by Ava McCarthy
Dixie caught up. ‘This have anything to do with that reporter guy?’
Jodie shook her head. She’d tackled Dixie the previous day about her forgery stunt with the form. Dixie’s response had been unapologetic: just a shrewd look, with a pointed remark that at least now she seemed alive instead of ready to lie down and quit.
Jodie hadn’t explained what Novak had wanted.
Dixie slogged through the snow and flicked her a curious look. ‘What was he like, anyway?’
Jodie pictured Novak’s slept-in clothes; his intensity, the air of desperation. ‘He looked like a guy who could do with a lucky break.’
He’d be back tomorrow, digging for information about Ethan. The truth was, Jodie didn’t have much to tell. Ethan’s secrecy was elaborate, tending to unfold in recursive layers so that the more you knew him, the more you found you didn’t know him at all. She rewound through his trail of revelations so far, through his mutation over time from loving partner to controlling husband, to murderous father, to fraudulent crook. And now to a man who’d come back from the dead. Jodie shuddered. What other secrets of his would she unravel?
She shook the thought of him away, and turned back to Dixie.
‘The women that broke out of here, how long did they have on the outside? Before they got picked up again, I mean.’
‘Not long. A day, maybe two.’
‘Two days? Is that all?’
‘People always get caught, usually ’cause they do something dumb. They get drunk or get high, or visit their family.’ Dixie snorted. ‘Like the cops ain’t going to have a fugitive’s family under surveillance.’
She was starting to sound out of breath and Jodie slowed up a little. They were on their second circuit of the yard, getting closer to the cellblock where Nate stood shivering in the doorway. They trudged on, their feet munching in unison through the fresh snow. Dixie got her breath back.
‘Mostly they get caught ’cause they got no money. Takes cash to get far enough away and hide. So they end up stealing, get arrested all over again.’
Jodie expelled a foggy breath. Money was a problem, Ethan had seen to that. Everything they’d owned had turned out to be in his name, and since the law ensured she couldn’t profit from her crime, the upshot was, she was broke.
Dixie shot her a sharp look. ‘What’s going on here? You’re not thinking of doing something stupid, are you?’
‘Stupider than swallowing a fistful of pills, you mean?’
Dixie missed a step. ‘Shit. I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘I’ve got to get out of here.’
‘Are you out of your mind? Look at this place. You know what you’re up against?’ Dixie held up a thumb and started itemizing things off. ‘Electrified fences, guard towers, motion sensors, dog patrols, CCTV,’ she switched to her other hand, ‘remote-controlled doors, alarms, armed officers at the gate, you name it. Anyone thinking about going up against all that’d have to be a fool.’
‘I know.’
‘Jesus.’
Jodie hesitated, and felt her heart rate climb as she formed her next question. ‘If I needed a passport, could you get me one?’
Dixie halted in her tracks. ‘Are you for real?’
Her eyes raked Jodie’s face, and whatever she read there made her groan softly.
‘This is fuckin’ crazy. You know what Momma Ruth would say, right? Don’t fight it, just do the time and get out. She has a point. Play your cards right, you could be out of here in a few more years.’
Jodie looked away. A few more years while Ethan lived and breathed; while his trail grew cold; while her Abby was still dead. Her jaw clenched.
Dixie swore some more. ‘I know that bull-headed look of yours. You’re not listening to me, are you?’
‘I need a passport. Plus, I’ll need some clothes.’
Dixie huffed out a breath, and stared up at the sky for a long, cold moment. Above them, the clouds had turned lavender-grey, bloated with the threat of forecast blizzards.
‘Shit.’ Dixie shook her head and looked at Jodie. ‘I guess I know a guy.’
‘I heard you’re getting out of here.’
Jodie sat bolt upright. ‘What—’
‘Relax.’ Nate plonked herself down on the next bunk. ‘I overheard Dixie and Momma Ruth talking.’
Jodie swung her legs to the floor, flicked a glance around. They were alone in the cell, waiting for the 6 p.m. count. Outside, the yelling and clatter of trays told her chow was still finishing up.
