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more casual fiction
The time stamp on this story is December 1993. Do I need to add that all of these are fictional? Flags for socially approved and anti-social violence, glorification of the prison-industrial complex, and naivety on the part of the author.
A young woman walks down a lonely two-lane road. The sun is
hot, but evening is coming and she knows she can rest then. She
doesn't bother to stick a thumb out, begging for a lift . . .
last time, she was faced with a choice between knifing the driver
and "deciding" to have oral sex with him, without a condom. She
had a vestige of morals, at least. She bandaged the wound before
dumping him out of the car and driving off.
The car had run low on gas in Kings City, and Melissa knew
better than to refuel it with the driver's charge card. She
dumped it in town -- good luck finding it, sheriff boys -- and
started walking. A few bucks at a grocery had gotten her several
bananas, two loaves of day-old bread, and a small jar of peanut
butter. She considered the last a luxury.
Melissa didn't know where she was going. She didn't care.
At worst, a police cruiser would stop her. She would cut her own
throat before she let them take her back alive. "They" were the
police and the California Youth Authority, and Melissa only had a
fuzzy understanding of the difference between the two. Melissa
had escaped perhaps two months back. She'd never learned to keep
track of time; every day's just like every other day when you're
a ward of the state.
The driver who'd stopped to offer her a lift had been a
fool. Anyone with a vestige of sense would have kept driving,
and locked the doors into the bargain. Her hair was long and
unkempt, her face anonymous and streaked with dirt, her clothes
long unwashed and mostly in rags . . . a charitable yuppie would
guess that she was a strung-out whore. Wrong on both counts.
Melissa had sold her body to protect other children, and twice to
save her own life, but never for mere money. As for drugs,
Melissa feared them with an unholy terror. She'd been prescribed
far too many, all in the name of "psychiatric rehabilitation."
Only God knew if she might have been sane, raised in a normal
household rather than a collection of foster homes and half-way
houses that gradually merged with reformatories and youth camps
to culminate in California state prison for the murder of a peace
officer. At sixteen.
Melissa wore a dusty, tattered gray jacket that had once
been blue. On cold nights such as the one coming up, it kept her
alive. Well-patched but filthy and faded jeans protected her
dusky legs from the dust-laden wind and prying eyes. Not all of
California is palm trees and beach; Melissa was walking through
Central California, and if she'd had any idea how long a walk it
truly was from Kings City to Paso Robles she'd have thought of
something else.
She kept walking. She had learned many useful skills in her
life, and one of them was to keep her mind blank and keep moving.
It dulled the pain. Thinking #hurt#. Memories #hurt#. Melissa
preferred the world of silence she could create at whim to the
grim reality she faced daily.
Her shadow lengthened as the sky grew dim. Her steps
faltered, and she stopped. She finished the food, washing it
down with sips from a two-liter bottle filled with water. She
stepped behind a clump of bushes for biological necessity; she
took her battered duffel bag with her. Things that weren't
watched got stolen, and old habits die hard.
She kept walking until it was too dark to continue, and past
that until her tired muscles could be persuaded to go no farther.
Melissa rolled herself up into a fetal ball and slept. Bare dirt
was more comfortable than hard-edged steel bunk.
Melissa dreamt. Her dreams were not gentle ones. Evil,
horrid things flickered at the edges of her vision, but they
disappeared when she turned to confront them. She had a pair of
scissors to cut the foul enemies with, but they hid well until it
was time to strike.
She awoke suddenly when she heard the sound she had only
recently learned to fear. Rotor blades. She immediately grabbed
her duffel and crawled into the bushes. The helicopter was
flying low and slow, along the road. Search pattern. Melissa's
heart skipped a beat when it passed overhead, but her heart rate
doubled when it immediately turned. A glaring spotlight came
down like a thunderbolt from God and swept the area.
"THIS IS THE POLICE. YOU ARE SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH
YOUR HANDS UP."
