“Fuck you,” I mutter, blinking tears from my eyes.
Prescott backs away until he can knock on the door. “I’ll come visit when I’m free to stop by,” he adds. “I’m already looking forward to it.”
In seconds, a pair of guards enter the room. “Prepare her for transfer,” Prescott says.
As he watches, the guards remove my handcuffs, stand me up and re-cuff my wrists in front of me.
This can’t be happening!
“Stop!” I shout. “You can’t do this! There were witnesses! People will be looking for me!”
Prescott stops. “You mean your friend, Lydia? Don’t worry. An associate of mine warned her to forget about all this. To forgetyou. If she doesn’t, you might see her again pretty soon, actually.”
No. Oh my god no.
They wrap a chain around my waist and lock my hands to it tightly enough that all I can do with them is flex my fingers. To incapacitate me nearly completely, they cuff my ankles and connect them together with another chain.
“I’m sorry about Lance! Please, don’t do this!” I beg. Maybe it’s wrong that I didn’t feel bad about what happened to him, but this isn’t justice.
With one more chain, they link my ankles to my wrists. There’s no hope of running, I realize, as tears drip freely down my cheeks.
“That’s a good look for you,” Prescott says, taking a white cloth from his pants pocket. He brushes my face dry, then forces the fabric between my lips. I howl with rage, tasting my tears as he ties the gag behind my neck. “Have a safe trip,” he whispers into my ear. “I’ll see you very soon.”
Then a guard pulls a hood over my face, blinding me and silencing my screams.
Chapter 2
My throat burns by the time I’ve exhausted myself howling and struggling to get free, to no avail. I’m vaguely aware of the guards moving me, loading me into a vehicle and strapping me in. The belts tighten around my chest and waist, locking me down so tightly I can barely move. Total darkness robs me of any chance of seeing where we’re headed. All I can tell is we’re going fast.
Fatigue eventually forces me to settle down — the drivers ignore me. Am I in a windowless, soundproof van with a separate driver cabin? Is this hood muffling me so completely? I don’t hear them either, for that matter — no police radio squawks or music or anything — just the roar of the engine and the hum of the air conditioner.
Deprived of freedom and sight, it doesn’t take long for me to lose track of time. How far away is this prison? How long have we been driving? What direction are we going? I have no idea. Jefferson said the prison is northwest of Philadelphia, and that’s where Congressman Prescott started the Prescott Penitentiary Complex — it stands to reason Walker would be in the vicinity, but is that where we’re actually going? By now we could be in Upstate New York, somewhere in Ohio or West Virginia…
Not that that matters — we could be headed for Albuquerque — as long as I’m in his grasp, I’m in danger. But what am I supposed to do? Break out of a prison? I don’t know how to do that!
I know that they’ll take very good care of you.
Prescott’s promise echoes in my ears, despite my efforts to drown them out. My heart pounds and sweat drenches the inside of my hood. What does that mean? What exactly are they going to do to me? Are the guards there going to beat me? Or maybe the inmates themselves? Am I going to be fighting for my life?
The judge I spoke to, Jefferson, made Walker seem like a different kind of place — more of a rehabilitation center than a jail. Does he not know the truth about it? He acted surprised when Prescott interrupted our meeting — was he afraid of the congressman? It didn’t feel that way. He wanted to convince me to go to Walker — maybe he worried I wouldn’t sign? But then Prescott took care of that, didn’t he?
I bet no one will even challenge the forged signature. Maybe, if I’m lucky, my friend Lydia will look into what happened to me after that night, but I doubt she’ll get far. They’ll say I took a plea deal to serve a shorter sentence. Case closed.
Jostling stirs me from a listless state. The vehicle bumps upward twice — speed bumps, I guess. Maybe we’ve arrived? It’s a lot more likely than someone stopping the van to save me.
Dry as sandpaper, my tongue works against the gag, trying to relieve my throbbing jaw. After what feels like hours of being bound, my body aches nearly everywhere. Under other circumstances, I might not mind — a little pain always used to feel nice in a perverse sort of way. Though I’ve never admitted it to anyone, I’ve dreamed about some of my hot professors spanking me after doing poorly on a quiz. Being tied up like this, I should be terrified. Yet, they make me feel paradoxically at peace: unable to move or escape, I’m forced to accept the situation and stay calm, at least on the surface. Underneath, fear scrapes ice across my bones, especially when the van finally comes to a stop.
Now quiet in my pacified state, I hear the doors opening, followed by the footsteps of men. They approach without a word, but then their hands crawl around my body as they release the restraints keeping me seated. After hauling me to my feet and out of the vehicle, there’s a tugging at the back of my head, and then the hood comes free.
Burning light blinds me, but the fresh forest aroma clears away the stink of sweat and fear. When my eyes adjust, I see a blackish mirror, as the placid lake reflects dire storm clouds. Wind whips at my matted, brown hair and I think I feel a drop, though it could just be me — fresh tears roll down my cheeks as the guards push me towards the wire-topped walls. Gravel crunches under our feet, and overhead a caw echoes across the water. I’ve never heard such quiet before.
A high tower rises over the prison’s metal-paneled gate. Two men stare down at us from above, and then the gate squeals like it’s wounded as it opens.
Waiting on the other side, a man watches us approach. Dressed in khaki slacks and a black, button-down shirt, only his work boots seem right for a prison guard. He is built like one, though: broad in shoulders, tall and packed with muscle, he looks like he could lift a city bus. He glares at us — at me — as though somehow offended, and doesn’t turn away when I meet his sharp, brown eyes. Short, dark hair stands rigid as his posture.
I already don’t like him. No one who works at a place like this should be so handsome: a couple days of stubble coats a strong, chiseled jaw. His thick lips press together angrily in a way I could die for if he wasn’t acting so unnerving.
“What is it, Reed?” asks one of the men forcing me forward.