Chapter 3
It may have been Quixotic, but it was magnificent.
J.M. Barrie
Everett was emotionally and physically, wrung out, unsure now if he really wanted the answers he had come for. He sat on the edge of the couch in Cynthia's living room, staring into the distance, not really seeing anything. His inherent instincts to protect had served him very well, had driven his career in the military, and subsequently his security business. Because of his past success, he had learned early to trust his gut. The same gut that screamed for him to help Brian, a man he respected, maybe even counted as a friend, conversely screamed with equal volume, that he was biting off more than he could chew. Worse yet, he now knew that Cynthia had been involved, to some degree, and they were about to enter a realm he was fairly positive she did not want to relive, and not wanting to be the cause of distress, he stood, intending to make an excuse to leave.
She came back in the room then, with two red coffee cups the size of mixing bowls. She paused, not saying anything, giving him the choice to stay or go with no recriminations. He took her in, really took her in, the faded bathrobe sporting a tattered hem and a torn pocket, the wavy hair sloppily piled on the top of her head, and the features schooled into indifference. What broke it for him, was her beautiful eyes. The blue dared him to stay, to learn what he didn't know, and therefore ruin, possibly forever, any chance at a relationship with her, if he found he couldn't handle it. And right there, the barest flicker he almost missed, the plea that he would.
Not knowing was hard, staying would no doubt be harder, with consequences he could not fathom. But damn, he wanted the chance to see what she looked like when she was happy, knew that would never happen if he bolted now. Accepting his fate with resolve, he crossed the distance and removed the cups from her hands, letting his fingers slide over hers.
"I will tell you this," she said as they sat, she in the wingback, and he on the couch, "on two conditions. That you never, ever so much as allude to the fact that you know, let alone mention it to Brian. And you save your questions until I am finished." He settled back into his seat, conveying his acceptance of her terms. She stiffened, poised on the edge of her chair, in a rigid pose he had seen Brian use to deal with a particularly nasty situation. He wondered if she knew she used it too. Still, he kept his mouth shut and had to use both hands to handle his cup.
He watched as she breathed purposefully, ordering her thoughts, as her eyes clouded, drifting back into the past.
"I was not born here. I was born in Lithuania to a woman who's face I can't remember. For whatever reason, I was sold to a trafficker sometime before my first birthday and brought to the States to be bought by a family here. The deal fell through. It was decided, at that point, that I was to be kept until I was older and could ultimately bring in more money, first as a virgin, secondly as a prostitute. My first memories are of dark rooms, people yelling in Lithuanian, and of hunger. I did not really know how to speak, as I had not really been spoken to except for the occasional 'Do this, blahblahblah, or the Angel of Death will come for you.' I think it was some kind of joke for them.
I did not know what the words were, but the meaning was clear. 'Angelas Mirties' were the first words I remember saying and as time passed I wished the 'Angelas Mirties' would come and take me. A sad circumstance, for a child of four. People think that children that young don't have the ability to understand the concept of death, but I tell you I wished it with a conviction so strong I ....."
She swallowed some coffee to ease her throat. "Anyway, as criminal elements do, we moved frequently. Ultimately ending up in one of the seediest parts of Hell's Kitchen. I was kept in a closet where I saw the sun, the rain, snow, all for the first time through a tiny window. I could not reach it, since I was small, and the window was near the ceiling, at ground level from the alley outside.
I saw him for the first time through that window. He had passed out in the alley, a broken arm I think. He has never said, but I cannot even imagine what I must have looked like to him, covered in my own shit, hair matted to my head, and starving. I watched him for a long time. Eventually he woke up and I remember how I felt when I saw his eyes for the first time. He was beautiful, even as a child, even to another child. 'Angelas Mirties'. But when our eyes met, I knew, and so did he, that we each had pain. Different, but the same. An unspoken understanding, that the world was not right, a mirrored plea for mercy in a place that would never give it.