Jodie shook her head. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Don’t worry, Dixie thinks I can’t keep my mouth shut either, but I won’t say nothing.’
Nate leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped together. Her thin face looked pale, the dark brows and eyes made vivid by the harsh buzz cut.
She’d told Jodie she’d first buzzed her hair when she was eight. Did it herself, she’d said. To discourage her father’s attentions and stop him coming into her room at night. She’d deliberately wet the bed most nights for the same reason.
Nate lowered her voice. ‘It’s wicked awesome, man. A second chance, right?’
‘Look, it’s not—’
‘All that stuff Momma Ruth said? About our mistakes being hard-wired, how we don’t have choices? That’s bullshit, right? We have choices, we can change our lives.’ She gestured at Jodie. ‘Look at you, you’re doing it.’
Nate jerked to her feet without waiting for an answer, and started pacing the cramped cell. Jodie watched her boyish frame as she dodged bunks, slammed her fist into lockers, kicked at stray shoes on the floor. The place was roomier now that Magda was in Seg, but it still wasn’t designed for this caged prowling.
‘Come on, Nate, sit down, you’re getting fired up over nothing here.’
Nate fetched up in front of her, her eyes feverish. Behind her, Momma Ruth had stepped quietly into the cell.
Nate dropped back down on the bunk. ‘I can make my own choices too. You could take me with you.’
‘Listen to me. I’m not going anywhere. And even if I was, I couldn’t take anyone with me.’
‘But I’m clean now, I detoxed in the med unit. I can stay clean when I get out, how fucking hard can it be?’ She clutched at Jodie’s arm. ‘We can make different choices any time we like, right?’
Jodie took in the over-bright eyes, the brittle fervour. She looked at Nate’s forearm, at the cuts the girl had made to help her forget, trying to obliterate one pain with another when crack was unavailable.
She patted Nate’s hand. ‘Sure we can. We can change our lives any time we want.’
She glanced at Momma Ruth, who sent her a bleak look, and knew it wasn’t true. Not for Nate, not for herself. Their choices were locked in tight. For Nate, it was crack. For Jodie, it was Ethan. She’d chosen to kill him once before. It wasn’t in her blood to choose differently second time around.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Jodie said.
She glared at Momma Ruth, who’d taken a seat on Nate’s bunk after the younger girl had edged over to the door.
Momma Ruth waited, her broad face passive. Jodie had never known anyone with such a capacity for stillness, and right now it bugged the hell out of her. She lifted her chin.
‘Acceptance, am I right? Soldier on, wait for parole, what’s another eight years. Not to mention, I suppose, that escape is just about impossible.’
Momma Ruth shrugged. ‘That last part’s true, at any rate.’
‘But some women get out of here. At least for a couple of days.’
‘Breaking out is tough, especially this time of year. Last woman who tried it died of exposure in the blizzards. Days later, they were still trying to thaw her out.’
Jodie swallowed, and tried to block the image out. ‘But people still try?’
‘Oh sure.’
Momma Ruth folded her arms, her posture tranquil, and seemed content to leave it at that. Jodie leaned forward.
&nb
sp; ‘How does anyone even make it past the main gates?’
‘I guess mostly it happens while they’re being transported somewhere else. To another prison, usually. They see a chance somewhere along the way and they take it.’
Jodie frowned. Her gaze drifted back to Nate, who was still fidgeting over by the door. Momma Ruth went on.
‘You can’t get far on foot, especially not in the snow. Boston’s only twenty miles away, but it may as well be two hundred.’
Jodie chewed her bottom lip. Outside, the clamouring backdrop surged: yelling, banging, metallic crashes of lockers and doors. Her eyes stared unseeing over at Nate while her mind riffled through an array of scenarios, discarding most. Hovering over one.
Was it possible?
Momma Ruth was eyeing her closely. ‘You think you’ve got a way out of here, don’t you?’
Jodie shook her head. ‘It’s not foolproof.’
‘Nothing is.’
