moxie. I chanced a glance at Perry and knew from the scowl he shot back that I would pay for this later. But it was a technique I’d learned from him—to build a rapport with a hostile interviewee. Make them trust you. Make them want to talk.
“I can see that.” Mannheim finally relaxed, or at least pretended to. “What made you come?”
“There were…” I paused, glancing at Perry again. Why hadn’t I realized this would be hard with him here? I couldn’t give away anything extra. What if Mannheim decided to start talking about clones and mad science? I’d have to just do the best I could and hope he went along with me. “There have been reports of people doing strange things around the city. I wondered if you knew anything about that.”
“Strange things,” he said. “Interesting choice of words. For a writer, not very descriptive. Is there anything truly strange for a great city? Hasn’t Metropolis seen it all before in her centuries of existence?”
Perry watched me.
I kept my voice even. “Not unless she’s seen people lifting cars like they weigh nothing and flying with silver wings, and running faster than anyone can with silver feet. Not unless she’s seen that.”
“Had people claiming to see that, anyway,” Perry said.
Mannheim’s eyes darted between me and Perry, then he chuckled. “Ah, I should have guessed that’s why you wanted to come. Those stories, about children like you—no wonder you’re interested in them.”
“I’m not a child,” I said. “I’m here because I think there’s a story there. I think someone is trying to make some sort of move on your city, but I don’t know to what end.”
I wanted to throw up at calling Metropolis his city, but it was necessary. It would help gain his trust, let him feel he was in charge of whatever game he was playing. I kept my attention on him.
“You are a child,” he said. “You shouldn’t be in such a hurry to grow up. Grown-up problems are complicated. Tell her, Mr. White.”
“Some are, and others are simple. Like matters of guilt and innocence,” Perry said casually.
Ah, there’s my boss.
Maybe I was being too nice after all. It seemed I’d recovered my own, um, moxie, during their exchange. “It is true that people seem to get caught when they’re up to no good in Metropolis these days,” I said. “It makes me feel good about my city. Maybe whoever’s behind these appearances is just that much slicker than the others, though, the ones who got busted.”
I gave him my most innocent smile, the one that made Dad crazy.
“Doubtful,” Mo
xie said, putting his elbows on the table. “There’s a new player in town—old money, and I do mean old.” He paused like that was important, though I had no clue why. “Name’s Erica Alexandra del Portenza.”
I lifted a finger to interrupt, wanting to make sure I got the name down right.
He smiled. “You need me to spell it? I heard you’re not so good with that.”
From where? I wanted to blurt, but that was obviously what he wanted. I pushed over the pad and gave him the pen, which made Perry shift nervously. He didn’t intervene, though.
Moxie scribbled down a name and slid the paper back to me, extending the pen. When I reached over to take it, he pulled it back. “I have another one,” I said.
With another chuckle, he gave it back to me. “She’s some kind of Contessa, acts like a queen. Dresses like one too, from what I’ve heard. Italian. She’s the real brains in the operation, not that the others know it. They think she’s just controlling the purse strings.”
“What others?” Perry said.
“Hold that thought,” I told him.
I bent down and rummaged in my bag, glad I’d tucked in the folded-up art before I left home. One of the guards started to come over and Moxie raised a hand to keep him back. Where had that guy been when Moxie was insulting my spelling ability?
I found the paper I’d taken off the wall of the homeless shelter and held it up. “This her?” I asked.
“Being where I am, I haven’t met her myself,” he said, scrutinizing it. “But this fits the description. I had no idea you were also an artist.”
“I’m not. I think one of the people who were spotted around town drew it.” Perry cleared his throat, but he didn’t speak. So I asked his question from earlier, “What others did you mean?”
“Now, now, what good’s a journalist who has to rely on a little birdie for all her information?”
Less a little birdie and more like a canary who runs the coal mine.
“Is, uh, Donovan involved?” I asked. Direct, just like I’d planned.
Perry raised his eyebrows, but again, he didn’t speak.
“He’s not the only one,” Moxie said. “But they do know of you. Everyone wants to know the enchanting Ms. Lane, get her on their side. I can see why.”