The next morning we met Sheriff Hylton outside the red brick Stewarts Stop and Shop convenience store. She was standing by the glass door, already working on a large cup of coffee. When I got close to her, I could see that her face was a little pale, her eyes red and tired.
“One too many beers?” I said, not without a smile.
The punch that nailed my upper arm nearly tipped me over. Turning, I faced Blood, eyes wide.
“That how you normally address a pretty young lady first thing in the morning, Marconi?” he said. “No wonder you always lonely.” Then, holding out his hand, Bridgette gently placed her hand in his. “Good morning, Ms. Hylton,” he said, voice smooth and inviting. “You look ravishing, as usual.”
“Why, thank you, Blood,” she said, giggling. “You are such a gentleman.”
He turned back to me. “Now, that how you address a woman, even if she did hit the sauce a little too hard last night.” He winked.
I recalled the six beers apiece we managed to polish off from the case in our motel room after we’d returned from dinner.
He who cast the first stone . . .
“I appreciate the collected concern, gentlemen,” Hylton said. “But it’s not the beers. It’s the lack of sleep. Things have been a little tense around here lately.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, thanks for the lesson in manners, Blood,” I said. “But if you ever punch me before I’ve had my coffee again, I’ll step on your big toe and make it hurt.”
“I didn’t punch you,” he said. “I merely tapped you to get your attention. You ain’t never felt one of my punches.”
He was telling the absolute truth. A Blood full-frontal-assault punch to the jaw would pretty much shatter every bone in my face. Rumor had it he stiff-armed a linebacker as he was making his way to the goal line during his semi-pro football days and dented the guy’s facemask. Facing the door, I made out the reflection of a van pulling up behind us, parking. A black van with tinted windows. In my head, I whispered FBI.
Reaching for the door handle, I pulled it open just a touch. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Hylton?”
“No thanks, Keeper,” she said. “The coffee in my hand will do the trick.” I opened the door wider. “Mr. Blood, after you.”
“You learning,” he said as he stepped into the shop ahead of me.
Inside, the place was busy with mostly cops and troopers grabbing their morning pick me up. Working people in jeans and T-shirts, work boots, and soiled baseball hats. People who weren’t boycotting Starbucks, so much as they couldn’t afford to shell out five bucks for a small coffee even if they wanted to. But then, Starbucks was a stranger to a strictly lower to middle-class prison hamlet like Dannemora.
A uniformed trooper was standing at the counter, a cup of coffee in hand, staring up at the television mounted to the wall behind the cashier.
Vincent D’Amico.
I poured coffee into two large paper cups, pressed the plastic sippy lids on top, dropped a five on the counter, told the tired-looking kid working the register to keep the change.
“Thirty-six cents,” he deadpanned. “Thanks.”
“I’m all about helping out my fellow man,” I said.
I took a few steps back so that I not only stood shoulder to shoulder with D’Amico but so we both faced the flat-screen television. Rather, shoulder to shoulder was a bit of a misnomer since his shoulder only came up about as far as my elbow.
On the television, an attractive female reporter who had been eating inside Fang’s the night before stood outside the entry gates to Dannemora Prison. She was tall, her short dirty blonde hair parted over her right eye. Pretty eyes, ample breasts, hour-glass figure. She spoke intensely into a handheld mic about yet another day without a clue as to the whereabouts of Moss and Sweet. She emphasized that the two cons could be located anywhere from Canada to Mexico, despite the hordes of law enforcement officials that had joined in the hunt. Just the sight of her provided more of a wake-up than the hot caffeinated beverage in my hands.
I stole a sip of my coffee.
“Damnedest thing, isn’t it?” I said, my eyes shifting from the TV to the top of D’Amico’s jarhead and back again.
“What’s the damnedest thing?” he said. His voice was high-pitched for an adult male, but not for a male who wasn’t much taller than your average racehorse jockey. I’d always assumed the state troopers had a height requirement. Or maybe he had friends in tall places.
“The escape,” I said. “You ask me, those two cons are close by.”
D’Amico was an intense man. You could almost feel the tension oozing from him, the same way you hear the buzz of high tension wires when you pass beneath them. A man ready to explode at the slightest provocation. And I felt like I just pushed one of his many buttons.
He looked up at me, quick. “I know you, chief?”