Jodie’s fingers gripped the side of the bunk as she played through the details in her head. If anything went wrong, chances were she’d end up dead. And with Ethan still alive, she was no longer ready for that.
Momma Ruth was still watching her. ‘Dixie reckons you’ve got no money.’
‘I’ll find some.’
She had to. Dixie was right. Without money, she’d never get anywhere. Momma Ruth shifted her weight on the bunk.
‘I got money. You can have it.’
Jodie looked up, startled. ‘I can’t take your money.’
‘Why the hell not? No use to me in here. Been sitting untouched for thirty-two years.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s not in any bank, you’ll have to go find it. Should be over sixteen thousand dollars. If it’s still there.’
‘But why would you help me? I don’t get it, what happened to acceptance, and making peace with my lot?’
Momma Ruth leaned forward, her gaze penetrating Jodie’s.
‘Something’s changed in you. Clear as day. For the last two years, you’ve had a look in your eyes I’ve only ever seen in two kinds of people: the ones on drugs, and the ones on suicide watch.’ She shook her head. ‘But you don’t have it any more.’
Jodie looked at the floor. Momma Ruth was right, though she’d never guess why. Ironic how hate could destroy you, but at the same time could keep you alive.
Momma Ruth squeezed her hand. ‘Looks to me like you’ve decided to live. And if getting out of this place is the only way you can do it, then I’ll help you any way I can. Hell, anything’s better than watching you lay down and die.’
Jodie closed her eyes briefly, and felt like a fraud. If Momma Ruth knew the reason she wanted to live, she might not be quite so supportive.
After a moment, Momma Ruth said, ‘When will you do it?’
Jodie’s adrenaline spiked. She swallowed, and whispered,
‘Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.’
8
For the next twenty hours, Jodie slogged through the prison routine: sitting tight through the cell count; lying on her bunk till lights out at ten; up at six, down to chow; on duty as porter from seven till two, cleaning the unit, her movements robotic; and all the while, her brain manic, replaying the risks over and over, rehashing all the things that could go wrong.
It was mid-afternoon before she got back to the art room, doubt still gnawing at her gut. She stared at the mannequin in her hands.
Her muscles felt rigid. Stupidly paralysed. She swore softly at herself. How hard could it be, for God’s sake? It wasn’t so different from her original plan. Except this time, she wanted to live.
It was Nate who’d given her the idea, with her talk of detox in the prison’s med unit. A unit that dealt mostly with cold-turkey and routine healthcare.
Jodie grasped the mannequin’s head and wrenched it off, peering into the hollow torso. The white cotton wads were still snugly packed inside. Her stomach dipped. Some part of her had been hoping the doll would be empty.
She reached for a pair of tweezers from Mrs Tate’s trays, using them to prise the wadding out onto the counter. A handful of Tylenol pills clattered out after it, the rest still wrapped up in cotton. Jodie unfolded the bundle, tipping the white oblongs into a pile. Thirty-six pills in total.
Her last plan had been easy: swallow the lot, the more the better. But this time, things weren’t so clear-cut. This time, she needed to strike a balance: swallow enough to get seriously ill, but not so many that they’d kill her.
She’d tried to research it in the prison library, tried to find a magic number that would keep her from tipping over the edge. But the few available medical textbooks were vague on the topic.
Jodie filled a beaker of water at the sink. Set it down beside the pills. Then she gripped the edge of the counter with both hands.
Just do it.
She gathered up half a dozen tablets, cupping them in the palm of her hand, staring at the white capsule-like shapes, at the Tylenol brand stamped in orange on the surface. She recalled what Momma Ruth had said about inmates who’d escaped: Mostly it happens while they’re being transported somewhere else.
She gripped the beaker. The prison med unit wasn’t equipped for emergency cases. It could handle detox and everyday complaints, but the serious stuff got shipped out. To the local hospital in Framingham, under CO escort.
Transported somewhere else.
Jodie stared at the pills. Stage one of a half-assed plan. Stage two, she’d figure out once she got to the hospital. Escaping from there had to be easier than breaking out of here.
