by Ray Rhamey
But now Hank had a new life. He could survive in the Keep, maybe take Doc down and become King of the Scum. Or he could try to escape. In his professional opinion, escape was not possible. Even if he could escape, what for? Was life out there any different from in here?
Okay, they kept pushing the therapy thing. Noah had told him to do it, and Hank thought maybe he could trust him. But Noah had never had it done to him.
Benson Spencer had gone through it, and was supposed to be—no, was—Hank’s advocate. He seemed okay.
A breeze tugged at Hank’s hair; it stirred in his mind an image of a puff of wind wafting a strand of brown hair across a little girl’s face. He saw her bright smile and happy brown eyes— Reflex jerked his mind away before pain could strike, but there was an ache underneath. He dug into his pocket and took out Amy’s necklace. It was hard to look at.
He lifted his gaze to the emptiness of the desert.
He did feel one thing.
Alone.
So. Completely. Alone.
Something gave way in his mind. Up welled a longing for peace, and friendship, and love. He’d had those things before. Maybe he could again. Through the therapy.
Okay. He stood.
Fear rose with him. But they’ll mess with your mind, it said. You won’t be you.
Being him wasn’t all that terrific.
Yeah, but it’s still you.
But staying in the Keep would be worse than death. To survive, he’d have to become more of an animal than they were.
Maybe, the fearful side of him said, it’ll be easier to escape from the Repair Shop.
True. It wasn’t hundreds of feet up in the air and surrounded by huge fences. Hank could find tools to get rid of the tracking band on his wrist and then break out. He’d deal with the quality of his life on his own, a whole man.
Sounded good. He looked down at Nick, still stone cold out, a shove away from being another threat gone forever.
He gripped Nick’s hands and lifted.
A half hour later, Hank’s bloody fingertips slipped on a cable; he forced them to dig in and hold. Sweat dripped from his face, and his back ached. His searching toe found good old ground instead of another cable. He let go and toppled backward. He lay there for long minutes as the pain of his effort eased from his body.
At last, strength and will returning, he untied the strip of shirt that had kept Nick’s arms around his neck.
Hank stood. Nick lay on his back, unconscious. Whatever. He had a chance, and Hank had no more to give. Anyway, Hank would soon be down in the Repair Shop, working on escape.
He went to Doc’s building and, figuring that the red-bearded dictator wouldn’t be happy about Hank leaving before he was beaten to a bloody mess, joined the line leading to the supply area to blend in. As he passed Doc’s little cloth castle, Dalrymple emerged from the smaller square—must be the whorehouse. Walking with short, wincing steps, his gaze on the ground, he joined the line a few places behind Hank.
The door to the elevator down was forty feet from the supplies pickup point. No one paid any attention to the door. Why should they? Newcomers weren’t inserted unless a helicopter announced their arrival, and it wasn’t an escape route.
At the shower area a hundred feet away, someone was bathing, concealed by blankets held by two pudgy men and a couple of bonemen—Doc’s men. Hank kept his face turned away from the showers, bowed his back, and slumped his shoulders to imitate the body language of the inmates around him.
He shuffled forward and received his MRE.
The shower shut off, and one of Doc’s attendants handed a towel in.
Hank slouched toward the sensor panel that opened the door to the elevator room.
Doc emerged from the shower, wrapped in his towel, and stood surveying his subjects, a satisfied smile on his face.
Dalrymple, his high-pitched voice carrying, yelled, “Soldado? That you?”
Hank continued to walk toward the door.
Dalrymple said, “Soldado? Hey, wait a minute.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hank saw Doc’s attention turn his way. The sensor panel was a dozen feet ahead. Hank dropped his MRE and sprinted for it.
Doc shouted, “Stop that man!” His men ran toward Hank, clubs raised.
Hank held his wristband up to the sensor panel. Nothing happened.
Of course, the computer below needed time to process. Maybe Arnie had to push a button to open the door. Maybe he was asleep. Faster!
Hobbling as though it was painful to run, Dalrymple hurried toward Hank. “Hey, take me too.”