She started crawling away. Unless the helicopter landed,
they couldn't make their threats reality. She would hear and see
the police cars coming. Melissa was not suicidal; she intended
to wrestle from life all the time she could, until Death was
inevitable. Then she would take her own life all at once rather
than letting the System take it in drabs and dribbles.
The helicopter followed slowly. The spotlight finally fixed
itself on her, and she put her hands over her eyes as she half-
stumbled away from the relentless light.
"WE HAVE NIGHT VISION EQUIPMENT, AND ANOTHER HOUR OF FUEL.
GIVE IT UP. YOU CAN'T ESCAPE."
Melissa heard engines in the distance. Loud engines, but
with a uniformity of sound to them somehow unlike normal traffic.
The difference was the quality of maintenance -- something
Melissa could not know and would most likely never learn.
She knew it was time. She pulled out the knife, and pressed
it against her throat. She pressed down hard, expecting blood to
well up and her life to end.
Melissa felt cold metal and pressure. Her knife only had
one edge; the dull side was touching her. She started to flip
the blade over in her hand.
Melissa threw it away, not caring where it landed. If she
had been of a type to kill herself, she would be long dead. Even
though she had thrown away her only means of escape, it felt
#right# in a way she didn't really understand but trusted.
Melissa stood and walked out to the road, her eyes tightly
shut against the light that enveloped her. They would be less
likely to beat her up if she didn't make life difficult for them.
Melissa went numb. She obeyed the orders but said nothing
to questions. She knew better than to speak. A chance word at
the wrong time had landed her in a reformatory instead of another
foster home -- she didn't know what could be worse than state
prison, but she knew somehow that she'd be able to talk her way
there if she said anything.
Days passed. Cell doors opened and closed. Papers were
signed. She sat at tables while tired old men in suits either
shouted at her or tried to reason with her. A vehicle came to
take her away. She became alert once more. That was how she had
escaped the last time.
They gave her no chance at all. Arm and leg restraints.
She asked them to please let her use the restroom when they
stopped to stretch their legs. They did not. She urinated in
her pants. They cursed and slapped her. She said nothing more.
Upon arrival, she was searched again, allowed out of the
restraints, given opportunity to shower (alone in a room built
for twenty), and put into another cell. She did not know where
she was, and she was past caring. Time stretched once more.
"Good afternoon, Miss Roche."
She said nothing, only looked at me. Those eyes were older
than the body. Melissa Roche, age seventeen, had old man's eyes
and the thousand-yard stare.
Her file had first come up in a pattern search. Even the
most meticulously kept records, sanitized by experts, can reveal
certain patterns. One such pattern was "upgrading" of an inmate
to progressively harsher facilities for minor offenses. Another
pattern was the sad, unlucky case of a child who had never been
outside the "system" -- born in state custody.
I'd chased down leads. I'd interviewed entirely too many
swivel-chair assholes. I'd been tempted to draw my
holstered .357 Magnum revolver and drill some sense into some
skulls, but I'd somehow refrained.
I'm a recruiter. Never mind who for. You'll find out in a
few years, I'm sure. I'm looking for a very rare type of person.
Certain details had alerted me that Roche might be such a
person. The exact circumstances under which a certain California
Youth Authority guard had gotten his throat cut with a pair of
scissors. The bandages on the man left to die -- who lived
because she hadn't driven a short ways off the main track and
dumped him out of sight. The painstaking care with which the
patches on her jeans had been sewn. Little things, and big ones.
Staff expected me to walk out disgusted in twenty minutes or
less of trying to talk to a brick wall. Staff was used to seeing
hard-core criminals. Staff had little imagination.
"I'm Sergeant Husak. My best guess is that you'll be
transferred to Pelican Bay later this week. I think you'd like
it . . . no human contact, prisoners are kept completely
isolated. Three months after that, you stand trial for the
incident involving a yellow Mazda two-door and a horny idiot.
Given your previous experience with public defenders, you'll be
sentenced to life in prison. I suppose it won't matter much --
you're already serving two consecutive twenty-five year terms."
Silence from Roche. I didn't expect otherwise.
