“Hungry mules,” Johnson said. “Like picking up fries in a drive-thru. Can’t trust ’em not to get their dirty fingers into a few before they bring the bag home. Now, I know you don’t have a taste for fries. Crazy as it sounds, I can trust you to bring me that bag full as it should be.”
“When’s it coming in?” Tucker asked.
“It is in.”
“Huh?”
“It’s already inside,” Johnson said.
“Then what the hell?”
“Media fucks did a recent piece about rise in drug use in Clarke CI. Suspecting COs as much as inmates for all the traffic.”
“Imagine that.”
Johnson went on. “Either way, until it dies down, we’re being watched and checked with nearly the same eyes and hands as you winners.”
“But if it’s already inside—”
“It’s here, it’s just not here,” Johnson interrupted, waving a hand over the cell block. “Got it as far as the library.”
“What, in the hollowed-out pages of some book?”
Johnson frowned a little. “That’s right.”
Tucker chuckled. “Like a fucking movie.”
Johnson frowned a lot. “You wanna do it, or not?”
“You better not fuck me,” Tucker said.
Johnson grunted. “You’ll be making your call tonight. I gotta wait for you to take a shit tomorrow. Then I gotta pray you don’t go changing your mind and flush what I need. I’m the one that needs worrying about getting fucked.”
Tucker liked the idea of flushing Johnson’s dope after he shit it out. He might just do it.
“All right,” Tucker said. “Let’s do it.”
“Bang and holler and call me a cocksucker,” Johnson whispered. “Then throw a cup of water on me.”
“Huh?”
“Just do it.”
It clicked. Johnson needed a reason to drag Tucker away. The whole block had heard his absurd request for a phone call so close to lights out. Heard Tucker’s banging and shouting when denied. If Johnson were to accommodate Tucker after something like that, the ensuing flood of protests from inmates would drown them all.
Tucker turned, filled a small cup, and returned to Johnson. He then made good on Johnson’s proposed act (it required very little acting), hollering and banging and calling him a cocksucker. Then the cup of water—sploosh—right in the face.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” Johnson cried. “YOU THROW A CUP OF PISS ON ME?!!!”
Inmates rushed to their cell doors. Handheld mirrors were thrust between bars and aimed down the block, angling for a show. The audio was solid, the video choppy:
COs running towards the scene, batons ready. The clank and boom of Tucker’s cell being opened. Officers piling in, Johnson in the lead. Sounds of Tucker getting the shit kicked out of him. Tucker being dragged out of his cell beneath both arms, head down, toes scraping the cement floor. His “unconscious” body dragged past every cell for all to see, Johnson cursing up a storm behind him, wiping the “piss” from his face with his sleeve. Johnson and the other COs eventually carrying Tucker out of sight. A final buzz, a clank, and a boom of a security door.
End scene at the majestic Clarke Correctional Playhouse.
Chapter 11
Since his incarceration, Tucker had spent a good deal of time in the library, bettering himself. He knew the layout fairly well, but at this time of night, all lights off, the place might as well have been a maze.
Johnson and two other COs were his only source of light, Johnson in the lead with a flashlight, guiding them through the maze walls that were bookshelves, the two other officers flanking Tucker, periodically warning him to behave.
Johnson stopped suddenly, flashlight going all over the tall shelves around them, head following the beam. He looked momentarily confused, as if uncertain he was taking them the right way. Then the flashlight’s beam hit a particular shelf of books, and Johnson’s uncertainty became a smile.
“Right here,” he said, keeping the beam on the shelf. He inched closer, the beam’s circle growing until it illuminated one book completely. The spine held no title, no author. It might have been a diary, for all Tucker knew.
Johnson turned to Tucker, keeping the flashlight on the book. “Go on,” he said.
“Phone call first,” Tucker said.
The officers flanking Tucker snorted.
So did Johnson. “You think I’m stupid?” he said. “You make your call, and I can forget about you being my mule.”