I went to hold out my right hand politely, but quickly realized the hand was . . . how do they say it in France? Occupado.
“Jack Marconi,” I said. “My friends call me Keeper. I saw you from a distance at Fang’s last night.”
He nodded. “Well, Jack, what brings you to Dannemora?”
I cocked my head in the direction of the television.
“The prison break drama,” I said. “But then you knew that already, didn’t you?” Then, pursing my lips, “You think she’s married?”
He grunted and snickered. But it wasn’t a pleasant snicker.
“You a journalist?”
“Private eye,” I said. “Like Mike Hammer. Only better looking.”
This time he just grunted.
“Yes, the girl is married,” he said. “I watch her newscast all the time. And why do you think those two escaped assholes could be close by?”
“I know prisoners,” I said. “I used to be the warden at Green Haven Prison. But that was a long time ago.”
“That makes you an expert, chief?”
“More than most. Or so I’d like to think.”
The television broadcast shifted from the pretty journalist to a shot of the dense Adirondack Forest that surrounded the prison walls. The woods looked thick, dark, foreboding—like a place only the Big Bad Wolf hid out.
D’Amico said, “Moss will head to Mexico first chance he gets. It’s where his girl is. Where his money is. Where his home is. Depends how much Sweet holds him back.”
“You think they’re out of state already?”
“FBI’s gonna try to pounce on this now,” he said. “Try being the operative word here.”
I shifted my gaze in the direction of the black van outside. Blood was standing by the door. He winked at me.
“I think Agents Scully and Mulder have arrived already,” I said.
“The van,” he said. “I saw it pull in.” He watched the TV for a few beats more until Pretty Journalist came back on the screen. “So, what’s your theory, chief?”
“I think they’re held up in a hunting cabin somewhere. I don’t think they even expected to make it out of the prison in the first place, and now that they have, they’re confused and scared and not sure about their next move. Their contact on the outside screwed them over. Their only hope of getting to Mexico now are the two living and breathing bodies that reside in the Clinton County Jail. They’re desperate and hungry and sitting on their asses right under our noses. Dollars to donuts. And I’m guessing a big part of you must believe the same thing, or a version thereof anyway, or you wouldn’t be devoting so much time and resources to the situation. Am I warm, Trooper D’Amico?”
“You know my name?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ve done my homework.”
“Well, chief,” he said. “Do yourself a favor and keep your nose out of official law enforcement business.”
“I’m being paid to poke my nose in it. I were you, and I’m not telling you your job or anything like that, but I’d enlist a bunch of local hunters and the like. No one knows these woods better than them.”
He nodded. “You mean like deputize them, create a posse comitatus?”
“Sort of. I think my boss would agree to the tactic.”
“I’d ask you who your boss is, but I think I already know. And let me tell you something . . . you think you can come in here and undermine the work of the New York State Troopers? Well, chief, you’ve got yourself another thing coming.”
“Whoa,” I said.
He looked up at me while trying desperately not to make it look like he had to look up at me.
“What’s whoa mean, chief?”
“It means you sure threw a scare into me.”
On TV, Pretty Journalist smiled. “This is Tanya Rucker reporting live from Dannemora Prison,” she said. Her eyes lit up. I melted.
“You sure she’s married?” I said.
“Get the hell out of here,” D’Amico said.
“You asking or telling?”
He grunted again.
I found Blood standing by the door, glancing at the rack of dirty magazines.
“You just looking,” I said in my best imitation Indian accent, “or are you going to buy the porno magazine?”
“I prefer the real thing,” he said.
I handed the real thing his coffee, and together we made a swift exit.
Outside, I eyed the black van. I couldn’t see anyone inside it, but I knew they could see me. I could feel their gaze like two separate sets of red laser beams. So could Bridgette, and so could Blood. The driver’s side door opened on the van, and a young man dressed in a dark suit stepped out. Then the passenger side door opened, and a young, business-suited woman emerged. They must have been waiting for me to exit the shop before they revealed themselves. Which told me they not only knew my ID but knew all about my mission. Not that they would readily admit to anything.
“Here come the Feds,” Sheriff Hylton said. “You can tell by the cheap suits.”
The young man approached us, smiled. A fake smile.
“Coffee good here?” he said. His hair was cut short and trimmed professionally.