"However, I'm here to offer you another option. I've
reviewed your file in great depth. I know why you killed Officer
Benson, and I approve wholeheartedly. I know a way to get it
back into court and to get you freed. I know that you knifed Mr.
Moron in direct self-defense, and I think a jury could be
persuaded towards that point of view."
"Bullshit. Marsha's dead, and Moron's the only witness.
Slut versus citizen."
More than she'd said to anyone else so far. Marsha
Thompson's the reason why she killed Benson. It was also the key
reason I was here in this room. Roche tolerated Benson's abuse
until he extended it to a still-younger inmate. Roche had been
beaten half to death in revenge before being transferred out to
stand show trial; Marsha's embarrassingly incriminating memory
had been short-circuited by massive overdoses of "therapeutic"
chemicals. Marsha's body was still alive, but the brain that
once lived in it is long dead. Perhaps a mercy.
No one spoke up on behalf of a CYA inmate, although Benson's
extracurricular activities had been an open secret. Guards stick
together -- whistle-blowers get stuck in bad places at the wrong
times and end up dead too. However, my backers have good reasons
for wanting to fry the California Correctional Officer's
Association, and also have the resources to subpoena any
resistance to death. The powers-that-be would throw the entire
facility to the wolves rather than risk a messy tear-laden PR
story timed to hit during the state budget battle.
"Moron's got a record. He's a registered sex offender.
That's the easy case. As for Benson, he's old news. You're new
news. If we have to, we'll get a Federal pardon."
"Why are you pretending to be my friend?"
Damn, she's quick on the uptake.
"I recruit people. My backers want people like you."
"Why?"
"Why did you let Moron live?"
Her face wrinkled.
"I asked first."
"My question answers yours. We need someone who's tough,
who's smart, who's got a vague sense of morality, and . . ." She
interrupted me, snarling.
"Someone you've got a hold on. I quit, I go back to hell.
Great deal. Fuck off."
"Not quite. Deal's this: you agree to work for us, we take
custody of you. Now. You walk out of here, no cuffs. You run
away, we don't come looking -- but the police will. You stick
around, we work our asses off to clear your name. Once your name
is clear, you have a real choice -- freedom, or working for us."
"How do I know you'll bother to keep your word?"
"You're not dealing with the state of California here. You
know what they'll give you -- life in hell. With us you've got a
chance."
"Why do you need my permission?"
She shrugged.
"What the hell."
Staff got pissed when I showed them the transfer order. I
told them to go bother their chain of command. They offered me
cuffs to transport the "prisoner." I told them to go piss up a
rope. I got my ID checked #again# by an officious swivel-chair
moron who wanted me to sign a receipt. I did, but not with my
name. He didn't notice.
Five minutes later Roche was walking beside me in prison
dungarees under a clear blue sky. Sergeant Chand was waiting for
me, already at the wheel of the station wagon. Neither of us
would be caught dead wearing uniforms; we don't get to do that
for a few months yet.
"Who do you work for?"
"Feds."
"FBI?"
I snorted. "Those idiots. We're new. Get in the car."
"Why?"
"You won't get far in those clothes."
Roche grimaced and got in the back.
"She's Sergeant Chand." The driver turned around to give
Roche a good look at her face.
Melissa didn't understand what was happening. She couldn't
figure out why anyone would think she was important. So she'd
killed a cop. That's supposed to be a #bad# thing. She decided to
push her luck.
"I'm hungry."
The driver put the car into gear. Sergeant Husak nodded,
then pulled out his wallet. He pulled out a fistful of cash and
extended it to Melissa. She took it gingerly, puzzled. Her
eyebrows shot up when she saw the denominations, then stuffed it
away. Tens and twenties.
"What's this for?"
"New clothes, and lunch. What kind of food do you like?"
"Huh?" Melissa couldn't remember a time she'd been asked a
preference.
"Anything will be great. Thank you."
Husak and Chand glanced at each other. They parked in front
of a restaurant. Sizzler. They got odd looks from people in the
parking lot -- two well-groomed young people in suits escorting a
person in jail clothing. Melissa was used to it; Husak enjoyed
it; Chand seemed resigned to it.
