by Ryan King
"Where have you been?" Deborah whispered towards him.
He mumbled and then slowly opened his eyes to gaze at her expressionlessly.
She walked over and put her hand on his head. Deborah took it as a good sign he didn't try to draw away. "How are you feeling? You need anything?"
"Rena," he said softly.
"I'm sorry, what?"
He cleared his throat and sat up on an elbow. Taking a drink of water from the glass on the table beside him, his thin hand trembled.
"Moses," she said, taking his other hand in hers, "where have you been?"
His eyes looked away and glazed. "The dog camp, but not for dogs. We lived in the kennels."
"Dogs?" she wondered if some sick freak hadn't captured and mistreated her brother. She kept the anger out of her face with difficulty.
"Rena helped me escape. Nate told me to kill her, but I didn't."
Deborah knew Nate and hated him. She knew it was ridiculous to hate an imaginary voice, but she did nevertheless. Inwardly, she groaned, worried that the voices in his tortured mind were increasing. Now evidently there was a new voice, Rena. These voices were carving out pieces of his personality and smothering the brother she loved.
"Did bad people hurt you?"
He looked at her now and nodded. "Others, too. I ran. Fast. Hid in the trees." He smiled, but then it slowly melted away. "Couldn't help them. Wanted to."
Deborah's voice had taken on a steely tone. "Tell me where you were?"
"The island. Bad place. Lots of angry voices."
She sighed to calm her frustration. Getting information from her brother had grown increasingly difficult over the years. She had learned to use her honed investigative skills. It was the only way to learn what had happened to him.
An island, she thought. There is no way Moses could get to an island on his own with no money. Of course it might not be an actual island, but just a name or an invention of those damn voices in his head.
"Did you go on a boat?" she asked regardless.
He smiled. "Never driven a boat before."
"Did you steal someone's boat?" she asked.
Moses dropped his eyes. "Rena told me to do it."
That new damn voice, Deborah thought. Encouraging my brother to a life of crime. Great. She paused and thought back to something he said earlier.
"Moses, you said that you ran and you hid. Were people chasing you? Did they try to hurt you?"
He looked away again and pulled his arms in close and his knees to his chest. Closing his eyes, he said, "Tired...so tired." He turned away from her, pulling the blanket over his head. There he lay not moving.
Deborah fought the urge to pull the blanket down, to force him to talk to her. It would be no use, she had tried before, but the need to know what had happened to him was nearly unbearable. Instead, she reached out a gentle hand and patted his shoulder.
Walking back into the kitchen she saw the pile of Moses' dirty and smelly clothes. That reminded her of the drive home and that she would have to get the inside of her now filthy car detailed.
Her first instinct was to throw the clothes away, but her brother could be nearly autistic at times with his attachment to routine and comfortable things.
After putting detergent into the small washer, she picked up the pieces of stiff and dirty clothing with the very tips of two fingers, using her other hand to cover her nose.
She froze as she looked at the clothing more closely. It was one piece and so covered in mud and filth that at first it had been impossible to see that the color was bright orange.
A prison jumpsuit? she realized. What the hell?
Turning the smelly cloth blob around to the back, she used the kitchen cleaning brush to scrub off an area where a label of some sort normally went. A warning to peaceful citizens should they spot dangerous escaped inmates in their midst. Something like Louisiana State Correctional Facility. She scrubbed other spots, but discovered nothing more than bright orange nylon in sharp contrast to the dark black and brown of the remainder of the garment.
She felt something out of place towards the waist, the entire garment was stiff with petrified sweat, oil, and dirt, but this was different. Fishing into a pocket with a tight face, her fingers found a small piece of wet paper and pulled it out.
After a few seconds, she dropped the kitchen brush and re-read the note. Her head turned in slow motion towards the slumbering form of Moses on the couch.
Who is Rena?
Her brother moaned in his sleep.
Chapter 44
Johnny and Jack had seen each other the day before. The guards were complacent and the end of Jack's one hour of freedom in his little dog run had coincided with Johnny's beginning time. They were at least three empty dog runs between them, but there had been no mistake.
Jack's eyes had widened and his mouth had begun to open.
The old man shook his head ever so slightly, and Jack looked away.
Fortunately, the relaxed guards hadn't caught the moment.
Now Johnny sat in his cell thinking about his dead friend's son. It had been almost a decade since he had laid eyes upon him, but there was no mistaking his identity. He was a spitting image for his father forty years before.
The first step was over. Johnny had confirmed that Jack was in the camp and still alive. Jack now knew that Johnny was also inside. They needed to find a way to communicate and fast. They didn't have much time before the storm arrived.
Actual escape was also an unknown. Johnny had lied to Deloy and Rena about that. He had told them he had someone on the inside who would help him escape, but that was untrue. He knew if he had told them the truth, that his plan was to get inside and then count on figuring a way out, they wouldn't have agreed to help him.
They would have considered it suicide, he thought. And for good reason.
One thing at a time. How to talk to Jack?