The woman stepped up behind him. Her short skirt matched her jacket. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore aviator sunglasses over eyes I imagined to be brown. “Know where we can find Sheriff Hylton?” she said. Unlike her partner, she didn’t smile when she spoke. All business.
I glanced at Blood. He drank some coffee, soaking up the atmosphere, his face stoic, expressionless.
“I’m Sheriff, Hylton,” Bridgette said.
“Serendipity,” Blood said. The sarcasm that painted his voice was noticeable only to me. I was trained to recognize the subtleties in life.
“More like they tracked her smartphone,” I said, knowing they knew exactly who the sheriff was, never mind Blood and me. But then, I guessed the cloak and dagger act was all part of the FBI job description.
The young man pulled out his badge, flashed it.
“FBI,” he said. “I’m Agent Muscolino, and this is Agent Doyle. We’re here to inquire about the case of the missing prisoners.”
“You don’t say,” Bridgette stated. “Thus far, we have no less than four law enforcement agencies, not including the Canadian Royal Mounted Police, on the trail of those two assholes.”
“What’s your point?” said Doyle.
Bridgette sipped her coffee, nodded contemplatively.
“My point, Agent Doyle? Is that you will wait your turn, like the rest of us.”
Muscolino went to talk, but Bridgette raised her free hand as if to say, “Shush,” immediately silencing the dark-suited spook. It wasn’t easy to make out, but I was pretty sure Blood giggled.
“This is my town, agents,” she said, stressing the plurality of the S on the end of agents. “That big ugly gray building behind you is my prison. Those escaped convicts are my responsibility first and foremost, and despite firm, well-intentioned, but nonetheless empty promises from both Governor Valente and First Deputy Superintendent State Trooper D’Amico, I have made it my number one goal to apprehend those two no-good bastards on my own.” She paused for effect. “Now, do we have ourselves an understanding, Agent Muscolino? Agent Doyle?”
They nodded, turned on their heels, and got back into the van. They backed out and took off in the opposite direction of the prison gates and, apparently, a coffee shop where the atmosphere wasn’t so hot.
We stood sipping coffee and watching them disappear into the landscape. Until Blood broke the silence by saying, “You good. You very, very good, Ms. Hylton.”
She smiled proudly. “I was the first girl in this town to play Pop Warner Football. Sure, we didn’t have enough boys to form a full team, but I’m the competitive type, Blood.”
The coffee shop door opened. D’Amico stepped out, his coffee in hand. He stopped and stared at us, then focused his gaze on Bridgette.
“Busy catching the bad guys, Sheriff Hylton?” he said. “Or are you about to catch a hair appointment?” He cracked his lips as if attempting a wry smile brought about by his brilliant witticism before turning and walking towards his prowler. When his boot caught on a crack in the concrete, he tripped and went down on his chest, the coffee cup hitting the concrete sidewalk and exploding all over his pristine uniform.
It was all we could do to squelch our laughs.
Slowly, he raised himself back up while several bystanders looked on, not quite knowing what to do or how to react. He swiped at the substantial brown stains that soaked his shirt and the front of his trousers; he attempted to straighten his Stetson, hanging off his jarhead like a bad toupee. He turned, held out his hand, pointed it at us.
“One word,” he said, face full of fury. “Say even one word or let me hear just one snicker out of your insubordinate mouths, and I will call in every statie from New York City to Buffalo, and your town will be covered in the gray and black. Do I make myself clear?”
His hat slipped off his head, dropped to the coffee-covered pavement. Blood stepped forward, retrieved it for him, not before brushing away some little pieces of gravel stuck to the brim.
D’Amico swiped it out of his hand.
“Thank. You. Very. Much.” he said, acid dripping from his words.
Turning, he hobbled to his prowler like a toddler with a load in his drawers, the baby-faced uniformed driver nervously opened the rear door for him.
“He very uptight,” Blood said.
“That’s because you and Keeper are on the job, Blood,” Bridgette said. “You guys are gonna help me nail those two bastards. Soon. And he knows it.”
The prowler left the scene, spitting gravel and dirt out from under its wheels. I glanced at my wristwatch.
“You think Warden Clark has shown up for work yet?” I said.
“If he’s smart,” Bridgette said, walking toward her Jeep, “he’ll never show up for work again.”