He tried to open the window, unsuccessfully, and I cried when he left. I found out later that he ingratiated himself with the "leader" of the group, Yergi Putrev, over the next several months, by doing little jobs on the side. Dropping off packages, being a lookout, stuff like that. All so that he would be allowed inside of the building. He couldn't do much at first, but he snuck me food and talked to me when he wasn't being watched. Yergi caught him eventually and gave him the beating of his life, nearly killed him. Among other things, Yergi broke his fingers for feeding me, his jaw for talking to me, and his ribs for good measure. Laying there on the floor, after it was over, he heard them discussing what to do with the two of us. 'The boy couldn't live to tell anyone', and I was 'more trouble than I was worth' and should be sold immediately. No loose ties. He was taken away. I don't know what happened after that." She whispered, "I don't want to know."
Shaking her head to remove the spidery webs of "what if's" from her mind she drank for a few moments, silently. Everett remained patient, but hardly unemotional. His gut burned, his sense of fairness, goodness, rebelled and rolled through him, making every muscle taut, wanting to hurt someone for what had been done, and having no one to punish for it. Sensing it was not over, he forced himself to relax, to wait for the rest.
Her voice, when it came, was no longer the nearly clinical tone she'd been using thus far. Now it was icy, chilling, deadly, causing the hairs to stand on Everett's arms. His gut screamed at him to leave as she spoke "He came back that night. Beaten, bloody, both eyes nearly swollen shut, in a word... broken. He moved like a marionette with a drunkard controlling the strings. I don't know how he got in, and my imagination is enough. He opened the door to my closet and gestured for me to be quiet as he dragged a chair to the window and unlocked it, braced it open. Then, he left the way he had come. I followed him at a distance and watched as he went in search of the two men left to guard the building. They shared a single room, sleeping in twin beds set up on either side of the radiator on the wall. Their stash of drugs and money, on the table in the corner. It was the first time I saw him smile. He pulled off his shoes and with his broken fingers removed the laces, which he used to tie a hand from each man to the radiator. 'Angelas Mirties'. Stuffing the stacks of cash into his socks, he threaded the tops into his belt loops. He struggled with something in the back waistband of his pants and I helped him get it out, a metal canister that sloshed and smelled bad. He stared at me for a bit then left, closing the door behind us. He squirted the liquid all over the next room and left a trail through the closet and out the window. It was a struggle for us to get out, me so small, he was so injured. But... he did it. He pulled me to some litter in the alley and put the last of the liquid on it, then lit a match, tossing it on the pile and holding my hand as we watched it burn everything to ashes and go cold. A wordless lesson. He walked me back to the window, gestured to himself with the box of matches... then to me. I knew what he was asking and I held out my hand. He lit the match and carefully handed it to me. I can still feel the heat of it, as it burned closer to my fingers. He tried to take it back then, but I deliberately set it to the trail of fluid, and we watched from the alley across the street as the place burned. After a while we heard sirens, so he knelt and pulled me onto his back, carried me away. Neither of us had shoes."
Everett had to grit his teeth to keep from speaking. He set down his cup, for fear of breaking it in his clenched hands. He wanted to surge up, pace, rail at fate, until she faced him, for the first time since she had begun. She smiled, a full beautiful, mesmerizing smile of the redeemed. "I was free!" Love oozed from every pore of her body and her words as she spoke again. "He carried me the entire way to Missy's apartment. She took both of us in. I remember the look on her face when she saw us, worse when she smelled us. He just nodded at her and walked me to the bathroom, running some water in the tub. Missy tried to get him to leave, but I wouldn't let go of his hand. She finally relented and the two of them scrubbed me down." She laughed lightly, "I don't know how many times they had to refill the tub. Missy gave me one of her t-shirts to wear, and being a big woman, had to safety pin the bottom so I didn't trip. She set us both at this tiny little table in front of the stove. She turned on the oven to make the room warmer, and was about to heat some soup, when he told her I had never used silverware before. She was at a loss then, knowing we had to be hungry. He just grabbed a loaf of bread and peanut butter, nudging her away when she tried to help him as he struggled with spreading it because of his broken bones. I ate two- fisted, and started to panic when he left the room, but he came back quickly and smiled at me again. He brushed my hair with one hand, holding his ribs with the other, while I ate and Missy watched, crying the whole time, but she let us be. It took a long while to get the mats out of my hair. He was sweating pretty bad and breathing hard by the time he was done, but he just kept running his empty hand over my hair and it was then I knew what love was. He was telling me, with his hands that I was safe, protected. He would never hurt me, or allow anyone else to do so. I could trust him." Her tears fell freely and her voice was watery but she was not ashamed. "He made a bed for me in her recliner, still rubbing my hair til I fell asleep."