“I ain’t stupid either,” Tucker said. “I make my call and then refuse to be your mule, you guys will make my life hell for the rest of my stay. A deal’s a deal. You may not like me much, but if there’s one thing I’m good for, it’s my word. Now let me make my call.”
Johnson turned the flashlight on Tucker, shining it in his face. Tucker squinted and looked away.
“You’ll forgive me, Roy, but your word don’t mean shit to me. And while we would make the rest of your stay a living hell if you fucked us, we don’t want to. What we do want is a fucking mule.” He turned the flashlight back on the book. “Now you open that book, and you swallow what’s in it, and I’ll give you the prettiest little cell phone you ever did see.” He turned the flashlight back on Tucker. “You can make your call, and when you’re done, we’ll march you back up to your cell and drop you off with no one the wiser.”
One of the officers brandished a packet of ketchup. Johnson took it and dangled the packet in front of Tucker. “Even squirt this on your face some to make it look like we marked you up good. Complete the act and all.” Johnson grinned. Both officers chuckled.
Tucker squinted into the beam, refusing to turn his head this time. He said nothing.
“Jesus, but he’s a stubborn one,” one of the officer’s said. “It’s a no-fucking-brainer, Roy. What the hell’s your problem?”
Tucker wanted that phone call. Wanted to make things right. He’d had no intentions of trying something funny during this little outing. Was, in fact, planning to go along with it all. Swallow their drugs, make his call, and carry on living the rest of his so-called life.
Except the opportunity before him now…it was damn near irresistible.
Clarke CI had been in the news quite a bit in the past few years, and not all of it drug-related. Unnecessary violence to prisoners. Unnecessary violence among prisoners due to lack of supervision.
Escape attempts.
Successful escape attempts.
It all came down to one thing: staff. Noncertified, inexperienced officers, many of whom weren’t even properly trained. And in short supply, no less.
He could do it. He’d taken on three men at once before. Men far tougher than these three. And three was all he had to worry about, wasn’t it? They were stupid, but not stupid enough to call for backup once he started getting the better of them. Too many questions to answer on the spot when help did arrive.
As for how he would escape once he subdued them? How about walking out the damn door wearing one of their uniforms? Tucker had read about this very thing occurring recently at a prison in Georgia. Inmate got a hold of a CO’s uniform in the laundry, put it on, and strolled right out the front door.
The inmate was eventually caught, but Tucker couldn’t care less whether he was caught. What were they gonna do, add another life sentence? Besides, with a decent enough head start, he’d be deep into the swamp (his world; good luck finding him) before breakfast.
And then the real righteousness would begin.
Righteousness that would make the notion of contacting the media and hoping they’d take notice of what’d happened to his boy at Hattenworth look puny in comparison. Tucker Roy was still a man of his convictions. A man who still stood by his reasoning in defying his brother and his mother. He was not some mindless psycho who killed for fun. His taking the life of Adelyn Daigle was in the right for the taking of his Jolene’s. It had been eye for an eye.
And if there was one thing Tucker Roy truly be
lieved in, it was eye for an eye.
Once free, Tucker would set about finding the men who tormented his Travis at Hattenworth. Maybe even the piece of scum lawyer too. Find out where he lived. Pay him a special visit.
If he was caught? Again, big fucking deal. Even if he got the death penalty, he could die a proud man. What had happened to his boy, the things he was forced to endure on account of those sons of bitches? A reckoning was in order. Those accounts long past due.
So tempting. Too tempting.
The flashlight’s beam was still in his face, blinding him. He needed clean shots at their heads, especially their chins, if he wanted to knock them out. Even if he swatted the beam away and dove in, the sudden transition from extreme light to dark would cause a flash blindness, making things just as bad.
So what to do? Play the good prisoner. The obedient prisoner. Turn and open the book. Take the dope out and swallow the damn stuff. You’ll be long gone by the time you shit it out. In the meantime, you’ll have made good on your end of the deal. They’ll give you the phone. You’ll fiddle with it, act like you’re unsure how to use it. Ask them to show you. When they do, your eyes will have become accustomed to the dim lighting from Johnson’s flashlight, the small glow of the phone. After that it was all about swinging first, fast, and fucking hard. “The Three Fs,” his daddy used to say. And God help Tucker, when his daddy was still around, if word ever got back that someone got the draw on him first.
