I can’t believe I’m in Philip’s car.
I look through the front windshield. It’s a gray morning. Rain will be coming soon—I can feel that in my face. I have heard of arthritis sufferers who can predict rainstorms by the pain in their joints. I can feel it, strange as this sounds, in my cheek and jaw. Both had been shattered in that first prison beating. Now, whenever a rainstorm is on the horizon, the bones ache like an infected wisdom tooth.
Philip starts the car up, puts it in reverse, and pulls out. I look out the window at the fortresslike edifice and I shudder. I won’t be back, I tell myself. No matter what. I won’t ever let myself come back here.
I turn to Philip. His big bushy eyebrows are lowered in concentration. His thick hands grip the steering wheel as though he’s preparing to rip it off.
“People are going to wonder how I got your gun,” I say.
He shrugs.
“You’re taking a big risk.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you doing this because of what happened last night,” I ask, “or because you believe me about Matthew being alive?”
The older man chews on that for a moment. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not.”
We fall into silence as Philip makes the turn into the circle. Up ahead, I can see the guard tower and exit gates we will soon be driving through. Less than a hundred yards away now. I sit back and try to stay calm.
It won’t be long now.
* * *
Sitting on the floor of the dark closet, Adam Mackenzie tried to make himself somewhat comfortable. If all goes well, he should be stuck in this dark closet for ten or eleven hours. He sat up against the back of the closet. He’d left his phone in his father’s car because there’d be no way “Crazed David Burroughs” would have let him keep it with him. Still. Ten or eleven hours sitting in the dark in this closet? Adam shook his head. He should have brought a flashlight and something to read.
He closed his eyes. Adam was exhausted. His father had called him after midnight to tell him about David’s incident with the guards and his bizarre claim about Matthew being alive. It was nonsense, of course. It had to be. He remembered when David asked him to be Matthew’s godfather, just as David’s father had once asked Adam’s father to do the same. It had been one of the proudest moments of Adam’s life. He’d always felt that way about his relationship with David. Proud, that is. David was special. He was that guy. Men wanted to be him, women fell for him, but there were demons there. It was why, when Adam first heard the speculation about David being the killer, sure, on the outside, Adam refused to believe it, but there was a small part of him, a little gnawing in the back of the brain, that couldn’t help but have doubts. David had a temper. There had been that fight during their senior year of high school. Adam had been the team’s leading scorer and rebounder, but still it was David, the role player, the guy who hustled, the gritty defender, who’d been voted captain by their teammates. It has always been that way. Adam the finesse player, David his more popular enforcer. Anyway, during their senior year, Revere High had lost to their rivals from Brookside, 78–77, when Adam, who’d scored 24 points, missed a layup with four seconds left to play. That missed layup haunted Adam. Still. Today. But it was later that night, when several guys from Brookside mocked Adam for the big miss, that David took matters into his own hands. He beat the shit out of two guys in an attack so filled with fury that Adam had to pull David away and get him in a car.
More than that, there was David’s father, Lenny. Lenny and Adam’s own father—what was the saying?
The sins of the father shall be visited upon the sons.
He should have been visiting his old friend all along. So why hadn’t he? At first, David refused any visitors. Yeah, okay, but Adam could have tried harder. He just gave up. He didn’t have the strength. That was what he told himself. The man incarcerated in this hellhole wasn’t his best friend. His best friend was gone. He had been bludgeoned to death and left for dead with his son.
Adam was about to shift his legs when he heard the door to his father’s office swing open.
A gruff voice said, “What the hell is going on?”
Oh shit.
Adam grabbed the ropes and began to wind them around his legs. He lifted the handkerchief up to his mouth so that it would appear to be a gag. The plan was simple. If anyone found him before his father got back, Adam was supposed to make it look like he was in the midst of escaping.
Another voice said, “I told you. He’s gone.”
Gruff Voice: “How the hell can he be gone?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where’s the inmate?”
“You mean he didn’t return him before he left?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I work in that wing. I think I’d know if the inmate who tried to murder me was back in his cell.”
Adam stayed very still.
“Maybe another guy escorted Burroughs back.”
“No, that would be my job.”
“But you just said you were on break, right? Maybe the warden was in a rush, you know? Maybe he got one of the other guys to do it.”
“Maybe.” But Gruff Voice sounded dubious.
“I’ll call and check. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”
“I just saw him with somebody. The warden, I mean. In the parking lot.”
“That was probably his kid.”
“His kid?”
“Yeah, he’s a cop.”
“He brought his kid today?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“I don’t get it. The warden gets a call one of his correctional officers was nearly killed by a prisoner—and he decides it’s Bring Your Son to Work Day?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Gruff Voice says, “Think we should sound the alarm?”
“For what? We don’t even know if Burroughs is missing. Let’s call your cell block and solitary. See if he’s there first.”
“And if he’s not?”
“Then we sound the alarm.”
There was a short pause. Then Gruff Voice said, “Yeah, all right. Let’s make the call.”
“We can use my phone. It’s next door.”
Adam heard the two men leave. He stood. The closet was suddenly stifling. Adam felt trapped, claustrophobic. He tried the knob. Locked. Of course. His father had locked him in to make it all look good.