There was a scraping at the door, and the small metal panel pulled back. A pair of narrow eyes looked in at him, staring critically.
Johnny laid on his bunk, his hands behind his head, and stared back.
The face vanished as the panel was slid back closed. A few seconds later, a key turned in the door, and it opened with a thin squeal of metal.
The guard turned to a thin black man beside him.
"This is one of the new ones; want me to come in with you?"
"It is okay," the man said with a Haitian accent. "I will be fine."
The guard nodded. "Okay, you know the drill. Pound on the door when you are done."
The Haitian nodded and stepped inside, carrying a small medical bag. The door closed and locked behind him.
"My name is Dr. Xavier Simone," the man said. "I am here to check your health."
Johnny didn't move.
The doctor looked around nervously. "Might you introduce yourself since I have kindly done so?"
"You already know my name and why I am here," Johnny said.
Xavier nodded. "Nevertheless, it is courtesy to introduce oneself."
Swinging his feet to the floor, Johnny sat up on his thin bunk. "Why are you really here?"
Xavier shrugged. "It is just as I said. The camp commander has agreed to allow me to come check on all the...uh, guests in their...uh, quarters. Sickness has been going around, and I thought it best to keep a close eye on everyone."
"Is that so?"
The Haitian took this as agreement and moved forward to sit beside Johnny. He pulled out a number of instruments, including a thermometer, stethoscope, and blood pressure cuff along with a notebook.
Johnny shook his head. "Keep your hands to yourself."
Xavier put on the stethoscope. "Please indulge me." His eyes dropped to the notepad on the bunk beside them.
The first words caught his attention: Uncle Johnny.
Placing the stethoscope on Johnny's chest, Simone leaned in close. "They may be watching, play along."
Johnny did and looked down at the notepad. He
slowly read the entire message.
Uncle Johnny,
What are you doing here? We were captured nearly a week ago. My friends Brian, Amanda, and Evan are dead. I've seen Charles, but not sure where Heather is or even if she is still alive.
Dr. Simone is a friend and can be trusted. We're trying to come up with a plan to escape or at least get a message outside for help. So far we have come up with nothing.
I'm sorry if we somehow dragged you into this. Sorry about a lot of things.
Write back through Simone. Don't trust anyone else. This is a terrible place. For God's sake, please be careful.
J.W.
Simone had moved on to taking his blood pressure by the time he had finished reading the note several times.
He leaned over near the doctor's ear. "How do I even know if this is real? It could be his handwriting, but maybe not. I was their handyman, not his school teacher. You might just be trying to set us both up."
"He thought you might feel that way," said Xavier as he slid a small smooth object into Johnny's hand.
The old man looked down at the ivory-handled knife. The one he had lost many years before.
"I doubt anyone at this camp would give that to you under any circumstances," whispered Xavier.
Johnny stared at the knife and had to admit the man was right. Even if they were trying to gain his trust enough to unintentionally betray Jack, they would not give him a knife. Not in this place.
"Perhaps you can help me take notes," the Haitian said in a conversational tone. "I tell you the vitals and you write them down for me. This will go much quicker that way."
Johnny nodded and picked up the notepad. He tuned the doctor out while he wrote his dead friend's son a message.
Chapter 45
Devin Alders stepped off the small boat onto Bog Island. Urchart walked forward along the dock to meet him.
"Great to see you, Brent," said Devin, shaking the man's hand warmly.
"Been a little while," answered Urchart, smiling himself. "How is it working with the governor and the general?"
"A nest of snakes," answered Devin, "but it's a job and it pays well."
"Well, you've got me beat there."
Devin held his arms out to encompass the island around them. "Yeah, but it's all about the benefits."
Urchart chuckled and clapped Devin on the back. "Come on, let me show you the operation."
They drove through the swampy island forest making small talk and catching up from their time in high school together. Neither had kept up with much of anyone but still knew stories and pieces of information that the other had not, and the time passed quickly and comfortably.
After going through the camp's security, they made their way to Urchart's office.
"I'll give you the grand tour in a bit, but perhaps we should go to my office to talk about everything first."
Devin nodded and followed the man into a small building. They walked down a small hallway to a large office in the back with an almost pleasant view of the forest.
"Want a drink?" Urchart asked, holding a bottle of Woodford's Reserve over a couple of glasses.
"Hell, yes," answered Devin. It was early in the day, but who gave a shit?
Urchart poured the glasses, set one in front of Devin. Both sat, clinked their drinks together, and sipped.
"So I understand this isn't a social call," said Urchart. "It's also not 'just procedure' or 'a normal visit' before you say it. No one, especially not from the governor's officer, ever comes out here. That's the whole point of a covert operating location."
Devin rolled the liquid on his tongue. Urchart might be isolated, but he evidently didn't skimp on his bourbon. "Why don't you start with the recent prisoners you acquired?"
"How did you know about..." Urchart stopped and shook his head. "Never mind. A group of six civilians. We ran across them while chas-...well, while on patrol. It wasn't a big deal, we sometimes get visitors, but one of the new hires went all over the top and ended up shooting and killing one of them."