Of course no one ever did. And they weren’t about to tonight.
“You get that light out of my eyes, and I’ll gladly fulfill my end of the deal,” Tucker said.
Johnson lowered the flashlight.
Tucker rubbed at his eyes. He saw flashes of purple here and there, but his vision slowly crept back.
Johnson aimed the flashlight back on the shelf, back on the book. “Let’s go, Roy.”
Tucker turned his back to them and pulled the book from the shelf. He opened it. The pages were not hollowed out. He immediately thought he’d grabbed the wrong book. He faced all three officers, fanning the book out for them to see, then turning it over and shaking it to emphasize it held nothing.
“Think you got the wrong book,” Tucker said to them.
Johnson frowned. “What? Lemme see that.”
Tucker handed the book over.
Johnson stuck the flashlight between his chin and shoulder and began thumbing through the still-intact pages until he got to one that was clearly dog-eared.
“No—this is the right one,” he said matter-of-factly, handing the book back to Tucker, keeping his finger sandwiched between the pages to mark his space.
Tucker frowned. Took back the book. Johnson shined the light down on it for him. Tucker started to read the dog-eared page. The book was an English to Latin dictionary. An English word and its Latin translation had been highlighted in neon orange highlighter.
The word was “reckoning.” Its Latin translation was “rationem.”
Tucker kept his face on the page, but he was no longer reading. He was struggling to work it all out. All of it. There were too many variables at play, none of them gelling.
Where was the dope? They must have taken the wrong book, right? Except when Tucker handed it to Johnson, he’d fingered the highlighted passage and promptly handed it back, insisting it was the right one. And the way he’d said it—too calm, too composed, like a card player overselling his bluff.
Johnson clearly wanted Tucker to read the page and the highlighted word therein. Why? And what about that word? Reckoning? He’d been thinking about a reckoning only moments ago. Escaping and bringing judgment day down upon those who’d wronged his boy. There was no way in hell Johnson could have known that, read his mind. It was an insane coincidence. No other explanation. But it still didn’t answer the question as to why Johnson had showed him the book, the word, its Latin translation—
Wait.
Tucker came back to the world, vision narrowing in on that Latin translation.
Rationem.
He hadn’t recognized it at first, but he did now. Travis had had this precise word tattooed on his forearm, hadn’t he? Yes, he was almost sure that was the word. Except Travis’s was different somehow. He’d had the number three tattooed after the word. Only it wasn’t the actual number three, was it? They were three vertical marks. Like Roman numerals. “Rationem III,” it had read. Yes, he remembered it clearly now.
And so did that mean things were now starting to gel? Maybe. Though he wanted no parts of that reasoning. Instead, he spun on the three officers, hoping for something else.
“What the fuck is this?” he said, splaying the hand holding the book.
All three officers were grinning.
A silhouette moved in the darkness behind the three officers, casually passing between aisles—there a second, gone the next.
Tucker pointed past them. “Who the fuck was that?”
Johnson didn’t even make an attempt to look. Just kept his eyes on Tucker and said: “Where?”
Sounds of someone whistling nearby now. A casual, lazy tune, growing closer.
Tucker turned his head towards the sound, then back to the officers. “Who the fuck is that?”
“I don’t know,” Johnson said. Eyes staying on Tucker, he turned his head slightly and said: “Who’s there?”
The silhouette emerged from the darkness, behind all three officers. He was tall, broad, and lean. He was still whistling. He was dressed as a CO.
Things gelled as well as they were ever going to, and in that maybe kind of way Tucker didn’t want to believe.
“Hey, boy,” Tucker said. “You bring me my jerky?”
“You off ‘son’ again, Daddy?” Travis said. “That was quick.”
“That uniform suits you,” Tucker said.