Melissa had eaten in a restaurant three times since she
turned ten. Once during a prisoner transfer with a pair of
reasonable guards, and twice after her escape when a motorist
insisted on treating her to some food. She was still wondering
if it was a dream.
"Order the buffet. It's all you can eat."
"Could I get something else if I wanted?"
"Sure. But order the buffet. That way, you can eat as much
as you want from what's out."
Melissa's eyes grew wide, and she nodded. She winced
slightly when she saw the price, but she paid it out of her newly
acquired wealth without a hint from Husak. Chand settled for
water, duly resigned to watching her weight. Husak also ordered
the buffet, and gently eased Roche through the culture shock of
being able to eat anything she saw. Encouraged, Melissa turned
out to be insatiably curious, and asked Husak an amazing variety
of questions about the buffet.
"What's her problem?" a passer-by asked Husak quietly.
Husak turned. The scorn in his reply could have been sliced
with a knife and served chilled at a funeral.
"What's your problem, asshole?"
The passer-by hastily decided to pay strict attention to her
food and ask no more questions.
Melissa gobbled up her food until Chand pointed out that
they would stay there all day if necessary. Melissa slowed down
after that remark, but not by much.
Husak went back for second, but Melissa went back for
thirds. Husak and Chand talked about complicated political
maneuverings that Melissa didn't understand in the least. She
didn't care, being too busy eating her fill of food she actually
wanted to eat.
When Melissa finished, the pair led her over to a department
store. Husak wandered through the store while Chand guided
Melissa through buying clothes. When the three met again at the
register, Melissa was burdened with half an armful of clothes.
Husak bought a duffel bag, sewing kit, and assorted toiletries.
"What are those for?" Melissa asked.
"You."
"Oh."
They piled into the station wagon, and Husak insisted on
driving. Melissa kept looking around at the dubious scenery.
She didn't even think of asking where she was going; at the
moment, her "wonder circuit" was slightly overloaded. She just
remained silent and tried to figure out what was going on. Her
mind was rusty from days of not using it.
About three hours down the road, they pulled in at a motel
and rented a room for the night. Chand insisted that Melissa
take some time to clean up; when Chand finally let Melissa out of
the bathroom, she was clean. Her hair had been close-cropped
upon recapture, so there was no need to visit a barber's.
Melissa froze when she looked at herself in the mirror. For
a dizzy moment, she thought she was looking at someone else.
There was a world's difference between the ragged clothes she had
been wearing upon capture and the clean, simple garments she wore
now. She shuddered slightly. Strange.
Husak turned off the TV -- he had been watching CNN -- and
pulled an object from his pocket. A knife. Melissa's knife.
"This is yours, yes?"
"Trying to trap me or something? Prisoners can't touch a
knife or it's another three years."
"You're not a prisoner. Take it."
"Does that mean I can go?"
"If you get stopped or arrested and they run an ID check,
you'll go back to jail for the rest of your life. Otherwise,
sure. The cash, the clothes, and the bag are gifts. There's a
sporting goods store two blocks down the road. You might make it
if you hurry. Get one of their 'space blankets' -- only a few
bucks, lightweight and guaranteed to keep you very warm."
Melissa stepped to the door and opened it. Husak tossed her
the knife. She caught it and pocketed it. Chand didn't move.
"You're just going to let me go?"
"You'd be better off to stay, but it's your choice," Chand
said. "You sure as hell know the world isn't a friendly place."
Melissa stormed back inside and slammed the door.
"OK, what kind of job am I going to do?"
Husak shrugged.
"We'll reach the training facility tomorrow. They'll tell you there. We're just couriers."
"Yeah, right. I'm not an idiot."
"Could be anything. Depends on how well #you# do."
"Oh?"
"They have tests. Lots of them. Two rules: do the best you
can. Never lie. That's it."