"Shooting him? For what?"
"Making a satellite phone call," said Urchart. "911. Luckily the call was ended before he said much of anything, but you can understand why the idiot freaked out. Not excusing his actions, you see."
Devin nodded, several pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place.
"Anyway, he got what was coming to him in the end."
"Don't we all?"
"Yes." Urchart smiled. "Anyway, one of these six visitors evidently had some training. Probably military. Before anyone knew anything, he rushed my guys with a knife. Killed Jimmer, who was the guy that started this whole mess, and then three more before we put him down."
"I see."
"We took the other three prisoners and brought them back to the camp."
"I thought you said there were six of them," said Devin. "Two died on site, that leaves four. Forgive me if I'm wrong, as you well know I am a product of the Mississippi public school system."
Urchart looked away and took a sip of his drink. "A mild complication that resolved itself. We now have the remaining four here...well, sort of. One of the four had an unfortunate accident and is no longer with us."
"This just keeps getting better and better," said Devin, putting his drink down and leaning forward. "You had six civilians potentially compromise our operation here. We have protocols for this sort of thing. Stay in role, play your part, and send them on their way. Now we have three dead civilians and four dead guards. How could this happen?"
Urchart frowned. "I don't get the best material to work with, you know that. Jimmer was a meat whistle, who I wouldn't have trusted to watch my dog for the weekend, but we work with what we have. Am I right?"
Devin sighed. "So, who are these six?"
Urchart turned away and shuffled papers on his desk. He finally isolated one and pulled it out.
Taking the piece of paper, Devin watched Urchart kill the rest of his drink and get up to refill it.
"Want another?" he asked Devin.
Shaking his head, Devin looked down at the piece of paper that had six names, dates of birth, and residences. He presumed they had gathered the information from identification documents, but understood it could have come through torture as well.
His eyes locked onto one name at the bottom and feigned surprise.
"Jackson Winters?"
"So?" Urchart shrugged, sitting back down and taking a large drink.
"Only son of former Supreme Court Judge Jeremiah Winters? Friend of our governor?"
"Oh shit," said Urchart, setting his drink down and rubbing his hand over his head.
"Oh shit is right. You do know the police have a BOLO out for him and all of his friends. The media hasn't put all the pieces together, but they will soon."
"I didn't know," said Urchart, a little pale. "We get all sorts here. I thought we could contain it ourselves."
"You don't get all sorts here," said Devin darkly. "You get one sort. The castoffs. The forgotten ones. Poor souls no one will miss or even believe if their story somehow gets out." He lifted up the piece of paper. "These are not that sort."
"What was I supposed to do?"
"You should have let me know," said Devin, pulling the compact pistol from the small of his back and sitting it on the table beside his drink. "You knew that; don't act like you didn't."
Urchart nodded slowly. "Yeah, I knew, but we also know what kind of man Lucas Ross is." His eyes went to the gun. "We both knew how this was going to end one way or the other."
"I said you should have let me know," answered Devin.
"No offense, buddy, but we all know you're Ross's pit bull."
"That doesn't mean I'm his loyal dog. It's a job, and I can make up my own mind."
Hope had begun to appear in Urchart's eyes, which kept cutting back to the gun. "So how does this go down?"
"That depends on if you let me help you. I'd like to do that, but you have to do exactly what I say from
here on out. I can be your fecal matter umbrella, but only if you tell me everything and do as I say. Have you told me everything?"
Urchart's face pinched up in pain. "There is one more little thing."
"Isn't there always. Tell me."
"When we ran into the six civilians, we were chasing an escaped subject. Man named Moses Mitchell, a real mental case. A nobody like the rest of them we bring here. Unfortunately, we haven't yet found him."
"He's still missing?"
Urchart shrugged. "The guy's probably gator turds by now."
"Or he could be off the island talking to the police."
"Even if by some miracle he did get to the mainland, no one would believe this guy. He's more screwed up than most. Voices in the head and other crazy shit. Trust me, you don't have to worry about that little loose end."
Devin gave him a warning look. "I'll be the judge of what to worry about and what not to worry about. I'll need you to give me everything you have on Mister Mitchell."
"Of course," answered Urchart, looking pointedly at the pistol. "What now?"
Devin put the pistol back into the small of his back and finished his drink. "I need to borrow your phone."
Urchart turned the phone on his desk around and pushed it in Devin's direction.
Devin called a fictitious cut-out number that was registered to a muffler supply company that had been belly up for half a year. He got a message about how Jimmy's Mufflers had closed and hoped to blah blah blah.
He punched in a twelve-digit code. Afterwards, there was a brief pause and then an answering machine beep. He punched in a four-digit code and then there were a series of beeps. Once the beeps stopped, he said, "They're not here. Everything is under control, no need to be concerned."
He then hung up the phone and looked at Urchart.
"Thank you," the man answered, relief on his face.
"Don't thank me yet," Devin answered. "We're all living on borrowed time; it's an occupational hazard."