Chapter 17 - Damage
The first night's scrapes were more or less healed by morning; he hadn't done enough damage. Jon snuck out into the kitchen for the next couple of nights to grab the fork and continue damaging his skin, and then he finally just took the fork into his room and hid it in his dresser. Within a week, it was about as difficult to avoid limping as it had been when he had sprained his ankle, but his plan depended on him hiding it until the right moment. General Lane had to believe it had been bad for months.
His moment came about two weeks later.
It was the first Saturday since the start of the school year when both Jordan and Jonathan were busy, so the cabin was quiet that weekend. By all accounts, it had been a perfect day in prison. Jon had finished his schoolwork early, and General Lane had taken him out in his boat, just the two of them this time. Jon hadn't gone swimming, just listened to the older man's boating stories and smiled and laughed when he was expected to.
They'd come back to the cabin and ordered pizza, and Jon made peanut butter cookies while General Lane went to pick it up, and they'd eaten in front of an old action movie that Jon pretended to enjoy, since it was one of General Lane's favorites. When the movie was over, General Lane had stood from the couch and headed down the hall, and Jon relaxed on the couch, knowing the time was near.
Then General Lane came back with a photo album.
"Wanted to show you a few things," he said, and he sat down next to Jon on the couch, closer than he usually did. As close as he ever sat with his grandsons.
Then he started flipping through the album, and within a couple of pages, Jon was holding back tears.
Happy childhood photos of Jonathan and Jordan, photos that could have been straight out of his own family's photo albums, if his parents had been the type to keep albums. General Lane told stories, but Jon had to tune him out, listening only enough to react appropriately. The last thing he could do was to make excuses to go to bed early.
When the pages were all turned and the book was closed, General Lane sighed and set the album aside. "You know why I shared this with you, Jon?"
"Why?" he asked, though he had a pretty good idea.
"Because I'd like the next one to have you in it."
Jon swallowed and forced himself to think about the pain in his ankle.
General Lane must have interpreted it as an emotional response. He put an arm around Jon's shoulders and squeezed him tight for a moment, then said, "Go on, get ready for bed."
"Yes sir," Jon said, and he purposely forgot to hide his limp.
"Jon!"
Here went nothing. He turned around. "Yes sir?"
"You're limping?"
"Uh. I don't think so. Maybe my foot fell asleep."
"You didn't sprain your ankle again, did you?"
"No, it's...just the monitor."
"It's hurting you?"
"I mean, it always hurts."
General Lane beckoned with his head. "Get over here."
Jon made a show of sighing before obeying. General Lane made him prop his foot up on the couch, and he pulled up Jon's pant leg, which made his ears burn with embarrassment.
"I'm fine," he muttered, but General Lane had gone stiff. He must have been able to see the skin irritation, because his face was turning red.
Show time.
General Lane exploded all at once. "You've been hiding this from me?"
"I didn't...I mean...it's because of the monitor. I didn't think there was any point in telling you."
"What have I said about lying to me?"
"I-I didn't lie! I didn't know I had to tell you everything."
"You've been hiding a limp for the last three months and you didn't think I'd get mad?"
"I'm sorry, sir..."
"Sit down."
"Please..."
"That's an order, boy."
He swallowed and sat. "I guess you could switch it to the other leg every week or something..."
"That would just irritate both of them." He reached into his pocket and frowned. "Hang on." He stood and headed toward his room.
Jon trotted behind him. "W-where are you going?"
"To get the key."
"You're not gonna take it off, are you?"
General Lane turned to face him. "I think it's time. Past time, judging by that rash."
"But...you can't..."
"I'm not letting you suffer like that any longer."
"I deserve to!"
General Lane stopped short, staring at Jon.
Jon's mouth felt dry. Had he overdone it? Underdone it? He wished he could read the man's mind like the man always seemed to be able to read his.
General Lane shook his head. "Should make you wash out your mouth for that," he said, and he disappeared into his room.
He came out with the key, and he entered the code to unlock the monitor, which fell open to reveal his red, blistering skin. It burned afresh in the open air, and Jon gasped.
"Sit down in the kitchen," General Lane said, "and thank your lucky stars I'm gonna count that rash as enough punishment for being stupid enough to hide this from me."
"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Jon hurried out into the kitchen and sat at the table, and General Lane followed him out a few minutes later with some kind of topical medication.
He handed the tube to Jon. "Can I trust you to put this on yourself, or do I have to do that for you, too?"
"No, sir, I can do it."
"Good."
Jon half expected him to land a smack to the back of his head or something as he passed, but he didn't. He didn't even touch him.
This was it.
He waited until an hour after the last sound of shifting bed springs from General Lane's room.
Jon tiptoed out into the kitchen to grab that refrigerator magnet. He wasn't going to be able to take much with him, since he didn't actually have a backpack, but he found General Lane's wallet in his jacket hung by the door and took the cash, slipping it into his pocket.
Then Jon went back to his bedroom, and he placed the magnet on the sensor. He hadn't been able to test this part of the plan, and he held his breath as he opened the window.
Silence.
Jon let out his breath and climbed out of the window as silently as he could.
He was halfway through when Lieutenant came trotting into his room and started whimpering.
He whispered back, "No! Sh!" Why hadn't he closed his bedroom door? He winced and pulled himself back into the house, begrudgingly heading back into the kitchen and grabbing some lunch meat for the stupid dog. Lieutenant settled down happily, but the clicking of his claws on the floor seemed to echo in the silent house.
On the way back to his room, Jon heard shifting bed springs in General Lane's. He sighed and resigned to wait another hour.
This time, he made sure his door was properly latched before climbing out of the window and silently lowering himself to the ground outside. He left the window open rather than risking making a noise by closing it.
Once outside, he double checked for extra guards; there were none, of course. Then he went to his tunnel of loosened dirt that he had been working on for the past 3 months, easily digging down and under the fence, assuming that making his way up on the other side would be easier.
And he hit what felt like cement.
Jon's heart sank. He wasn't going to make it. Maybe if he could climb over somehow...
His eyes fell on the basketball hoop.
He knelt down to the bolts that held down the hoop. He was pretty sure he could loose it, and he doubted the thing was all that heavy if it had to be bolted down. He crept into the tool shed for a wrench, and he got to work.
Once it was loose, he took his time moving it closer to the fence. The slightest scraping noise would give him away. It must have taken ten minutes. A couple of times, he thought he might have heard a noise from the house, and he froze, but then a bird would fly overhead, or a squirrel would race away just outside the fence, and Jon would let out his breath and keep working.
It took Jon a couple of tries to climb up the basketball hoop. There wasn't really anything to hold onto. When he finally got to the top, he realized he was going to have to jump a pretty long distance to the ground, and he paused for a moment to gather his courage.
The hoop tilted just slightly, and his knee brushed against the fence.
Jon jerked it back, gasping, but there was no pain.
The fence wasn't on.
Relief and frustration coursed through him. He gently lowered himself to the top of the fence, and very, very slowly, so as not to make a noise, he climbed down.
And hit the ground running. It didn't matter if he was heard now. What mattered is that he wouldn't be found.
His chest filled with elation, his throat tightened, and his eyes stung. He resisted the urge to whoop and cheer as he ran.
He was free.