She rolled the pills around in her palm.
Just do it!
Jodie tossed the pills into her mouth. Crunched down, ground them up. They tasted chalky. Bitter. Dixie’s words tapped at the base of her brain: That stuff’ll take days to kill you. Days of pain, real slow.
She gulped some water, washing the gritty pieces down. Shuddering, she grabbed another fistful of tablets, counting them out.
How many more should she take?
Her plan could fail, she knew that. Take too few pills, and the prison doctor might just treat her in the med unit. Take too many, and there was still no guarantee she’d be recognized as an emergency in time.
Her eyes settled on the rest of the pills. A part of her longed to take them all. Swallow them whole, sluice them down. She needed oblivion. Craved it.
But not before Ethan was dead.
She took a deep breath, and tossed five more pills into her mouth. Chewed. Drank. Swallowed. Reached for more.
‘Hello, doll-face.’
Jodie dropped the pills, jerked her head around.
Magda’s two-hundred-pound frame filled the doorway.
The woman’s eyes darted around the room, two black studs in bloated flesh. The tangerine dye-job had leached her face of colour, sapping it to a putty-grey. The eyes leapt back to Jodie.
‘Knew I’d find you here.’
She lumbered into the room, head held high, buttressed up by a neck-brace of chins. Jodie fought the urge to back away. Magda smiled.
‘Guess you thought I was still in Seg, huh?’
Jodie managed a shrug, and Magda went on.
‘Gets crowded in there. They needed the cell.’ She shambled closer, swapping the smile for a mock-hurt expression. ‘What’s the matter, doll-face? Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
The woman rolled to a halt, her right arm held apart from her side. Light glinted at her wrist. Jodie stiffened. Magda smiled, opened her fingers and let the weapon slide all the way down into her palm.
‘Didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, did you?’
Jodie stared at the makeshift knife: a glass shard, maybe five inches long. Jagged and sharp. One end narrowing to a deadly point, the other taped up with fabric to form a handle.
Magda moved forward, her eyes raking Jodie in a head-to-toe flick. ‘I been thinking about you a lot, doll-face.’
Jodie’s heartbeat drummed. She whipped her gaze around the room, scrambling f
or an escape. Magda stood between her and the door, the only way out a wide sweep around her and a prayer she was slow on her feet.
The glass shard gleamed in Magda’s hand. Jodie stumbled back against the counter. Groped for a weapon. The worktops were bare, everything tidied away. No chairs or desks for improvised shields, all of them stacked in the corner behind Magda.
The woman bore down on her and Jodie’s adrenaline surged. She pitched to the right, lurched wide across the room. Magda braked, swerved, lunged after her, and Jodie bolted for the door. The woman’s bulk swished close behind her, then ploughed into her as she tackled Jodie’s legs and slammed her to the ground.
Jodie’s forehead smacked against the floor. She scrambled to get up, but Magda heaved herself onto Jodie’s back, pinning her down, crushing the breath out of her. Jodie’s right arm was trapped beneath her own chest. She lashed out with her left, scrabbling for contact. Magda grabbed it, wrenched it high behind her back. Pain screeched through Jodie’s shoulder.
Magda leaned in close. She was panting, her breath hot against Jodie’s neck.
‘I thought about you every day in Seg. Picturing what this’d be like.’
Jodie struggled for purchase against the floor, tried to roll over, blanking out the shrieking muscles in her arm. But the woman’s heft was immobilizing. Grunting, Magda humped herself further along Jodie’s body, flopping back down with the full force of her weight. Jodie gasped, couldn’t breathe. Tried to yell. Couldn’t do that either.
Mounds of flesh crammed her face sideways into the floor. Her right arm grew numb, wedged beneath her. She strained to free it, to nudge it out, elbow first. Then Magda slid the shard of glass in front of her eyes.
Jodie froze. The blade filled her vision: splintery, lethal; a greenish tint to its slicing edge. Magda ground herself into Jodie’s body, rhythmically, urgently, moaning softly.