Travis smiled. “It’s nothing permanent. Call it a key to the front door these three gentlemen were kind enough to loan me. Hell, a CO even waved to me on my way in.”
Tucker said nothing.
Travis inched closer. They stood a foot apart, eyes locked on one another. Neither man blinked.
“I told you I’d be back when my tattoo was done,” Travis said.
“And is it?” Tucker asked.
“Not yet. Was hoping you could help.”
“It would be my pleasure, boy.”
Tucker drove his forehead into his son’s face, shattering his nose, sending him flat on his ass.
He turned and swung on the first CO within range, connecting just high of the jawline, too high for a clean knockout, but low enough to still rattle the brain. The CO hit the bookshelf behind him, knocking books everywhere, before dropping to his knees in a daze.
After that it got messy.
***
In what was a brief and painful retrospect, Tucker realized his killer instinct had been his downfall. Instead of rushing towards the dazed CO and trying to punt his head off, he should have started swinging on the other COs first, and not focused all of his attention on finishing the one he’d dropped. He’d forgotten “The Three Fs.” And it had cost him dearly. Gave Johnson and the other officer time to pull their weapons and knock Tucker unconscious from behind. After which they gagged and bound Tucker and took turns sodomizing him with their batons while Travis watched.
Chapter 12
Tucker lay naked on the library floor, still bound and gagged, bleeding heavily from the head and anus. Though his vision swam, he was not unconscious.
Johnson squatted next to Tucker. He shined the flashlight under his chin and grinned a devilish grin to complete the effect.
“Funny how things work out, Roy,” he said. “You requesting that phone call and all. The plan was to come in and get you the hard way after lights out. But you insisting on that phone call…the new idea about a mule just come to me. Not bad for a turnkey, yeah, you piece of shit?” He lowered the flashlight and lifted Tucker’s chin with the tip of his baton so that he was forced to look at him. “Badass Tucker Roy….
Look at you now.”
Tucker’s gaze on Johnson shifted to something above him. Johnson turned, tried to rise from his crouched position, but all twelve inches of the blade rammed into the side of his head stopped his ascent. Johnson fell face-first onto the floor. He died instantly, though his body convulsed for several seconds after.
Travis bent to pull the knife from Johnson’s skull. Johnson’s head rose with the handle, forcing Travis to place a foot on Johnson’s neck to jerk the blade free. Travis wiped the blade on his pant leg and tucked it away.
He squatted next to his father as Johnson had done, but did not settle on a catcher’s stance, chose instead to sit on his butt, knees up, back against one of the bookshelves. He picked up Johnson’s flashlight and set it against his thigh, positioning it so they had decent lighting. Travis’s nose was a crooked mess.
Travis presented a makeshift tattoo needle and set it aside. He then rolled up the sleeve of his CO uniform and revealed his tattoo.
“I’m assuming you know what ‘rationem’ means by now, Daddy,” he said. “Thing is, I was never planning on showing you no Latin book or anything like that. Was planning on explaining to you myself after all this was done, when we had a moment to ourselves.”
Tucker frowned, eyes going all over the library. Travis understood immediately.
“Oh, they’re all dead, Daddy. Took care of the other two while Johnson was busy gloating over you. Pride cometh before the fall, yeah?”
Tucker’s frown remained. Travis read that too.
“I’m being a hypocrite, am I, Daddy? Well, maybe I’ll concede to ‘wrath’ for my vengeance—my reckoning—but I take no ‘pride’ in what I done to you. It’s just something that needed doing.”
Travis started fiddling with the needle, preparing it. When it was ready, he began working on his forearm, talking as he did so.
“Like I said, I had no intention of showing you no Latin book. But when that big idiot CO told me about the audible he wanted to pull when it come to our plan of getting you down here, I guess you could say it was hard for me to resist. Helpless to a little drama, I suppose.” He chuckled. He then pointed to his nose, still chuckling. “Cost me too, didn’t it? Like a cannonball, that head of yours is, Daddy. Hell, for a second there I thought you were gonna get the better of us.”
Wildlife- Reckoning Page 5