Melissa accepted this with a reluctant nod. She watched CNN
in silence with the two, but she didn't ask any questions. She
knew better than to attempt understanding the incomprehensible.
A young woman walks down a lonely two-lane road. The sun is
hot, but evening is coming and she knows she can rest then. She
doesn't bother to stick a thumb out, begging for a lift . . .
last time, she was faced with a choice between knifing the driver
and "deciding" to have oral sex with him, without a condom. She
had a vestige of morals, at least. She bandaged the wound before
dumping him out of the car and driving off.
The car had run low on gas in Kings City, and Melissa knew
better than to refuel it with the driver's charge card. She
dumped it in town -- good luck finding it, sheriff boys -- and
started walking. A few bucks at a grocery had gotten her several
bananas, two loaves of day-old bread, and a small jar of peanut
butter. She considered the last a luxury.
Melissa didn't know where she was going. She didn't care.
At worst, a police cruiser would stop her. She would cut her own
throat before she let them take her back alive. "They" were the
police and the California Youth Authority, and Melissa only had a
fuzzy understanding of the difference between the two. Melissa
had escaped perhaps two months back. She'd never learned to keep
track of time; every day's just like every other day when you're
a ward of the state.
The driver who'd stopped to offer her a lift had been a
fool. Anyone with a vestige of sense would have kept driving,
and locked the doors into the bargain. Her hair was long and
unkempt, her face anonymous and streaked with dirt, her clothes
long unwashed and mostly in rags . . . a charitable yuppie would
guess that she was a strung-out whore. Wrong on both counts.
Melissa had sold her body to protect other children, and twice to
save her own life, but never for mere money. As for drugs,
Melissa feared them with an unholy terror. She'd been prescribed
far too many, all in the name of "psychiatric rehabilitation."
Only God knew if she might have been sane, raised in a normal
household rather than a collection of foster homes and half-way
houses that gradually merged with reformatories and youth camps
to culminate in California state prison for the murder of a peace
officer. At sixteen.
Melissa wore a dusty, tattered gray jacket that had once
been blue. On cold nights such as the one coming up, it kept her
alive. Well-patched but filthy and faded jeans protected her
dusky legs from the dust-laden wind and prying eyes. Not all of
California is palm trees and beach; Melissa was walking through
Central California, and if she'd had any idea how long a walk it
truly was from Kings City to Paso Robles she'd have thought of
something else.
She kept walking. She had learned many useful skills in her
life, and one of them was to keep her mind blank and keep moving.
It dulled the pain. Thinking #hurt#. Memories #hurt#. Melissa
preferred the world of silence she could create at whim to the
grim reality she faced daily.
Her shadow lengthened as the sky grew dim. Her steps
faltered, and she stopped. She finished the food, washing it
down with sips from a two-liter bottle filled with water. She
stepped behind a clump of bushes for biological necessity; she
took her battered duffel bag with her. Things that weren't
watched got stolen, and old habits die hard.
She kept walking until it was too dark to continue, and past
that until her tired muscles could be persuaded to go no farther.
Melissa rolled herself up into a fetal ball and slept. Bare dirt
was more comfortable than hard-edged steel bunk.
Melissa dreamt. Her dreams were not gentle ones. Evil,
horrid things flickered at the edges of her vision, but they
disappeared when she turned to confront them. She had a pair of
scissors to cut the foul enemies with, but they hid well until it
was time to strike.
She awoke suddenly when she heard the sound she had only
recently learned to fear. Rotor blades. She immediately grabbed
her duffel and crawled into the bushes. The helicopter was
flying low and slow, along the road. Search pattern. Melissa's
heart skipped a beat when it passed overhead, but her heart rate
doubled when it immediately turned. A glaring spotlight came
down like a thunderbolt from God and swept the area.
"THIS IS THE POLICE. YOU ARE SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH
YOUR HANDS UP."
She started crawling away. Unless the helicopter landed,
they couldn't make their threats reality. She would hear and see
the police cars coming. Melissa was not suicidal; she intended
to wrestle from life all the time she could, until Death was
inevitable. Then she would take her own life all at once rather
than letting the System take it in drabs and dribbles.
