Three guards drag Moss from his rack and make him kneel, half-naked, on the cold concrete floor. One of them swings a baton across Moss’s back for no reason other than vindictiveness or spite or whatever sadistic streak seems to infect men who are put in charge of prisoners.
Dragged upright, Moss has a bundle of clothes thrust into his arms before being marched along the landing, through two doors and down the stairs. His cheap cotton boxer shorts are losing their elasticity and he has to hold them up with one hand. Why is he never wearing decent underwear when he gets invited out?
A guard tells him to get dressed. His wrists and ankles are cuffed and linked to a chain around his midriff. Without any explanation, he is taken down the ramp to where a prison bus is parked in the central courtyard. A handful of other inmates are already on board, segregated in cages. He’s being transferred. It always happens this way—in the dead of night when there’s less chance of trouble.
“Where we heading?” he asks another prisoner.
“Somewhere else.”
“I figured that much out.”
The door closes. Eight detainees are isolated in heavy-gauge metal cages, which have floor drains, security cameras, and side seats. A U.S. marshal is seated with his back to the driver’s cabin, nursing a shotgun on his lap.
Moss calls out, “Where we heading?”
No answer.
“I got my rights. You got to let my wife know.”
Silence.
The bus pulls out of the gates and heads south. The other detainees are dozing. Moss watches the road signs and tries to figure out where he’s being taken. Night transfers are usually interstate. Maybe that’s his punishment. They’re going to send him to some shithole prison in Montana, fifteen hundred miles from home. An hour later the bus pulls into the West Gaza Transfer Unit near Beeville. Everybody else is taken out except for Moss.
The bus leaves again. Moss is the only detainee. The U.S. marshal has gone and the only other person on board is the driver, silhouetted behind a dirty plastic screen. They head northeast on U.S. 59 for a couple of hours before reaching the outskirts of Houston and turning southeast. If they were transporting him out of state they’d have driven him to an airport. This doesn’t smell right.
Just before dawn, the bus pulls off the four-lane and takes a number of turns before stopping in a deserted rest area. Peering through the steel mesh, Moss can make out the shadows of trees. There are no prison lights or guard towers or barbed-wire fences.
The uniformed driver walks down the center aisle of the bus and stops outside the cage.
“On your feet.”
Moss turns and faces the window. He listens as the padlock is keyed and the bolt slides open. A hessian sack is pulled over his head. It smells of onions. Moss is pushed forward, nudged with a baton or the barrel of a gun. He tumbles down the stairs, landing on his hands and knees. Gravel digs into his palms. The air smells fresh and cool like a new day is about to begin.
“Stay here. Don’t move.”
“What’s gonna happen?”
“Shut up!”
He hears the footsteps fade, insect sounds, his own blood pumping in his ears. Hours seem to pass in the following minutes. Moss can make out vague shapes through the loose weave of the bag. Headlights swing across him. Two vehicles. They circle the bus and pull up at a distance.
Doors open and close. Two men walk on gravel. They are standing in front of him. Moss can make out their shapes. One of them is wearing a pair of polished black shoes. Formal wear. He’s overweight but when he stands erect he gives the impression of a trimmer man. The guy with him is fitter, possibly younger, dressed in cowboy boots and brown trousers. Nobody seems in a hurry to talk.
“Are you gonna kill me?” asks Moss.
“I haven’t decided,” says the older man.
“Do I get a say?”
“That depends.”
Moss hears the sound of a handgun being unholstered and the safety removed.
“You don’t say a word unless I ask a direct question, is that clear?”
Moss doesn’t answer.
“That was a direct question.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m clear.”
“Where’s Audie Palmer?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a shame. I was hoping you might be somebody I could do business with.”
The pistol is placed at Moss’s head, digging into the depression below his right ear.
“I can do business,” says Moss.
“Give up Audie Palmer.”
Moss hears the trigger edge back.
“I can’t tell you sumpin’ I don’t know.”
“You’re not in prison anymore. You got no reason to hold your mud.”
“If I knew I’d tell you.”
“Maybe you’re just being loyal.”
Moss shakes his head. He can see colors dancing in front of his eyes. Maybe this is what people mean when they talk about seeing the light, or having their lives flash before their eyes when they’re about to die. Moss is disappointed. Where are the women, the parties, and the good times? Why can’t he picture them instead?
The younger man pivots and drives his fist into Moss’s stomach. Deep and unexpected, the blow reaches a soft place right under his sternum. His mouth opens. Air out. None in. He might never breathe again. A boot swings into his back, pitching him forward, pressing his face into the leaf litter. Spittle drips down his chin.
“How long is your sentence?”
“All day.”
“Life, eh? How many years you done?”
“Fifteen.”
“Chances of parole?”
“I live in hope.”
The older man is squatting on his haunches beside Moss. His voice and diction are melodic and almost hypnotic. He’s a southern gentleman. Old school.
“I am going to offer you a deal, Mr. Webster. It’s a good one. You could call it a once-in-a-lifetime deal because the alternative is watching a bullet come out of your eye socket.”
There is a long pause. The bag has bunched up and Moss can see a few inches of grass. A caterpillar is crawling toward his mouth.
“What’s the deal?” asks Moss.
“I’m givin’ you time to think about it.”
“But I don’t know what it is.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
“You haven’t told me…”
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five—”
“I’ll take it!”
“Good man.”
Moss is dragged to sitting. The smell of urine fills his nostrils and he can feel the sticky wetness soaking the crotch of his trousers.
“When we leave here, you’re going to count to a thousand before you take that sack off your head. You’ll find a pickup truck parked over yonder. Keys are in the ignition. In the cooler you’ll find a thousand dollars, a cell phone, and a driver’s license. That cell phone has a GPS tracking device. If you turn it off, or lose it, or if someone else answers that phone when it rings, the local police will inform the FBI of your escape from Darrington Prison Farm in Brazoria County. I will also send six men to your wife’s home—yes, I know where she lives—and they will play house with her in a way that you have not been able to for the past fifteen years.”
Moss doesn’t respond, but he can feel his fists clenching. The suited man has crouched down again. The cuffs of his trousers rise up to show pale hairless ankles above his black socks. Even without being able to see the man’s eyes, Moss knows that they are fixed on him with all the intensity of a baseball catcher ready for anything that comes in fast or kicks out of the dust.
“In return for being granted your freedom, you are going to find Audie Palmer.”
“How?”
“By using your connections in the criminal underworld.”
Moss has to stop himself from laughing. “I been fifteen years inside.”
The comment draws a swift kick. Moss is growing tired of being hit.
“Is this about the money?” he asks, riding the pain.
“You can have it. We’re only interested in Audie Palmer.”
“Why?”
“He was responsible for people dying. The only reason he escaped being prosecuted for murder was because he took a bullet to the head.”
“And if I find him, what happens?”
“You contact us. The number is programmed into that phone.”
“What happens to Audie?”
“That’s not your concern, Mr. Webster. You swung three times and struck out. Now you have a chance to step up to the plate and get back in the game. Find Audie Palmer and I will make sure your remaining sentence is commuted. You’ll be a free man.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Son, I just got you transferred out of a federal prison to a state prison farm that doesn’t even know you’re coming. Think of what else I can do. You fail to find Palmer and you’ll serve the rest of your sorry life in the toughest, meanest penitentiary in Texas. Do you understand?”
The man leans closer and tosses the soggy end of an unlit cigar near Moss’s face.
“You have only one choice, Mr. Webster, and the sooner you realize that the easier it’s going to be. Remember what I said about that cell phone. Lose it and you’re a wanted man.”