The guard dragged him off of the pallet while he was still half asleep. "C'mon, punk, they're lettin' you out of the box early this time."
Chief grabbed for his shirt and rushed to put it on as the big man pushed him toward the thick iron cell door. By his count, he'd only been in solitary for a week instead of the usual two. But sometimes it was hard to tell, with no view of the rising and setting sun. The lights were always glaring, and the two meals a day were generic, nothing to tell breakfast from dinner. After they'd climbed the three flights of stairs to the maximum security block, and the guard had shoved him into his regular cell, he noticed the faint eastern glow coming through the small window. It was early morning.
"Hey, kiddo. Good to have you back," Hardy greeted him. "How ya feelin'?"
Amos Hardy had been his cell mate for six months. Chief had decided that if he had to share a cell with anyone, Hardy wasn't too bad. For some reason the hardened con had taken a liking to him. Although he knew how to deal out punishment, he would sometimes take on the role of Chief's guardian and protector. The tricky part was knowing which way he was going to roll in any given situation. This morning he seemed genuinely glad to see him.
Chief ignored Hardy and boosted himself onto the top bunk to stretch out, leaning away from the pain in his left side. Along with solitary confinement, the long cut across his ribs had been a reward for the knife fight in the exercise yard a week ago. He'd tried to keep in clean and covered, but it was still tender.
Hardy leaned his chin on the edge of Chief's bunk and slapped him on the leg. "You can thank me for gettin' ya out of that hole so quick."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"I volunteered us for a little outside duty. We're gonna be working the road gang today."
"You can volunteer for that?" Chief had never heard of such a thing. Work crews outside the prison walls were usually reserved for the minimum security, non-violent guys.
"You can if you know people. And have a little leverage." Hardy grinned, his nearly bald head and the gap left by a missing front tooth making him look like a jack-o-lantern.
The knife cut stung, and Chief was bone-tired from lack of sleep. "Ain't interested."
"C'mon, kid. The fresh air will do ya good. You need to be more appreciative. I don't do this for just anybody."
Chief relented. The work crews got a good breakfast, and the physical labor would work some of the kinks out of his muscles. At least it would make the day go fast. If he was able to stay out of trouble, maybe they'd let him out on the work crews more often.
"Besides," Hardy whispered, "I got a little surprise for ya today."
Hardy hadn't mentioned it was a chain gang, but Chief chided himself for not figuring it out. They'd never let him, or the likes of Hardy, just wander loose, no matter how many turnkeys had weapons trained on them. This morning there were only two, and each prisoner was chained to another at the ankle. Chief was chained to Hardy, and it made walking difficult.
They'd only been shoveling gravel for an hour, but the relentless sun was making his head throb. His stomach threatened to toss his breakfast, and he struggled to keep the shovel in focus. The heavy iron band around his ankle had already rubbed a raw spot, and he leaned down to try and pull the cuff of his pants leg between the metal and his skin.
One of the other prisoners gave a loud wolf whistle. "Hey, pretty boy, that an invitation?"
Chief stood and squarely faced the leering goon. "You want a piece a me? You ain't got the balls..."
Hardy jerked on the chain, cutting him off, and moved forward, fists balled into hard wads. "Watch it, Rat-Face. This sweet piece of meat is mine, got it?"
One of the guards stepped between them, rifle cocked. "Save it for lights-out, you perverts. Get back to shoveling."
The wolf and his cronies moved away, grumbling, but Chief doubted he'd heard the last from him. He'd handled that type before. Too many times. He'd do it again.
Hardy moved toward another of the piles of gravel they were spreading, and Chief had to follow. "Don't mind that jerk-off," Hardy smiled at him. "He'll get what's comin' to him."
"He don't scare me. I can take him."
"I know you can, kiddo." At the sound of a vehicle coming down the road, Hardy looked up, and his smile widened. "That's why I brought you along."
A mud-covered pick-up truck pulled up on the shoulder of the road next to one of the guards. A tall, wiry guy in faded coveralls got out of the driver's seat and approached the guard, grinning broadly.
"You gotta move along, buddy," the guard ordered. "Can't have you endangered by these vicious criminals."
The grin froze in place as the guy lashed out and grabbed the guard's rifle, spun him around, and tightened an arm around his neck. He tossed the rifle in Hardy's direction, then yanked a handgun from a pocket and pressed it against the guard's temple. To the second stunned guard he growled, "You twitch one muscle and your buddy here gets his brains splattered into Florida. One of y'all take his gun."
Wolf Whistle didn't hesitate to snatch the rifle and point it at the guard's face.
