“Uh-huh,” Whiskey said.
“Listen to me: those cells cannot be opened from the inside. It’s impossible. I’ve checked them. They can only be opened by a guard. So you’re telling me these cell doors just pop open all by themselves? Presto, bingo? Like magic?
“What are you saying?” Hardie asked.
“It’s obvious. Someone in this room is collaborating with the prisoners, trying to engineer a revolt.”
“Who?”
Yankee looked away. “I’m not that insane.”
That’s when Hardie realized that the staff distrust didn’t apply just to him. The whole guard staff didn’t trust each other. When something went wrong, like a prisoner busting out of his cell, they all started looking at each other.
“Nobody’s going to say it out loud,” said Yankee. “But we all know who’s responsible.”
“Who?” Hardie asked. He felt stupid again—repeating who like a goddamned owl. Wasn’t this his meeting? What had happened?
Yankee now stood, smiled, and pointed at Victor. “Anybody ask Victor there where he was right before Horsehead broke free?”
“What?” Victor said, now sliding up to a full sitting position. “Fuck you, mate! Have you lost your mind?”
The room jolted, as though someone had sent a current up through the very floor.
“You haven’t told him, have you?” Yankee asked.
“Told me what?”
Hardie gave himself credit. At least he hadn’t asked: Who?
“Nothing,” Victor said.
“Nothing my ass.” Yankee turned to address Hardie. “Your boy there, your lead guard? He’s real close with one of the prisoners.”
“Shut up.”
“No, it’s true. Prisoner Three. You haven’t heard him speak yet, but when he does, it’ll be with an Australian accent. That’s because the prisoner and Victor over there used to be partners in the outside world. Oh, yeah.”
“Shut the fuck up, I’m warning you! Am I the only person who remembers the rules in this place?”
“Ol’ Victor there’s sworn his allegiance up and down, renounced his old buddy and everything, but none of us ever believed him. And we think he’s taking advantage of your arrival to make his play.”
“We need to question him,” Whiskey said.
Yankee looked around the room. “Any objections? Shall we finally get to the bottom of this bullshit and stop these escape attempts?”
Victor slid out of his chair and started to move toward the door. Yankee moved to block the door while Whiskey and X-Ray removed their batons from their belts. Victor, back now against the wall, darted his eyes around nervously. The man knew he was outnumbered; his play for the door was more a reflex than a real plan. He muttered, “I don’t believe this shit” to himself. And stole a glance at Hardie.
“Do it,” Yankee said. “Warden, consider this a favor. A little welcome present. Taking care of a problem so you won’t have to.” Sparks popped from the end of Whiskey’s baton. They moved in…
“No.”
Hardie, cane and all, put himself between Victor and the other guards. He didn’t know how to lead, or motivate, or any of that shit. But he wasn’t going to let these people devolve into savagery.
He was no fool; he knew this would end badly. It was three on two, and he was lame and weaponless. Still, Hardie could feel the lizard part of his brain twitching. Scanning the room, building a futile plan of attack. If he could count on Victor to take out X-Ray, maybe he could use his cane and whip Whiskey across the shins, take her down. If it breaks, so be it. He’d take the jagged edge and use it as a knife…
Then something strange happened.
All three of them—X-Ray, Whiskey, and Yankee—smiled. They even started to applaud.
From behind, Victor slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s all right, mate. We just had to know.”
Later, Victor showed up in Hardie’s room, hands hidden behind his back. “Got a little surprise for you.” Victor revealed his treasure: two bottles of nonalcoholic beer. Left over from a case that was sent down a long, long time ago, Victor explained. He’d hoarded them away. Hardie stared at the bottle before accepting it. “Near beer sucks,” he said.
“It does suck,” Victor explained, “but it’s better than no beer at all.”
Hardie took one, twisted off the top—of course it would be a twist-off—and took a swig. The beer tasted like it had skunked sometime around the turn of the century. If you’d been given one in a blind taste test, you’d be hard-pressed to identify the liquid as anything close to beer. Hardie drank it anyway, knowing that he’d need to down at least a case of these to feel even the slightest buzz. The near beer made Hardie miss the real thing all the more. But he didn’t say anything to Victor. He didn’t want to offend his new bestest friend.
After the meeting broke up, Victor had stayed behind and explained:
“Really sorry about that, but we had to be sure. A new warden comes down here, and right away he’s aligning himself with the prisoners…well, you can see how that can be troublesome. They don’t tell us anything, other than that a new warden is coming down. You understand, right?”
Hardie had nodded, his nerves still jumpy from the confrontation. Sometimes the anticipation of an ass-beating could be worse than the actual ass-beating.
“But you stuck up for me—and you just won major points in everyone’s eyes. Just like I told them. I knew you’d be all right. They only send the best down here, and I suspect you’re better than anyone realizes.”
“Thanks,” Hardie had said, then made a beeline for his room. He wanted to sleep. Think everything through with a fresh brain. So far, that hadn’t happened. Every time he woke up, he felt more confused, more fuzzy. There was no sleep that left him feeling refreshed. Even when he slept through two shifts in a row.
What was this place? Was he really down here to reform it?
Now Victor was here with his near beer peace offering, and in the mood to talk.
“How was that?” he asked, a big grin on his face, tipping his own bottle of near beer toward Hardie’s.
“Good,” Hardie lied.
“I wanted to level with you up front, but we have to be cautious,” Victor continued. “Prisoner Three was indeed my partner. We worked in Syd…well, you know I’m not allowed to tell you anything. Rules are still rules. But we were close. Completely different in skills and styles, mind you, but I considered him a blood brother. I didn’t learn his true side, the side he kept hidden behind a human mask, until it was too late. Sometimes I think I’m here to keep an eye on him. My own personal burden, you know? As if he’s still my responsibility, even though he’s locked up here forever.”
Hardie nodded. He’d had a partner once. A blood brother. And things had not turned out the way he expected.
“Anyway,” Victor continued, “that’s why I don’t have a cute nickname for him. His real name is bad enough. It burns a hole in my mind as it is. Better to think of him as a number. Nothing more.”
“What did he do?”
“Eh?”
Hardie looked at Victor. “What did he do, to deserve being here?”
Victor took another swig of beer, stared off at the far wall of Hardie’s room. He swished the beer around in his mouth before he worked it down his throat.
“You know I can’t say anything. But think of the worst kind of betrayal, at the worst possible moment…and then multiply that by a thousand. The man’s a monster. He had been the whole time. And I’m ashamed it took me so long to recognize that.”
Victor seemed convinced that his former pal was a monster. But monster was a word that was thrown around a lot. What was he—a cold-blooded hit man? A secret serial killer who dressed up in a black leather gimp suit and sliced up entire families in suburban houses?