The helicopter followed slowly. The spotlight finally fixed
itself on her, and she put her hands over her eyes as she half-
stumbled away from the relentless light.
"WE HAVE NIGHT VISION EQUIPMENT, AND ANOTHER HOUR OF FUEL.
GIVE IT UP. YOU CAN'T ESCAPE."
Melissa heard engines in the distance. Loud engines, but
with a uniformity of sound to them somehow unlike normal traffic.
The difference was the quality of maintenance -- something
Melissa could not know and would most likely never learn.
She knew it was time. She pulled out the knife, and pressed
it against her throat. She pressed down hard, expecting blood to
well up and her life to end.
Melissa felt cold metal and pressure. Her knife only had
one edge; the dull side was touching her. She started to flip
the blade over in her hand.
Melissa threw it away, not caring where it landed. If she
had been of a type to kill herself, she would be long dead. Even
though she had thrown away her only means of escape, it felt
#right# in a way she didn't really understand but trusted.
Melissa stood and walked out to the road, her eyes tightly
shut against the light that enveloped her. They would be less
likely to beat her up if she didn't make life difficult for them.
Melissa went numb. She obeyed the orders but said nothing
to questions. She knew better than to speak. A chance word at
the wrong time had landed her in a reformatory instead of another
foster home -- she didn't know what could be worse than state
prison, but she knew somehow that she'd be able to talk her way
there if she said anything.
Days passed. Cell doors opened and closed. Papers were
signed. She sat at tables while tired old men in suits either
shouted at her or tried to reason with her. A vehicle came to
take her away. She became alert once more. That was how she had
escaped the last time.
They gave her no chance at all. Arm and leg restraints.
She asked them to please let her use the restroom when they
stopped to stretch their legs. They did not. She urinated in
her pants. They cursed and slapped her. She said nothing more.
Upon arrival, she was searched again, allowed out of the
restraints, given opportunity to shower (alone in a room built
for twenty), and put into another cell. She did not know where
she was, and she was past caring. Time stretched once more.
"Good afternoon, Miss Roche."
She said nothing, only looked at me. Those eyes were older
than the body. Melissa Roche, age seventeen, had old man's eyes
and the thousand-yard stare.
Her file had first come up in a pattern search. Even the
most meticulously kept records, sanitized by experts, can reveal
certain patterns. One such pattern was "upgrading" of an inmate
to progressively harsher facilities for minor offenses. Another
pattern was the sad, unlucky case of a child who had never been
outside the "system" -- born in state custody.
I'd chased down leads. I'd interviewed entirely too many
swivel-chair assholes. I'd been tempted to draw my
holstered .357 Magnum revolver and drill some sense into some
skulls, but I'd somehow refrained.
I'm a recruiter. Never mind who for. You'll find out in a
few years, I'm sure. I'm looking for a very rare type of person.
Certain details had alerted me that Roche might be such a
person. The exact circumstances under which a certain California
Youth Authority guard had gotten his throat cut with a pair of
scissors. The bandages on the man left to die -- who lived
because she hadn't driven a short ways off the main track and
dumped him out of sight. The painstaking care with which the
patches on her jeans had been sewn. Little things, and big ones.
Staff expected me to walk out disgusted in twenty minutes or
less of trying to talk to a brick wall. Staff was used to seeing
hard-core criminals. Staff had little imagination.
"I'm Sergeant Husak. My best guess is that you'll be
transferred to Pelican Bay later this week. I think you'd like
it . . . no human contact, prisoners are kept completely
isolated. Three months after that, you stand trial for the
incident involving a yellow Mazda two-door and a horny idiot.
Given your previous experience with public defenders, you'll be
sentenced to life in prison. I suppose it won't matter much --
you're already serving two consecutive twenty-five year terms."
Silence from Roche. I didn't expect otherwise.
"However, I'm here to offer you another option. I've
reviewed your file in great depth. I know why you killed Officer
Benson, and I approve wholeheartedly. I know a way to get it
back into court and to get you freed. I know that you knifed Mr.
