“Is that what you want?” My stomach turned. I placed a hand on his chest, then gave him a gentle shove.
“And how do I know you have what I’m looking for?” I asked in the same tone. I closed the space, leaving only six inches between us. “How do I know you’re not just an imposter trying to step in on another man’s fun?”
“Because I have it,” he said.
“Have what?”
“The note.”
“Show me.”
He hesitated. Then reached for his jeans without removing his eyes from mine. Wearing a coy smile, he slowly pulled the leading edge of a folded note out of his pocket. “See? It’s right here.”
I smiled and slowly slipped my hand up his thigh toward the note while I leaned in and gazed into his eyes. Every nerve in my body was on fire, but not in the way he hoped.
“Good,” I purred. And then I closed my fingers around the note and brought my knee up into his groin with enough force to break a watermelon in half.
He gasped and I let my rage get the better of me. I slapped him across his face. Hard.
“Shame on you!”
Bear roared in pain, more from my knee than from my slap, I guessed, but I didn’t hang around for clarity. With the note firmly in my left hand, I flew to the door, ducked out, took one deep breath, and headed back out to the bar.
I have no idea what the patrons thought I’d accomplished in such a short time alone with Bear, but a few of them whistled and called out their congratulations. I simply smiled courteously and walked past them all without a backward glance.
The moment the door swung closed behind me, I was running for my car. I can’t lie, I felt a strange euphoria—the kind you might feel after narrowly escaping a rushing rhino. What was more, I’d maybe helped Bear gain a new appreciation for women, especially those who were a third his size. For a moment there, I came close to whooping and pumping a fist above my head. I had the note. I was alive. Danny was safe.
Victory.
But a few other words quickly pushed the thought of victory from my mind.
I’m serious as the devil in hell.
I turned into the parking lot and pulled up, breathing hard. This was just the beginning, wasn’t it? And Danny…My heart broke thinking about him. Danny had no clue. If he knew, he would carve Sicko up into small chunks and throw his body parts into the ocean.
In that moment, standing alone ten yards from my Toyota, I wanted Danny to do just that. I wanted it with all of my heart.
13
DEEP MEDITATION.
Prisons were not simply constructed at the whim of one man, but subject to committees’ reviews for approval, always under the scrutiny and guidelines established by the Corrections Standards Authority.
In the Basal case, Warden Marshall Pape had been involved prior to the prison’s construction, but he answered to a director in the Division of Adult Institutions. Who in turn answered to the chief deputy secretary of Adult Operations, who answered to the man at the top: the secretary of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, appointed by the governor of California to his cabinet.
The entire system was closely watched by the Office of the Inspector General, the equivalent of an internal-affairs watchdog. Scrutiny, more scrutiny, and even more scrutiny.
The question that first presented itself to Danny when he was led into the bowels of the prison was how the section Bostich called deep meditation could have possibly been constructed under so much scrutiny.
The answer was plain: it couldn’t have. The room had initially served some other purpose, only to be modified after the prison was opened. And it was likely done so with the knowledge of the director in the Division of Adult Institutions, perhaps also with the agreement of someone in the inspector general’s office. Surely nothing short of such cooperation would have allowed the warden to create, much less operate, deep meditation with impunity.
The man might be a tyrant, but he wasn’t stupid. Rigorous control of the staff, the inmates, and the flow of information in and out of the prison was critical.
The captain and a CO named Mitchell Young had placed a spit hood over Danny’s head—typically used to keep prisoners from spitting on corrections officers, as the name implied—then cuffed his wrists, chained his ankles, tied both into a strap around his waist, and led him from the administrative holding room to a flight of stairs. Where the flight of stairs was, he didn’t know, because they walked some distance before descending.
It was steep, like the stairwell that led to the meditation wing where he’d spent his first few days. It led to a second door, which creaked on its hinges and opened to a much cooler room.
They took two right-angle turns, then stopped. Bostich demanded he stand still, then proceeded to open an entrance that required a full minute and included scraping and pounding not associated with the simple opening and closing of locked gates or doors.
“Hold still.”
It took only a moment for them to cut through his clothing, strip him bare, and remove his shoes.
They led Danny through the entrance into an even colder space before suggesting he watch his step because they were going down. The leg irons allowed him just enough movement to negotiate the concrete steps. Only when they passed through yet one more door, which they closed behind them, did Bostich remove Danny’s hood.
A single caged bulb shed very dim light on the room. The bare concrete space was perhaps fifteen feet to a side and may have once been used for storage or as a cistern. A single wooden table that held a small crate sat against the wall to his right. He could see no doors, but the back wall was nearly obscured by darkness.
“What’s a matter, you were expecting worse?”
Danny blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
“I asked you a question.”
“I didn’t have any expectation,” Danny said.
The red-faced man wore a sneer. “You will. We reserve deep meditation for the worst of the worst, and you’re about to learn why. There’s two ways to do this. We can either knock you out, or you can go willingly. Either way, you’re going. Clear?”
Going to where, Danny had no idea.
“Yes.”
But then the restraints on the back wall emerged from the shadows and he did know. They were going to strap him up on the wall.
The captain saw his stare and smiled. “They never see it when they first come in. It’s a pain getting you up there when you’re out cold, but it’s your choice.”
“I’ll go willingly,” Danny said.
“We’ll see. One wrong move and you get a Taser in the neck, you hear? I’m gonna take off your restraints, but Mitchell’s quick on the trigger. Keep that in mind. No sudden moves.”
Danny nodded. He had no intention of showing any aggression. It would only prove pointless.
“Walk to the wall and turn around.”
Danny shuffled forward, eyeing eight eyehooks set in slats that could be adjusted to fit varying body sizes. He turned around a couple feet from the stained concrete wall. The CO named Mitchell, a rail-thin man with a long face that held too-big eyes, stood with his legs spread and Taser ready, as if he was facing off with a bear.
“Don’t move,” he snapped.
Bostich approached, holding a single strap in his left hand. He reached behind Danny, tied the restraint at his waist off to an inset eyehook, and cinched him tight against the wall. He released the irons on Danny’s wrists and ankles before stepping back.
“Sit tight.”
The man retreated to the crate on the table and withdrew a fistful of cables with leather cuffs. In less than two minutes each of Danny’s wrists, knees and ankles were snugged firmly in padded, three-inch leather restraints. Each of these six cuffs were then hooked into cables that latched into the sliding eyehooks on the wall.