Chief held his breath, his blood pounding in his ears. Prison breaks never ended well, for anyone involved. And he was trapped, chained to one of the perpetrators.
Almost yanking Chief off balance, Hardy rushed forward, grabbing up the rifle he'd been tossed, and then dug into the pockets of the constrained guard, pulling out a ring of keys. "Got 'em. Lets blow this joint."
Chief expected Hardy to unlock the shackles, but instead he pulled the choking guard out of his friend's grip and shoved him face first to the ground.
Hardy's smile turned into a wide-eyed grimace as he pointed the rifle at the guard's back. "This is for every scar, every broken bone, every day I spent in this fuckin' cess pit, screw."
"Hardy, don't..."
Hardy pulled the trigger. Twice. Blood pooled in the dirt beneath the dead man's head.
The shackle dug at his ankle as Hardy dragged him toward the truck, shoved him in, and climbed in after him. "Surprised, kiddo?"
Coveralls leapt into the driver's seat and gunned the engine, the momentum pushing Chief back against the seat as the truck sped for the southern horizon.
When he'd caught his breath, Chief yelled above the whine of the engine. "Are you outta your mind, man? You just bought the gas chamber."
"They gotta catch me first." Hardy reached down and unlocked the iron band from around his own ankle.
"You shot a guard. We'll be back in stir before sunset. If they don't kill us first."
Hardy just grinned that gap-toothed grimace and turned his attention back to the road, leaving Chief's shackle in place.
After fifteen minutes of silence, several turns onto deserted back roads, and no sign of pursuit, Chief still had no idea what their plan was or how he fit into it. Finally, Hardy slapped his partner on the shoulder and motioned toward a dirt path heading into a pine forest. "Turn off here."
They bumped along for a few hundred yards, then stopped, and Hardy pulled Chief out of the truck. "Sorry, kiddo. This is where we part ways. You understand, right?"
"You're just gonna leave me here?" Actually, he was glad to be rid of these psychos. He'd figure something out, and make his own way, just as he always had.
"You been a good cell mate, kiddo. I'd really like to help ya out. But me and Jake here got other plans."
Jake yelled from the driver's seat, "Get it done, Amos. We ain't got all day."
Hardy shook his head and raised the hand gun. The bullet ripped into Chief's left thigh, spinning him as he fell. He grabbed at the white pain that burned into the muscle, and felt his blood gushing out between his fingers. The truck sped away, spraying him with dirt.
He lay still, trying to make sense of what just happened. The only thing he knew for sure was that he couldn't stay here, hidden in the trees. Gritting his teeth to keep from crying out, he dragged himself to the nearest tree and pulled himself up. He had to stop and catch his breath, then he limped from tree to tree, each step pulsing out more blood, until he'd reached the edge of the road.
Panting, trying to draw in a complete breath, he collapsed into the grass. He couldn't think. Every thought drained away like the blood oozing from the hole in his leg. He was either going to bleed out here on this god-forsaken back road, or his lungs would burn to cinder in the gas chamber. But he was beyond caring about anything but making the pain stop. His last coherent thought was wondering how long it would take him to bleed to death.
gg gg gg gg gg gg
For a long moment, the silence was as thick as the heat in the tiny office, until Chief finally turned away from the window. "That's it. Next thing I remember is wakin' up in the prison hospital."
Garrison finally leaned back in his chair and let himself breathe. Getting all the details out of Chief had taken a while, but Torrence had been patient and reassuring with his questions, as Chief had paced like a caged wildcat.
"That's good, son." Torrence stopped writing and laid down his pen. "Your story hasn't changed from four years ago."
"Changed?" Chief snapped. "It was the truth then, it's the truth now."
"I know, I'm sorry. That's not what I meant..."
"So you think you'll put Chief on the stand tomorrow?" Garrison asked, in an attempt to diffuse the tension.
"Yes, he'll be my first witness. The defense will cross examine, and your part will be done. You can return to saving the world from the Nazis." Torrence looked up at Chief, who leaned against the window sill, his hands in his pockets. "He'll try to rattle you, son, but just answer his questions, stick to the truth, and you'll be fine."
Chief shoved away from the window. "We done here?"
Standing and shaking Garrison's hand, Torrence said, "Yes. Thank you, gentlemen. I'll see you in court tomorrow at 9 a.m. Or 09:00 as you military folks say."
Chief followed Garrison out into the hall, and the door closed behind them. Garrison could feel the tension radiating from his scout. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just great."
"I didn't know you were shot."
"That ain't in your file either? Can't have your cold-blooded killer lookin' too sympathetic, I guess."