Everett was hollow. Every shred of emotion he thought he had possessed, had been brought to the surface, scraped bloody and removed from his soul by her words. How does a person come back from that? Get back the person he was such a short time ago.? He knew the answer...never.
Cynthia laid a hand on his knee, continuing "He ended up in the hospital that night. Missy, had Tom, her neighbor take him, because he was afraid to leave me with anyone else and knew I couldn't come with him. He almost died giving me a family. I have never known the full extent of his injuries, but I do know it was a while before he came to see me again. He taught me many things, made sure we had what we needed, even if he had to steal them, even after his family moved to Pittsburgh a couple years later.
Brian Kinney gave me a name, my family, my education, my career, and ultimately my life. I owe him more than I could ever repay, though it won't stop me from trying. Right or wrong, hell or high water, he will always, unequivocally have my support and my loyalty regardless of any personal cost to myself, not because he asked for it or demanded it... but because he never would."
She radiated fierceness, and Everett was stunned at the picture she made, resolute in her stance to allow him to be whatever he chose. It was not a reward for what he did for her. It was love. It was the purest possible form of love that came with no restrictions, regrets, or boundaries, unencumbered by conditions, personal desires, or vanities . It was dauntless and relentless.
Everett swelled with pride. Proud of her, and proud of Brian, for everything they had accomplished together. It filled to capacity, the emptiness she had just created in his soul. New understanding colored and gave nuance to everything he had seen or knew about them, and he was grateful.
I hope, one day, to have love like that.
He opened his mouth to say so, and stopped when he remembered her conditions for this baring of secrets. She moved to sit next to him, "You have questions?"
Hundreds of them raced through his head in a nanosecond and he settled on just one.
"Yeah, I do, but I need the answer to only one..."
Puzzlement had her nerves on- edge, she had expected a lot more, until she realized that the most important of what he might ask, could be answered with one statement, and she was intrigued that he had worked it out so quickly. She was smiling at him, impressed, when she answered "Angelas Mirties?, the Angel of Death? He was ten years old."
His thoughts raced with differing outcomes of his next steps. He held her hand briefly then had her follow him to the door and unlock it for him. Turning to her, he considered his words carefully before saying "Thank you, for the gift. I'll come back", as he kissed her forehead, and left.
She redid the deadbolts thinking, yeah, he just might.
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Fuck! I left the goddamn drapes open again! Just want to sleep.
A peek from under the thick comforter confirmed a time of ten minutes to ten. Brian groaned, his raw throat protested, and his bleary eyes felt like he could build sand castles in them. His whole body hurt and he wondered if he had been in a fight. He couldn't remember. Try as he might, the only image that came to him was Justin sucking him off in the backroom. His gut clenched, that couldn't be right. Justin was gone. THAT, he remembered. Emmett, yeah he remembered being in the bar with him and Cynthia.
Yay, progress!
The club. Backroom. Angry. Angry? At who? Justin. No. Himself? Don't want to think about it. Drugs. Of course. Wait, drug(s)? SHIT!