The nearest of Doc’s men threw his club. It cracked the Plexiglas panel. Damn, don’t break the thing.
Dalrymple lumbered into a clumsy run. “Wait!”
The heavy steel door lifted, the wedge-shaped cutting edge on the bottom rising above Hank’s head. He had fifteen seconds. He stood in front of the doorway, faced the charging men, and silently counted time. One-thousand-one.
The first of Doc’s men dived at Hank.
Hank sidestepped, added a shove to the man’s momentum, and slammed his head into the concrete wall. The boneman sprawled on his back, out. One down.
One-thousand-three.
Hank backed through the doorway.
One-thousand-four. Dalrymple was almost there when a man tackled him.
One-thousand-six.
Dalrymple stretched a hand toward Hank, his face pure pain. “They raped me.”
One-thousand-nine.
The man’s anguish reached Hank. He kicked Dalrymple’s attacker in the face, and the boneman rolled away, screaming, hands to his nose.
Hank grabbed Dalrymple’s hand and hauled.
One-thousand-eleven.
As Dalrymple’s arm came through the door, a second man landed on his legs and stopped his slide toward the door. Hank couldn’t step out; he’d be trapped in the Keep for another twenty-four hours.
One-thousand-fifteen.
The door sliced down.
Hank held Dalrymple’s left hand and most of his arm.
The steel door muted Dalrymple’s scream, but not enough.
Arnie’s voice whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Shuddering with horror, Hank dropped the arm and faced the camera. After a deep breath, he said, “You going to let me in?”
“You want to do the therapy?”
“Yes.”
The inner door rumbled open and he stepped through.
When Hank came out of the elevator, Arnie awaited him outside the double-walled containment cell, Mannie the guard beside him. Both trained stoppers on him.
Arnie said, “Didn’t take you long.”
“I’ve got better things to do with my life.” Hank headed for the door.
Arnie held up a hand to stop him. “This might surprise you, but some guys get the idea they can escape from the Repair Shop because it doesn’t look so tough.”
Hank grinned. “Imagine that.”
Arnie grinned right back at him. “So I’ve got the verifier all warmed up. Just take a seat.”
Hank concealed his disquiet. “I’ve already done that.”
“Ah, but you see, you don’t get past these bars unless I’m convinced you’re sincere about therapy. Saves a lot of trouble. You don’t pass, you just go back.”
Hank sat, thoughts speeding, looking for an out. There wasn’t one. He’d have to beat the machine.
“Please put the headset on.”
He sat and put it on.
Arnie and Mannie stared at the monitor on Arnie’s desk as Arnie asked, “Hank Soldado, did you decide to undergo therapy?”
All he could do was try. “Yes.”
Arnie made a sound like a game show buzzer. “Wrong answer. Back you go.”
Hank said, “Wait.”
“It won’t do any good.”
“Just give me a minute. This is my life here!”
Arnie shrugged. “Sure. I’m gettin’ paid for it.”
Hank
thought of the desert, a symbol of his life. Of waking up with tears on his face. Of the hole where his heart used to be. That was the life he had. It wasn’t good enough anymore. But how could he surrender his mind?
Benson Spencer’s words came to him. “There came a time when I had to trust.”
He fished Amy’s necklace from his pocket. A memory surfaced. Amy blew on a dandelion and giggled at the stream of white fluff. Hank took a deep breath. “Ask me again.”
Shaking his head, Arnie said, “Hank Soldado, do you want to undergo therapy?”
He kept his mind’s eye on Amy as he said, “Yes.”
Arnie looked up from the monitor in surprise. “Is it your intent to escape?”
Hank conjured up Jewel Washington’s fierce expression when she fought him with nothing more than tiny nap beads. “No.”
Arnie smiled. “I’ll be damned. Never seen that.” Relief eased Hank’s mind and body. Arnie unlocked the cell door. “Come on out. I’ll escort you to the Repair Shop personally.”
When Hank stepped from the cell, Arnie stuck out a hand. “Welcome back.”
As Hank took the hand, emotion surged in his throat and made it hard to say “Thanks.” He felt as though he had conquered a mortal enemy.