Christ, so now what?
Things were unraveling fast. It wouldn’t be long now. They’d make the call. They’d find out there was no David. The alarm would sound. Damn. He tried the knob again, turning it harder. No go.
No choice now.
He had to break down the door. The shoulder wouldn’t work as well. Trying to break a door down with your shoulder only leads to dislocation. With his back pressed against the back of the closet, Adam lifted his foot. He checked to see which way the hinges were facing. If the door opens toward you, there is little chance for success. But that wasn’t the case here. Very few closets open to the inside. Not enough space. Second thing, you always kick to the side where the lock is mounted. That’s the weakest part. Using the back of the closet as leverage, Adam drove his heel hard into the area just below the knob. It took three tries, but eventually the door gave way. Adam blinked into the light and stumbled toward his father’s desk.
He picked up the landline. It took him a few seconds to remember his father’s number—like most people, Adam hadn’t seen a need to memorize it—but it came to him.
Adam dialed and heard the phone ring.
* * *
When Philip’s car glides to a stop behind a large white truck, a guard comes toward us with a handheld device.
“Just keep your brim down,” Philip says.
The guard circles the car, staring at the device in his hand. He pauses by the trunk before continuing his sweep.
“What is that?” I ask.
“A heartbeat monitor,” Philip replies. “It can actually sense a beating heart through walls.”
“So if anybody is hiding in the back or in the trunk…”
Philip nods. “We find them.”
“Thorough,” I say.
“There hasn’t been an escape at Briggs since I’ve been warden.”
I keep my face turned away until the guard is back in his booth. He nods at Philip. Philip gives him a friendly wave. I wait for the electronic gates to slide open. It seems to be taking an inordinately long time, but I imagine that’s more in my head than reality. I stare out at the twelve-foot-high fence of chain-link, topped with coiling circles of barbed wire. The grass along the perimeter is surprisingly lush and green, like something you might see on a golf course. On the other side of the grass, not far past the fence, the landscape becomes thick with trees.
I start breathing faster. I’m not sure why. I feel as though I’m hyperventilating and maybe I am.
I have to get out of here.
“Steady,” Philip says.
Then the phone rings.
It’s hooked up to the car, so the sound is jarringly loud. I look at the screen and it reads NO CALLER ID. I turn to Philip. His face registers confusion. He takes the phone off the cradle and puts it to his ear.
“Hello?”
Sounds like Adam. I can’t make out his words, but I hear panic in his tone. I close my eyes and will myself to stay calm. The gates start to slide open with a grunt, as though reluctant to move. The white truck is still in front of us.
“Damn,” Philip says to the person on the phone.
“What?” I ask.
Philip ignores me. “How much time do we have before—?”
The prison’s escape siren shatters the still air.
* * *
The siren is deafening. I look at Philip. His expression is understandably grim. The gate, which had been almost fully open, stops and reverses course. I can see the tower guard on the phone. He drops the receiver and picks up a rifle.
“Philip?”
“Point the gun at me, David.”
I don’t ask for clarification. I do as he says. Philip hits the accelerator. He swerves to the right and then speeds in front of the white truck. He is headed toward the closing gate. He tries to drive through the opening. No go. The gate is no longer open enough for us to get through. Philip noses the car in. He stomps the accelerator to the floor. Our tires spin. He doesn’t let up on the gas pedal. The gate gives way, just a little. Not enough.
The guard with the rifle bursts out of the tower.
“Keep the gun on me!” Philip shouts.
I do.
The guard with the rifle suddenly stops and points the weapon at the car.
Philip shifts the car into reverse. He backs up, the gates scraping the sides of his car. He puts it back in drive and rams the gates again. They budge, but not by much. Two more guards are rushing at us now, both armed with handguns. I watch them close in. The gun feels heavy in my hand.
The guards are almost on top of us now. The siren continues to blare.
I look at the gun in my hand. “Philip?”
“Hang on.”
The car leaps forward. There is a crunching sound. The gates open a bit more, the nose of the car jammed between them. Philip hits the gas pedal, stops, hits it again. The engine thuds and whirs.
The guards are yelling at us, but I can’t hear them over the siren.
The car begins to squeeze through the opening now. We are almost out, almost in the clear, but the gates are still closing, squeezing the car. It reminds me of that trash compactor scene in Star Wars and all the old TV shows where the heroes are trapped in a room with the walls closing in to crush them.
The first guard is at my car window. He’s shouting—I don’t know or care what. Our eyes actually meet. He starts to raise the weapon. I don’t see how I have a choice. I can’t go back. I can’t give up. My gun is pointed at Philip, but now I spin toward the guard.
Aim for the legs, I think.
Philip shouts. “Don’t!”
The guard has the gun in his hand, pointing it at me. Him or me. That’s how it is. I hesitate, but I really have no choice. I am about to fire when the car suddenly lunges forward, snapping my head back. The gates hold on to the car for another second, no more than that, and with one last scrape, we break free.
The guards run after us, but Philip keeps his foot on the gas. The car accelerates to full speed, hurling us down the road. I turn around. The guards stand there. They, along with Briggs Correctional Facility, grow smaller and dimmer until I can no longer see a trace of either.
But even then, I can still hear the siren.