Another groan and a hearty cough to clear the lungs. He needed a smoke. He needed coffee, a lot of coffee. He needed to piss and a sniff said he needed a shower too.
Fuck it all!
No help for it now, his bladder told him he had to get up.
In the bathroom, he leaned on the wall as he peed, not sure if his legs would hold him. He had a killer headache and his mouth tasted like raw sewage. Flushing the toilet, he ambled to the sink and quickly brushed his teeth to clear the funk. He avoided the mirror. He was not ready for that yet. He lit a cigarette and was careful, to not get it wet, when he stepped into the shower. He smoked while the jets did their work and he took an inventory of his body. Moving parts this way and that, he found no outward signs of physical violence, until he reached his face. His nose hurt like a bitch and was the likely culprit for his headache. He just hoped it wasn't broken. How he had made it this far in his life without a broken nose was a miracle unto itself, and he wanted to keep it that way. He was rather fond of it, exactly the way it was.
Setting his cigarette butt down, he washed, and carried it out to the wastebasket. As he was leaning to make sure it went in, he notice the bloody towel in the dirty clothes hamper.
A swing of a bat. Blood, lots of blood. A bloody scarf...Pull yourself together Kinney! It's over! He's alive!
How did it get there?
He looked in the mirror, the swollen bridge of his nose and the bit of puffiness around his eyes, confirmed an impact and a nosebleed. Problem solved.
In his bedroom, he pulled on a black pair of low-cut briefs, over still damp skin and made his way to the kitchen making sure to have his hand on something as he walked, to catch himself, in case his legs gave out. He started the small coffee pot, grabbing a beer from the fridge and drinking it, while the pot brewed. Still shaky when it finished, he sat on a barstool to doctor it with half a cup of sugar and stirred it with the handle of a serving spoon from the utensil jar next to his elbow.
After gulping half the pot, the shaky feeling subsided to a general instability, and he wandered to the living room windows, still carrying the coffee pot. He watched as cars streamed by endlessly, and people walked, or rode bikes, pushed strollers, all the normal things people did on a Saturday morning. He imagined himself pushing outward, into that world, little tendrils of himself connecting to the people below, and felt, for a few seconds, how the people he touched, felt as they went about their lives. Little snippets life. Of joy, as a mother held her baby. Of freedom, as a couple of boys wound through the pedestrians on skateboards. Of love, as an older couple held hands as they ate brunch at the bakery. Of sadness, as a man left a woman crying on the sidewalk.
This was his most closely guarded secret. The one he had never told anyone, ever. It was what made him so very good in his profession, and tortured him in life. He could intuitively feel what others felt, by their body language, especially if there was physical contact. It did not even have to be overt. He could read the smallest motion, a glimmer, a flicker, even if it was contrary to what the person was saying. People, to him, were the proverbial open book. A glance and he could practically read their bodies, and their emotions were his to feel. He didn't know what to call it, or even if there was a name for it, it just was. A superpower, Mikey would call it. A curse, if you had it, and the reason he was so guarded all the time.
"Brian?"
He snapped back to himself and turned towards the voice, dripping coffee on his foot. Emmett was sitting up on the couch and Brian read him and his needs in an instant. Emmett needed to see that he was alright, which meant he had seen him when he wasn't, and was bombarded with a memory of Emmett holding him last night, as the nightmares came.
Shit! He saw what a fucking mess I am, and he's scared shitless. Needs me to be me. Or, at least appear to be me. Sadness, I feel his sadness like a weight, and his pity like chains.