"Well, by this time tomorrow, it'll all be over. Let's go get some of Mrs. Pritchett's fried chicken."
gg gg gg gg gg gg
Even though Chief was up before dawn the next morning, Mrs. Pritchett was already in her kitchen frying bacon and baking biscuits. She turned and grinned at his cut-off fatigue pants and wrinkled shirt hanging unbuttoned over his singlet. He realized she probably considered him to be half naked.
"Me and the Warden are goin' for a run," he tried to explain.
"Well sit down and have some breakfast while you wait." She handed him a cup of steaming coffee.
He took the delicate flowered cup and wrapped his fingers around it, soaking in the comforting heat. "Thanks, ma'am. Maybe when we get back."
"You can't run on an empty stomach." She held out a tray of biscuits. "At least have a couple of these while they're still warm."
He thanked her again and took his coffee and biscuits out to the front porch steps. In the damp morning air, the rose bushes along the walkway gave off a heady perfume, so different from the smells he associated with this place. The cell blocks had been bad enough, but the exercise yard had always reeked of the nearby paper mills and swamps.
He wiped his hands down his pants leg, getting rid of the butter and crumbs, and picked up a stick that had fallen from the nearby elm. If he'd had his switchblade, he would have carved it, but as he waited for Garrison, he idly peeled the bark from the green stem.
The screen door squeaked open behind him as Garrison came out onto the porch, also dressed in fatigues, with his sleeves rolled up. Chief stood to follow him down the walk.
"We probably have time to get in a few miles," Garrison said. "We can take a left onto Main, then a right onto Courthouse, and run along the creek..."
"Ain't that familiar with the town, Warden." Chief handed him the stick. "Wanna draw me a map?"
Garrison smirked at him, then trotted off down the path.
As usual, they ran in silence, side by side, as the sun rose higher and the humidity built. Along the dirt path that ran by the creek, the trees gave shade and the air smelled of earth and green things. Here in the open air, free to run for as long and as far as he wanted, he felt like he could take on the world. By this afternoon, he could climb out of his past for good, get on a plane for home, and never again look back. He had to smile at the thought that he was looking forward to getting back to his own hard, lumpy cot, in a room he shared with three guys who constantly drove him nuts. Back to risking his life fighting the Germans with those same guys.
"What are you grinning at?" Garrison asked him.
"Nothin'. Just thinkin'."
The shot echoed through the woods. Garrison jerked and stumbled sideways, sliding down the embankment toward the creek. All of Chief's training kicked in automatically. He leapt down the bank, skidding in the dead leaves, and dragged Garrison behind a large fallen oak. Trying to keep his head down, he scanned the wooded hillside on the other side of the path, looking for any sign of the shooter. Nothing moved.
He turned his attention to Garrison, who was gritting his teeth, clutching his bloody right arm. Chief pulled the Warden's hand away from the wound and tore away the shirt sleeve. The bullet had ripped a deep gash across his bicep. Chief stripped off his own shirt and tied it tightly around the wound.
"What the hell..." Garrison winced at the sudden pressure. "Tell me the Krauts haven't invaded Georgia."
When Garrison tried to move, Chief held him down. "Take it easy. I can't tell where the shot came from."
He again scanned what he could see through the thick forest. This time he caught the movement of a branch and the glint of metal near the top of the low ridge on the opposite side of the trail.
The shout gave away the exact position. "Hey, injun!"
Chief didn't answer, letting the echo fade, letting the shooter get impatient and give up more information.
"I told Amos he shoulda killed ya. I told him you'd be trouble. But he got all soft-hearted, and now look what happened."
"The accomplice," Garrison breathed. "Your testimony will nail him."
That had occurred to Chief, too. Garrison wasn't the target, Jake was just a lousy shot. But Jake was expecting the green teenager, the kid Hardy had duped into helping with the jail break. That kid was long gone.
He looked at his commander, trying to assess his condition. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'll live."
"Pretend you're me."
"What?"
"Keep him busy, keep him talkin'." Chief pulled the dinner knife from his pocket, its end now a sharp point, the edge honed lethally thin.
Garrison's eyes narrowed. "I won't ask where you got that."
Chief just smiled at him and slithered off through the woods. As he looped to the west, giving Jake a wide berth, he could hear Garrison shouting behind him. "You ain't gonna get away with this, Jake."
"Just watch me."
"If my buddy dies, I'm gonna carve your liver out with a dull knife and shove it down your throat."
As the bantered continued, Chief spared a brief thought at how much the Warden sounded like a hardened jailbird. He probably had their quarters bugged.