Moron in direct self-defense, and I think a jury could be
persuaded towards that point of view."
"Bullshit. Marsha's dead, and Moron's the only witness.
Slut versus citizen."
More than she'd said to anyone else so far. Marsha
Thompson's the reason why she killed Benson. It was also the key
reason I was here in this room. Roche tolerated Benson's abuse
until he extended it to a still-younger inmate. Roche had been
beaten half to death in revenge before being transferred out to
stand show trial; Marsha's embarrassingly incriminating memory
had been short-circuited by massive overdoses of "therapeutic"
chemicals. Marsha's body was still alive, but the brain that
once lived in it is long dead. Perhaps a mercy.
No one spoke up on behalf of a CYA inmate, although Benson's
extracurricular activities had been an open secret. Guards stick
together -- whistle-blowers get stuck in bad places at the wrong
times and end up dead too. However, my backers have good reasons
for wanting to fry the California Correctional Officer's
Association, and also have the resources to subpoena any
resistance to death. The powers-that-be would throw the entire
facility to the wolves rather than risk a messy tear-laden PR
story timed to hit during the state budget battle.
"Moron's got a record. He's a registered sex offender.
That's the easy case. As for Benson, he's old news. You're new
news. If we have to, we'll get a Federal pardon."
"Why are you pretending to be my friend?"
Damn, she's quick on the uptake.
"I recruit people. My backers want people like you."
"Why?"
"Why did you let Moron live?"
Her face wrinkled.
"I asked first."
"My question answers yours. We need someone who's tough,
who's smart, who's got a vague sense of morality, and . . ." She
interrupted me, snarling.
"Someone you've got a hold on. I quit, I go back to hell.
Great deal. Fuck off."
"Not quite. Deal's this: you agree to work for us, we take
custody of you. Now. You walk out of here, no cuffs. You run
away, we don't come looking -- but the police will. You stick
around, we work our asses off to clear your name. Once your name
is clear, you have a real choice -- freedom, or working for us."
"How do I know you'll bother to keep your word?"
"You're not dealing with the state of California here. You
know what they'll give you -- life in hell. With us you've got a
chance."
"Why do you need my permission?"
She shrugged.
"What the hell."
Staff got pissed when I showed them the transfer order. I
told them to go bother their chain of command. They offered me
cuffs to transport the "prisoner." I told them to go piss up a
rope. I got my ID checked #again# by an officious swivel-chair
moron who wanted me to sign a receipt. I did, but not with my
name. He didn't notice.
Five minutes later Roche was walking beside me in prison
dungarees under a clear blue sky. Sergeant Chand was waiting for
me, already at the wheel of the station wagon. Neither of us
would be caught dead wearing uniforms; we don't get to do that
for a few months yet.
"Who do you work for?"
"Feds."
"FBI?"
I snorted. "Those idiots. We're new. Get in the car."
"Why?"
"You won't get far in those clothes."
Roche grimaced and got in the back.
"She's Sergeant Chand." The driver turned around to give
Roche a good look at her face.
Melissa didn't understand what was happening. She couldn't
figure out why anyone would think she was important. So she'd
killed a cop. That's supposed to be a #bad# thing. She decided to
push her luck.
"I'm hungry."
The driver put the car into gear. Sergeant Husak nodded,
then pulled out his wallet. He pulled out a fistful of cash and
extended it to Melissa. She took it gingerly, puzzled. Her
eyebrows shot up when she saw the denominations, then stuffed it
away. Tens and twenties.
"What's this for?"
"New clothes, and lunch. What kind of food do you like?"
"Huh?" Melissa couldn't remember a time she'd been asked a
preference.
"Anything will be great. Thank you."
Husak and Chand glanced at each other. They parked in front
of a restaurant. Sizzler. They got odd looks from people in the
parking lot -- two well-groomed young people in suits escorting a
person in jail clothing. Melissa was used to it; Husak enjoyed
it; Chand seemed resigned to it.