Brian straightened, projected strength, and opened his arms, not allowing his unstable legs to betray him. Emmett flew off the couch into his embrace and the comfort it offered. Brian traded Emmett's fear for him, and gave him back thanks. He held Emmett's head to the crook of his neck and stroked his hair, rubbing his ear with his jaw until the waves of fear and sadness subsided. Then he projected gratitude, with a tight hug. Emmett pulled back until he could see Brian's face and showed him the acceptance he felt, for the gratitude and the vulnerability he was not supposed to have witnessed. Their embrace changed very subtly, and it was Emmett holding Brian. Brian, unsure what was happening, risked openness, and sagged into him when he felt nothing but comfort. No more pity, sadness, or fear. Just comfort. It had been so long since he had last felt that particular emotion, without the hindrance of others, but he was not surprised that it came from Emmett. He had long since known that the two of them shared painful similarities in their pasts, though he did not know the details. Here was someone who understood the levels a person went to, to protect that past from prying eyes, so he squeezed Emmett very tightly, then let him go, and offered him the coffee pot. Emmett gave him a big, cheeky grin, and downed the rest.
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Justin knew he should call his mother, let her know he was in town, but managed to procrastinate long enough to justify putting it off until the next day. Daphne rolled her eyes in disgust when he said as much, and flounced, yes flounced, off to her bedroom, slamming the door for punctuation. He knew his Mom could find him a place pretty fast, and was in fact, the reason for the procrastination. Wanting a place of his own, and actually having it, were two very different things. The first a symbol, and the second a finality, a door closed. He was not yet ready to face that.
How was it, that after seven years, he was right back where he started? The push/pull of their relationship should have settled into something closer to normal, shouldn't it? In all those years, there were times that were easy, relaxed, enjoyable, and then bang...push/pull all over again. Just when he would think he knew Brian, some torpedo would blast that notion out of the water. Sudden events of normalcy, followed by the inevitable return of "Untouchable Brian", insights into a deeper, more complex individuality, then a superb display of hedonistic splendor. The move to New York had been good for them and their relationship. It allowed them to be together while they each focused on their work. It had been the closest to normal they had ever been, for the longest time it had ever lasted, and he had believed that it would really work this time.
Justin drank a beer as he thought about this latest incident. The write-up still chapped his ass, but in retrospect not as much as Brian "letting" him leave. He had not even tried to talk him out of it or work through the problem. Unbidden, came a memory, "It's your choice where you want to be".
Justin nearly choked. How many times had he heard Brian say those words, or something like them? Choices, choices, always choices. It made his head spin. Why couldn't he just let it be? More importantly, why had he been pulling away? Justin knew Brian had not been sleeping well, and had attributed the moodiness to being tired, but that should have eased when the new offices opened and were operational. Instead, it had gotten worse. Later nights, quiet phone calls, and what he realized now was an increased secrecy that had nothing to do with business. Was he having an affair? That couldn't be right, they fucked other people openly. So...not an affair.
Come to think of it, now that he was away from it, quite a few things had morphed over the last few months. Brian's drive to have the hotel and the art department facility built simultaneously, like there was a rush or something. The increase in security personnel and the new twenty-four hour surveillance. Cynthia's knowing looks and reticent conversation. The way she watched Brian like a hawk, looking for...for... he didn't know what for. But it all felt just a little bit off center. Like a play. Real life played out with a script.
Justin didn't know why he hadn't picked up on it earlier. He should have. God, he should have. Shame tied him in knots again, as he thought, about the night he had "taken" Brian in the studio. Brian had been completely compliant. Taking what Justin had thought of at the time as punishment. The epiphany now, with the absence of anger, was what Brian had really given him, in his own way. An apology...before the transgression. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was truth. The question now was... How the fuck, did it all fit together?
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Lindsay woke up on the couch....again. She could tell, as mother's can, that her children were not home. A check of the front hall table showed Melanie's purse was gone. She was alone in the house. It was not like Mel to just take the kids and leave without telling her, but they were not exactly speaking, at the moment. They were not, not, speaking, just well... Lindsay didn't want to think about that right now.
She ran a hot bath and sat in the water thinking. Mostly about Brian and a baby. She could not get the idea to leave her alone. When he had first asked, her heart had leapt and she had wanted to agree on the spot, but something had kept her mouth from saying the words. Mel had been right on that score, she did want his baby. It was not even a big admission for her. It just felt right.