Focusing again, he zeroed in on Jake's voice. He circled in silently, the modified dinner knife held ready. The guy was moving slowly down the hill, holding a deer rifle to his shoulder, closing in on his quarry. When Jake paused behind a tree, Chief froze. When Jake eased forward, so did Chief, moving as fast as he dared to close the distance between them.
Jake paused one last time, concentrating on drawing Garrison into his sights. And then he discovered that his target was alone. The realization hit him too late. With one powerful stroke, Chief slashed his Achilles tendon.
gg gg gg gg gg gg
As usual, the smell of baking filled the parlor, making his mouth water. This time it was oatmeal cookies. Chief took another one from the plate on the coffee table in front of him and bit off a piece, letting the sweetness melt on his tongue. Then he picked up the three page document that was sitting next to the cookies.
The whole incident was there, reduced to hard black letters on stark white paper, cold and bloodless. When he'd finished reading it for the second time, Chief took the fountain pen and scratched his name on the designated line. His real name. His old name. It looked strange to him, like the blurry image of an acquaintance from the distant past. He folded it and took it back into the kitchen, where the Warden and Randall Torrence were sitting, drinking coffee.
Mrs. Pritchett was still hovering over Garrison, as she'd been doing for the last two days. "Lieutenant, you should really be using the sling. You know what the doctor said about reopening that wound."
"I promise not to lift anything heavier than a coffee cup." Garrison smiled patiently at her, draining the remainder of his coffee.
Chief set the pen and document on the table. "That about covers it."
"Nothing to add or change?" Torrence asked.
"Nope. That's how it happened."
"You're sure this deposition will be enough?" Garrison asked. "They won't still need him to come back and testify when the trial is rescheduled?"
Torrence returned the pen to his pocket and stood to leave. "I'll see to it, Lieutenant. You boys have a war to win."
"What about that other man?" Mrs. Pritchett wanted to know.
"Jake McCoy won't see the inside of a court room for quite sometime. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."
As Torrence headed out through the parlor, toward the front porch, Chief and Garrison followed. Their gear was already stowed in the back of the jeep. Once outside, Torrence turned and shook Garrison's hand, then reached out to Chief. "I'm truly sorry for everything you've been through, son. Four years ago and now. Best of luck to you."
Chief accepted the handshake, but he had nothing to say to the man. He watched in silence as Torrence got into his big, black Ford and drove away.
They both turned as Mrs. Pritchett came through the screen door behind them. "Are you boys ready to leave too?"
"Yes, ma'am," Garrison nodded. "It's a long drive back to Fort Benning."
She held out a large paper sack. "I know those C-rations they give you are nasty, so I packed you some vittles for your trip. Just some sandwiches and cookies and some fruit."
Garrison took the greased-stained sack. "Thank you, ma'am. We will definitely enjoy these. And thanks for all your hospitality."
As they started down the steps, she grabbed each of them by the arm and kissed each on the cheek. "Please be safe, and come back to see me after the war."
Falling easily into his usual role as conscientious foot soldier, Chief opened the passenger side door for his wounded commander, then walked around the jeep and climbed into the driver's seat.
Garrison waved to Mrs. Pritchett, who was still standing on the porch watching them. "I think she's crying."
Chief grinned at him as he pulled away from the curb. "She's losin' her favorite patient."
"Just drive."
When they reached the intersection of Main Street and the highway, the jeep wanted to turn east. Chief let it.
"Fort Benning's the other way," Garrison reminded him, a simple statement of fact.
"I know."
He pulled the jeep onto the shoulder of the road at the end of the long dirt track. From this distance, you couldn't see the barbed wire that topped the walls, or the armed guards in their watchtowers. The inside, though, was burned into his memory. The cramped, dark cells. The barren, dusty exercise yard. And the fetid, damp hole that was solitary confinement, where he'd spent most of his time. He knew the constant fear, the deadly fights, the pain of untreated injuries, the ache of hunger and thirst. But from here it looked small and powerless, just ugly gray buildings marring the lush farmland. The breeze was at his back, blowing away the foul odor of the paper mills and swamp gas. The only thing he smelled now was the aroma of the fresh bread and oatmeal cookies that wafted from the paper sack on the seat next to Garrison.
Briefly he closed his eyes and raised his face to the late-morning sun, its warmth bright against his eyelids. Then he swung the jeep around and headed northwest, toward the flight home, leaving Statenville Prison in the dust.
They'd ridden in silence for a half hour when Garrison finally spoke. "That wasn't one of Mrs. Pritchett's good silver dinner knives, was it?"
"Nah. It was the diner's."
"How did you sharpen it?"
"The front porch steps."
"Resourceful."
"Never good to be unarmed."
Garrison just shook his head, and reached into the paper sack. "Want a sandwich?"