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I’ve got to make a run into town for supplies, and I have to run an errand and check up on something too important to risk using the phone.
I sure as shit am not taking Frankie with me, but I also don’t trust that she won’t gnaw her hand off to free herself from the cuffs while I’m gone.
I go as far as to reach for my phone. This time it’s Morgan’s number I begin to dial.
Shit.
Without a shit-ton of other options, and not being too far from Logan’s Beach, I clear the screen and dial a different number.
The greeting is exactly what I expect considering who it is I’m calling.
“Yo yo yo! County morgue. You grill ‘em, we chill ‘em. You’ve reached Preppy. How may I service you today?”
Even though I roll my eyes it’s good to hear a familiar voice. “Prep, it’s Smoke.”
“Smokey! What the fuck, dude? I’ve been searching for you ever since you saved my ass in that hospital. Where the fuck you been? I thought you mighta got sucked into that mega sinkhole that swallowed up half of Highway 28.”
“Still above ground. For now, anyways.”
“You know, I’ve missed these really detailed conversations of ours,” Preppy says with an exaggerated sigh.
“We can sing by the campfire and braid each other’s hair another time. Right now, I need a favor. I’m in the middle of a job. Need a babysitter for some cargo I’m toting.”
“How big is this cargo?” he asks, jumping into business mode.
I look back to the house. “In weight or attitude?”
“Ah, it’s like that.”
“Weight wise she can’t be more than a buck twenty, tops. And let’s just say she wouldn’t make it through a truck stop weigh in with the size of her fucking attitude.”
“Noted. When do you need someone?”
“ASAP, brother.”
“Alright man. You got it. I’d come out myself except Taylor and Miley have been up nights and I’m on duty so Dre can get some sleep.” I hear a baby cooing in the background followed by another baby crying. There’s a crash. “Bo, what did I tell you about the kitchen knives!” Preppy shouts away from the phone.
“Who can you spare?” I ask. There’s a shuffling on the phone. Another crash in the background. “Bo, if you’re making another fucking pipe bomb your mom is going to be really, really fucking mad. Like no TV for a week mad.”
“Sowwy,” I hear a little sad voice sing.
“It’s okay. Go play in the backyard, and I’ll bring your sisters out in a minute.” Preppy comes back to the phone. “Kids, you can’t live without them and you can’t leave them alone with household items they can create explosives from.”
“Is that what the saying is?”
“How the shit would I know,” Preppy says. “Text me the location, Smoke, and I’ll have someone out there tomorrow. I might have to dip into Bear’s bitches, but someone will be there for you, bro. It’ll be someone you can trust. I swear to that on a stack of motherfucking pancakes.”
“Appreciate it, Prep.”
“You know, I owe you more than sending someone out to help babysit even if you may or may not have allegedly abducted this someone. I owe you everything, man. You saved my goddamned life.”
I shake my head. “I was just in the right place at the right time,” I say.
“Yeah, whatever lets you sleep at night,” Preppy says, “Shit, I gotta go.” The phone sounds like it’s tossed down, but the line doesn’t go dead. “Bo, do not run that lawn mower over your…” his voice trails off.
I hang up, tap out the location of the prison and send it over to Preppy. I dig into my pocket and pull out my smokes. I light one and take a long slow drag.
I may not get close to people, not anymore and never fucking again, but you can’t make it in this world of ours, this life we chose, if you don’t trust someone every now and again.
And just now, I’ve chosen to trust someone who named his daughters after fucking pop stars and whose son is the youngest on record to be on the FBI watch list.
There ain’t many people out there who have my respect. Respect needs to be earned. Preppy’s got mine. The man might have a case of verbal diarrhea there ain’t no cure for, but he’s been through hell and back. He’s been tortured and brutalized the likes of which most folks can’t begin to imagine. Most men, the strongest of men, in both body and spirit, would’ve caved after that.
Not Preppy.
Not Samuel Motherfucking Clearwater.
I take another drag of my smoke.
Anytime I’ve ever worked with Preppy, he could get me to laugh about the stupidest shit, but right now, I feel like I haven’t really laughed in fucking years.
I’m tired. Worn the fuck out. Revenge is fucking exhausting.
I feel older than my thirty-five years.
I pause because something about that doesn’t seem right. I double check the year on my phone and roll my eyes.
Probably because I’m thirty fucking six.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’ve been goingabout this all wrong. Escape isn’t a long-term solution. Not for me anyway. It’s impossible. I’m trapped inside a prison, after all. Human workers are long gone, but overgrown brush and mangled fences now stand guard watching over a single prisoner.
Me.
All I need is time. A few hours. Just long enough to get to a computer before I’m found out.
Consequences be damned.
Smoke’s on the phone on the front porch. He’s left me uncuffed so I can shower and change. I’ve only got a few minutes. I’m dressed in a pair of short black athletic shorts and a fitted, white, Beatles t-shirt from the storage container. I take an extra thirty seconds to rip the collar off the shirt so it hangs off my one shoulder just like my favorite Veruca Salt shirt.
A shirt I’ll probably never see again.
I look out the bedroom window. All I see are weeds. I climb up on the dresser and stand, craning my neck to see what might lie beyond the tangled green and brown mess. I see something off in the distance just beyond the prison fence, and unless I’m seeing things, I’m pretty sure it’s a roof top.
Now, if I can just find a way out of this damn house.
I shove my feet into my chucks and peek my head out the door down the hallway. I spot Smoke through the open front door. He’s still on the phone, puffing away on a cigarette.
I creep toward the back door. It’s locked and, just as Smoke had warned, it’s also bolted shut.
There’s got to be some other way out.
There’s a potted plant in the corner. A plastic twin palm in a gigantic clay bowl. It’s not the tree that interests me so much, but what I see that’s hiding behind it.
A plastic doggy door.
No bolts.
I use all the power in my legs and ignore the pain shooting down my spine as I dig my toes into the carpet and push the plant from the wall until there’s just enough room for me to shimmy behind it and crawl through.
I have no time to celebrate my short-lived freedom because there’s an entire field of brush and debris to navigate.
I make a run for it.