The more she thought about it though, the face he had made when she didn't answer, the way his lips had pulled into his mouth... shit, he already knew what the answer would be. Then why ask in the first place? She could see he was sincere and believed he really did want a baby. But as Melanie had asked, why now? What had changed? Lindsay pulled the plug while questions circled her brain, like the water around the drain.
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Harry was sitting at his desk waiting for a fax, when his desk phone rang. It was Saturday, so no one should be expecting him to be there to answer, except his wife, and he picked up the receiver thinking it would be her. It wasn't.
"Mr. Pitts, it's Everett Ryker, from Security Force, we met the other day in Mr. Kinney's office."
Harry was a little surprised that the man even had this number, and assumed that Brian must have given it to him.
"Yes, I remember you, Mr. Ryker. Is everything all right?"
Everett wasn't sure how to answer that question, so avoided it all together.
"Mr. Pitts.."
"Harry please, Mr. Ryker."
"Fine, Harry, you can call me Everett or Ryker. Can we be finished with the pleasantries?" he sounded inpatient.
Harry had a little niggle of worry scoot up his spine.
"I called you to request a meeting, a private meeting, between the two of us."
Harry had no doubts, that if he tried to say no, Ryker would make sure a meeting happened anyway, but he still could not agree. Harry was a no holds barred kind of lawyer and was not afraid of much in this world, but a pissed off Brian Kinney was not something he wanted to tempt.
"Listen, Ryker, I am Mr. Kinney's attorney, and I don't think that anything you and I speak about could bode well for him or our business together. Without his direct permission, I am going to decline at this time." He hung up the phone, but he felt bad about it, he really liked the man. Still, he wondered, what could he possibly have wanted to talk about?
The fax machine began to spit out the report he had been waiting for and he started reading it, as it printed.
FEDERAL CORRECTIONS FACILITY CONFIRMS RELEASE DATE FOR SUBJECT YOU REQUESTED AS 16NOV2007.
Harry quickly jotted a note on the bottom of the fax and sent it back.
Shit, he thought, that did not leave much time. Less than the three to six months they had thought.
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Debbie and Carl were canoodling the morning away in their bed. Carl was looking forward to putting in his retirement papers soon and was talking to Debbie about scheduling the cruise to coincide with his last day on the job.
"We can't do that, Carl. We should have a big party, to celebrate your retirement, not disappear." It was no secret Debbie liked parties, but Carl couldn't care less.
"I don't know, Red, wouldn't you just like to sneak away, you and me and nothing but sun and water..." he nuzzled her neck to let her know what else would be going on.
Debbie's laughter crackled, "Yeah, you, me, and three thousand other passengers".
"You know what I mean", he said as his hands wandered under the sheets.
"Jesus, Carl, are we even gonna make it out of the cabin?"
He did not answer her and within minutes, she really didn't care.
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In an effort to lighten the mood and put last night firmly in the past, Brian invited Emmett to the bakery across the street and down the block from the apartment. They talked about Emmett's business. How well it was doing in Pittsburgh, so Brian reiterated his proposal of a New York headquarters.
"I don't get it," Emmett said around a mouthful of éclair "why me? You could start your own party planning company."
Brian nodded, "Yeah, but you are really good at it, and I was hoping you would take the Directors seat for the hotel. You have a good eye, a real talent for making clients feel catered to. Frankly, I'm going to need someone for that role, since the hotel will be housing guests of Kinnetik. When the position was discussed, I felt I needed someone I could trust with my clients. It is important to me and to Kinnetik, that they get the best service available, and I believe that to be you." He toyed with his fork.
Emmett stopped chewing, surprised somewhat by Brian's effusiveness.
"Wow, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. I'm touched."
"Well, don't go getting all lesbionic, it's a big job, lots of responsibilities. Probably won't leave you much time for a social life for a while." Brian drank more coffee, but pushed his chocolate croissant away, unsure why he had ordered it. It's Justin's favorite.
