At the same time, in western Virginia inside the Red Onion State Penitentiary, breakfast was two hours late. It normally arrived by 7:30 a.m. It was now twenty minutes after nine.
Five trays wheeled on a stainless-steel cart, each covered with a clear plastic cover and labeled one through five with a handwritten numeral on a white label affixed to the cover, were pushed through the security checkpoint by the female corrections officer.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said
Griffin leered at the same woman who’d escorted him to Deputy Warden Travis’s office twenty-four hours ago.
“Fuck off, asshole,” she whispered, smiling back.
He ogled her as she disappeared beyond the security checkpoint.
“Don’t go there, man,” one of the other guards guffawed. “She’s a man-eater.”
“We’ll see,” Griffin retorted. He paused, then said, “Why don’t you serve up breakfast.”
“No problem, man,” one of his new co-workers replied. The unit manager showed Griffin how to open the wicket in the steel door of empty cell number one. “Start with two and work your way around. The wickets are covered shelves. Open the cover, like this, insert the tray, then close and lock the lid so the inmate can retrieve it.”
“Thanks man, I got it from here.”
The six-celled unit held only five inmates. Cell number one, currently vacant, was awaiting the next violent high-value target. Griffin delivered breakfast to inmate two, a six-foot-seven black man with a torso that looked like the trunk of a redwood. Griffin closed up the opening and moved back to the cart, wheeling it to cell three. He removed Cyclops’ tray, placed it on the top of the cart, and pretended to inspect it by running his hand over it.
Griffin placed his hand in his pocket and removed something. Griffin rapped three times on the steel door. He then unlocked the wicket, opened the cover, placed the tray on the shelf, and reclosed the cover.
“You’re new. Where’s Baker?”
“That’s none of your business. And I’m not new. I’m thirty-nine years old. Now shut up and eat!”
Before Cyclops turned to take the tray to his bunk, Griffin tapped on the glass of the door then placed his palm flat on the glass.
He watched Cyclops’ eyes go wide at the sight of the marking on his hand.
Curled up and cramped in the dark, wet space, Michael had waited for what seemed like hours. Any move he made sloshed the liquid, making noise. He had remained motionless the whole time. But now his muscles were cramping, and he was becoming restless.
The stale air suffocated him. The pungent liquid soaking his feet and legs stank with the acrid sting of vinegar and the sickening odor of urine and feces. The old wine barrel had been used as a toilet. Michael had puffed his cheeks, trying to keep from vomiting in his first minutes inside by using slow, short breaths.
Michael had heard the first man enter. He’d tossed barrels about. When he got to Michael’s barrel, he tried to move it. Discouraged by its weight, he moved on. Then the second man approached and knocked the barrel on its side. It took every ounce of Michael’s strength to keep a seal on the lid and keep from rolling through the top. He pulled down tight against the rim. He closed his mouth and eyes and held his breath as the semi-solid mixture waved back and forth over him, covering him in filth.
Now he feared if he released the lid and showed himself, one of the goons would be standing there waiting for him. It was impossible to tell if he was alone. All he could hear now was the sound of his own breathing, the soft rustle of his flesh and clothing and the gentle lapping of the fetid liquid.
After Miss Christine had disappeared into the front room, Michael had left his position behind the barrels and moved to the door. His curiosity more powerful than fear, he had listened as the large man questioned Miss Christine.
Peeking through a gap in the wood, he’d watched in horror as he hit and kicked her. Christine did not give him the answer he wanted, namely where Michael was hiding. He cringed with each blow, fearing that she would rat him out. When she didn’t, he was oddly relieved.
She had protected him!
He had thought about jumping from the shadows and coming to her defense. But he was more valuable to both of them free. If they were both captured, they would not escape again.
He needed to find a better hiding spot. While the large man shouted at Pierre, Michael searched, desperately looking. As he looked around, he placed his hand on the top of one of the barrels. The lid moved. He pulled it open and his nose was met by the vulgar mixture.
Seeing no other choice, he climbed in.
The circular top had a rope handle in it. Once inside, he inverted it and pulled it over the opening. Holding his breath, he pulled down on the rope with all his might, creating the impression the barrel was sealed.
His arms were weak and tired from the constant tension of pulling on the rope. He shook them out one at a time, trying not suck in too much disgusting air. Unable to stand it any longer, Michael decided it was time to go.
Releasing the tension on the rope handle, Michael gently lowered the lid to keep it from crashing onto the floor. The boy peered through the round opening, studying the dark surroundings, looking for any movement and listening for any sound. Satisfied there was no one in the immediate area, he belly-crawled over the lid and onto the dirty floor. Crouching behind one of the still-upright barrels, he peered toward the soft, yellow cast of rectangular light created by the doorway to the anteroom.
Thankful for the relative freshness of the cellar air, Michael allowed himself several long, deep breaths. Still, he saw no movement and heard no sound.
Staying low and shaking out his arms, he duck walked toward the entrance of the anteroom. He stopped at the rough frame and peeked around the doorway.