Where Is the Justice?
Jewel smiled at the murmur of Chloe’s singing coming from the backyard. She stood at the kitchen stove, frying up a batch of chicken for Friday evening supper, enjoying the domestic sizzle of hot oil, trying to relax. She’d been edgy since Murphy had tried to get her. No one knew if he had left the area, though he had checked out of his motel. Now there was somebody who belonged in the Keep.
But not Hank Soldado. She just couldn’t shake her anger at what she saw as criminally unjust.
Franklin’s deep voice joined Chloe’s, and Jewel could make out the words of the song, sung with a simple singsong melody: “I’ve got T-H-R-E-A-D, I’ve got good deeds in my head . . .”
Jewel scowled. Couldn’t the damned Alliance propaganda leave her alone in her home? She turned the flame down under the chicken and went to the back door.
Franklin was pushing Chloe in a tire swing he’d hung for her from a branch of an oak tree. They sang, “T-H-R-E-A-D, green and yellow and blue and red . . .”
Jewel called out, “Could you guys stop singing that?”
They stopped and looked at her. Franklin said, “It’s just a little song about—”
“I know what it’s about, and I don’t want to hear it.”
Franklin opened his mouth, paused, then said to Chloe, “You ready for a spinner?”
Chloe giggled. “Wind me up!”
Jewel watched while Franklin turned the tire ’round and ’round, twisting the rope tighter and tighter until he let go and Chloe spun, yelling, “Wheeeeeeee . . .”
Jewel stepped back into the kitchen to get the chicken cooking again. Franklin came in, took a beer from the refrigerator, and twisted off the cap. “What’s the matter?”
“I just don’t like them brainwashing my child.”
“Hey, it was me who made up that song.”
She adjusted the flame under the skillet. “Well, I don’t like you doing it, either.”
He sat at the kitchen table. “Why not? THREAD is a good thing.”
“So everybody says, but I don’t believe it.”
He held up his hand with the Alliance ring on it and wriggled his fingers. “It did you some good when you got here.”
She didn’t have an answer for that, so she concentrated on turning the chicken.
Franklin said, “Why haven’t you joined the Alliance? You work for ’em.”
“It’s just not right for me.”
“Why not? Does a lot for me and a whole bunch of folks.”
Okay, that was real hard to argue with. She and Chloe had both been helped by the changes the Alliance had made. If it weren’t for their advocacy system, she’d be back in Chicago with Murphy gloating at her through cell bars. She thought about it while she took three potatoes from the sack in the pantry and washed them.
Okay, why couldn’t she sign up, make the promise? Something in her resisted, something that expected . . . betrayal. Like her mama said, “Ain’t nobody there for you but you.”
Jewel turned to face Franklin. “I don’t trust it.”
“What did the Alliance ever do to you?”
Nothing, but she wasn’t about to give Franklin the satisfaction. “You want mashed or baked?”
“Baked sounds good.”
As she put the potatoes in the microwave and set the timer, Franklin said, “So why are you so down on the Alliance?”
He’d push at her until he got an answer, so she turned to him. “It’s that goddamn promise Noah Stone keeps yapping about.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You make a promise, you live up to it. Stone didn’t.”
“Aw, you’re not talking about—”
Her anger flared. “Damn right I am. Noah said, ‘I’ll try my best to help,’ but he didn’t lift one finger to help Hank Soldado.”
“He couldn’t.”
She yelled, “He could have done something!”
“You mean use his influence to get around the law?”
She pushed her face right at his. “Goddamn it, the man stood up for Noah, and then Noah didn’t stand up for him! How’s he expect anybody to trust him when he turns on you like that?”
Franklin’s voice rose, just a little. She was getting to him. “The way I see it, Noah did stand up for Hank, and for me, and for you when he wouldn’t make an exception.”
She snorted. “No way it’s for me, ’cause I don’t agree!”
“I thought you hated Hank Soldado.”
“It doesn’t matter what I hate, I’m talkin’ about right and wrong. Don’t you try to change the subject.”