Melissa had eaten in a restaurant three times since she
turned ten. Once during a prisoner transfer with a pair of
reasonable guards, and twice after her escape when a motorist
insisted on treating her to some food. She was still wondering
if it was a dream.
"Order the buffet. It's all you can eat."
"Could I get something else if I wanted?"
"Sure. But order the buffet. That way, you can eat as much
as you want from what's out."
Melissa's eyes grew wide, and she nodded. She winced
slightly when she saw the price, but she paid it out of her newly
acquired wealth without a hint from Husak. Chand settled for
water, duly resigned to watching her weight. Husak also ordered
the buffet, and gently eased Roche through the culture shock of
being able to eat anything she saw. Encouraged, Melissa turned
out to be insatiably curious, and asked Husak an amazing variety
of questions about the buffet.
"What's her problem?" a passer-by asked Husak quietly.
Husak turned. The scorn in his reply could have been sliced
with a knife and served chilled at a funeral.
"What's your problem, asshole?"
The passer-by hastily decided to pay strict attention to her
food and ask no more questions.
Melissa gobbled up her food until Chand pointed out that
they would stay there all day if necessary. Melissa slowed down
after that remark, but not by much.
Husak went back for second, but Melissa went back for
thirds. Husak and Chand talked about complicated political
maneuverings that Melissa didn't understand in the least. She
didn't care, being too busy eating her fill of food she actually
wanted to eat.
When Melissa finished, the pair led her over to a department
store. Husak wandered through the store while Chand guided
Melissa through buying clothes. When the three met again at the
register, Melissa was burdened with half an armful of clothes.
Husak bought a duffel bag, sewing kit, and assorted toiletries.
"What are those for?" Melissa asked.
"You."
"Oh."
They piled into the station wagon, and Husak insisted on
driving. Melissa kept looking around at the dubious scenery.
She didn't even think of asking where she was going; at the
moment, her "wonder circuit" was slightly overloaded. She just
remained silent and tried to figure out what was going on. Her
mind was rusty from days of not using it.
About three hours down the road, they pulled in at a motel
and rented a room for the night. Chand insisted that Melissa
take some time to clean up; when Chand finally let Melissa out of
the bathroom, she was clean. Her hair had been close-cropped
upon recapture, so there was no need to visit a barber's.
Melissa froze when she looked at herself in the mirror. For
a dizzy moment, she thought she was looking at someone else.
There was a world's difference between the ragged clothes she had
been wearing upon capture and the clean, simple garments she wore
now. She shuddered slightly. Strange.
Husak turned off the TV -- he had been watching CNN -- and
pulled an object from his pocket. A knife. Melissa's knife.
"This is yours, yes?"
"Trying to trap me or something? Prisoners can't touch a
knife or it's another three years."
"You're not a prisoner. Take it."
"Does that mean I can go?"
"If you get stopped or arrested and they run an ID check,
you'll go back to jail for the rest of your life. Otherwise,
sure. The cash, the clothes, and the bag are gifts. There's a
sporting goods store two blocks down the road. You might make it
if you hurry. Get one of their 'space blankets' -- only a few
bucks, lightweight and guaranteed to keep you very warm."
Melissa stepped to the door and opened it. Husak tossed her
the knife. She caught it and pocketed it. Chand didn't move.
"You're just going to let me go?"
"You'd be better off to stay, but it's your choice," Chand
said. "You sure as hell know the world isn't a friendly place."
Melissa stormed back inside and slammed the door.
"OK, what kind of job am I going to do?"
Husak shrugged.
"We'll reach the training facility tomorrow. They'll tell you there. We're just couriers."
"Yeah, right. I'm not an idiot."
"Could be anything. Depends on how well #you# do."
"Oh?"
"They have tests. Lots of them. Two rules: do the best you
can. Never lie. That's it."
Melissa accepted this with a reluctant nod. She watched CNN
in silence with the two, but she didn't ask any questions. She
knew better than to attempt understanding the incomprehensible.