"Besides," he said, clearing the lump in his throat, "you'd have access to some of the best shopping in the world right at your doorstep, and executive membership at all of my clubs."
"Well, since you put it that way, okay...partner." Emmett gave that big smile that was so contagious, offering his hand to Brian.
Brian took it in a firm handshake, sealing their agreement, not at all surprised that the other man would make such a big decision so quickly and barked a short laugh when Emmett pointed to his croissant and asked "You gonna eat that?"
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Farther down the street, a man sat outside on a bench, watching the door of the bakery the two men had entered. He was cold, wishing he had remembered to bring his gloves, as he scanned the pedestrians, looking for something out of place. Someone that lingered too long, or a surreptitious glance, anything that might point out who was on duty today so he could add it to his log. His job was usually easier, since his mark was most often driven to his destinations, and therefore his security would be the driver, but today he had walked.
Getting up, he matched his pace with the foot traffic, and headed in the general direction of the bakery on the opposite side of the street. He was about half of the way there when he got his first clue. A man stopped about ten feet from the doorway to take a call, and removed his ball cap for a moment to scratch his head, then replaced it. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, but what piqued his interest was the decidedly military haircut that motion had revealed. On closer inspection, the perfectly fitted clothes, and the ironed crease in the jeans, lent further weight to scale.
He pulled a map out of his coat pocket and approached, on the premise of asking for directions, when the man put his cell phone away.
"Excuse me", he used a neutral mid-western accent, and the man glance at the door to the bakery. One. "Could you direct me to Central Park West, I seem to have become hopelessly lost." Affecting a sheepish look, and letting his shoulders droop a little, he unfurled the map and stood between the man and the doorway.
"Uh, sure." The man said as his eyes drifted over the shoulder of the tourist. Two.
"I'm a little embarrassed to admit, but I'm not even sure of where I am now." He sidled around until the door was in his line of sight behind the man now looking at the map.
"You are here, see, and Central Park West is here." He pointed out quickly and turned his head at an awkward angle to spy the door again. Three, gotcha!
"Thanks, uh, ..."
"Marc."
"Thanks, Marc."
He wandered far enough away, to make it seem like he was gone, then followed a few minutes later when Kinney and the Queen, exited the shop, keeping well out of the bodyguard's sights.
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Behind miles of fencing and barbed wire, deep in the warren of concrete wall and steel doors, the prisoner sat on the lower bunk of his cell, reading the paper, pissed off that it was already almost a week old.
It had taken months and months of good behavior and greasing the right palm, to score a cell by himself, giving him the first time he had been happy since his arrival.
"Let's go." The guard banged his baton on the steel door of his cell.
"Permission to take the paper?" Asked the prisoner, as he handed it through the little barred window for inspection.
The guard rifled it and handed it back before releasing the door.
The prisoner fell in line with the other inmates as they all shuffled to, what was optimistically called, the community room. Taking his usual seat against the wall, he pretended to glance through the paper, until he came to the article that he had meant to read, circled in black pen. He read every syllable slowly, to commit it to memory and passed it to the man across the table from him. Hands covered in dragon tattoos, running all the way up the arms to disappear under the orange jumpsuit, picked up the paper and read the article, committing the time and location to memory.
"...Mr. Kinney, in conjunction with many of his most affluent clients, will be hosting a fundraiser for the homeless in New York. Mr. Kinney has supported this cause since taking up residence here and is sure to top last years' donations."
Blah, blah, blah, and there it was...
"...on Saturday, October 27, 2007. Festivities begin at 8:00 pm aboard the Crown Princess Cruise Ship in Manhattan."
The two inmates locked eyes, no words said. The tattooed man walked casually away to send orders outside the walls, while former police chief and mayoral candidate, Jim Stockwell, disposed of the paper into a trashcan bolted to the floor.