Franklin sat, silent. Jewel grew embarrassed about losing control. “I’m sorry, Franklin. It’s not you.”
He rose and went to the kitchen window. Looking out at Chloe on the tire swing, he said, his voice gentle again, “But it is, Jewel, it is me. And a lot of people in this town. If you’re going to live here”—he turned to her—“and if Chloe is going to grow up here, you need to get this straightened out.”
He was right. And despite all that had happened, she liked it in Ashland. She had a future in this place. “I don’t know how.”
“Go to the source.”
Feel the Pain
Hank awoke refreshed the next morning in a Repair Shop room, maybe even looking forward to the day a little. The plain white room, furnished with a hospital bed and a small dresser, was no Holiday Inn, but he thought it was a fine place to be. He tried the door. Locked. Well, that made sense. He’d had the idea of escaping. Who wouldn’t?
There was a sink and medicine cabinet, and he discovered a razor there. As he shaved, wondering what was next, doubt slithered into his thoughts. What would they do to his mind? Afterward, would he recognize the face in the mirror? Fear prodded him to escape, to keep his mind intact even if he had to live on the run. But he wanted more from life, not less. He dressed in a white T-shirt and white cotton pants he found on the dresser. He was gonna do it.
He got a little surprise when it was Arnie who unlocked his door. “Good morning, Hank,” he said. “You look better.”
Hank looked down at his white clothes. “I feel like an ice-cream man.” He grinned. “But I guess it’s better than looking like a giant Cheeto.”
After a friendly breakfast, Arnie escorted him to the doctor and introduced him to Dr. Gladys Moore. Her office reminded Hank of a cozy study. Bookshelves framed a console that held a computer. A sofa, a recliner, and a rocking chair bracketed a glass coffee table on a burgundy Oriental rug. A pitcher of water, glasses, and a pill bottle sat on the table.
Dr. Moore looked relaxed in the rocking chair, a file folder open in her lap. Some would label the plump, fortyish woman with a long face “horsey,” but intelligence gleame
d in the doctor’s gaze, and her warm smile made her attractive.
“Take a seat.” She indicated the recliner, and he eased into it. After a brief how-do-you-feel chat, she said, “The first thing I need to do is rummage around in your head a little. We’ll use hypnosis.”
His stomach clenched. But he had to, didn’t he? “Okay.”
“Good. Recline the chair for me, will you?” As he tilted back, Dr. Moore pulled a low stool from behind the recliner and sat beside him. Using a soft, low voice, she urged him to think of a pleasant place, something comforting. He couldn’t think of anything. He tried, but there was a knot in his belly that wouldn’t unclench. No way was he going to be able to let go.
After five minutes of her suggesting relaxation, he was as tight as ever. She stopped and said, “We may have to use sodium pentothal, though a natural hypnotic state is much more effective.”
Hank had a thought. He took Amy’s necklace out of his pocket and held it in his hand. He closed his eyes and visualized her photo on his nightstand. “Try again.”
As the doc crooned, Hank went to a place where a little girl laughed in bright sunshine . . .
Dr. Moore’s gentle voice said, “Wake.”
Hank opened his eyes and gazed at her as she settled into her rocker. It seemed as if no time had passed, but his back was stiff. He stretched as she said, “I’ve isolated three factors harming you. First, the circumstances around the deaths of your wife and child have you locked in a cycle of depression, and it contributes a great deal to your PTSD.”
He frowned. He didn’t want to hear about that.
“You and I can deal with that by using hypnosis to make conscious what happened, and then helping you accept it.”
“Okay, but that’s personal stuff. What about the trouble that got me in here? The way I see it, I was wrongly convicted, at least wrongly sentenced to the Keep.” She raised her eyebrows, and he added, “Well, yeah, I did have a gun. But I wasn’t wrong there, either. I have a right to one. We all have that right. And I did kill a thug, but it was justified.”
“I won’t argue the right and wrong of your positions, although I couldn’t disagree more. It was your powerful sense of duty that led you to shoot that man in defense of another. But that leads me to something that is a problem, your absence of feeling when you killed him. You have lost a sense of the value of human life that most people carry.