No Man's Land (3 page)

Just scrubbed the floor and hurried
back to feed Driver, looking thankful to have returned at all.

Fifth night he was there. After the
physical exams and the orientations. After the shrinks and the social
workers. Just about the time they were about to assign him a cell in
the general population. It was late. After lights out, when the voice
broke the perpetual daybreak of the block. “Hey,” someone called
with an adenoidal twang. “You there?”

Driver slid from the bunk and padded
to the front of the cell.

“What?”

“The Mexicans sold your ass to them
Nazi skinheads,” the voice whispered, then paused in the darkness
for the words to have the desired effect.

“What?”

“The Mexicans don’t buttfuck,”
the voice whispered. “It goes against their macho thing. So, when
it’s their turn, they always sell the fish for cigarettes. Usually
to the niggers, for like, two, three cartons. Somethin’ like that.”
A dirty laugh rolled down the concrete like a steel wave. “I hear
they got thirty cartons for you. You worth that much?

“No,” Driver had answered.

A chuckle. “No is right.”

The chuckle turned into a full,
braying laugh. “Sheeeeet. You may be hot shit on a submarine, but
around here you ain’t nothing but food, baby. That’s all . . .
just food. That Kurtz ain’t but a biscuit away from four hundred
pounds. He’s a lard bucket, but . . . I’m tellin’ you, boy, I
seen you come in. You in deep sewage.”

Driver said, “No” again. This
time in his full voice. The sound of liquid moving through pipes
suddenly filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps could
be heard. And then a shout.

“Gonna send you somethin’ first
thing in the mornin’,” the voice said.

And then the conversation was over.
Later, sometime in the night, Driver closed his eyes and slept.

As promised, a surprise arrived
before breakfast. Guy mopping the floor passed it to Driver through
the bars, rolled up in a paper napkin. It was an old toothbrush. The
sharpened plastic shaft had a small hole drilled through the blunt
end. A thin wooden dowel had been slipped through the hole, forming a
T grip. Driver pulled the dowel from the hole, laying it gently in
his palm next to the toothbrush.

The voice whispered. “You put that
in your shoe, Mr. Captainman. On the inside of your foot, business
end forward;p. You can go the through the metal detectors all day
long with that motherfucker in your shoe and nobody’ll know. Time
comes to use it, make damn sure it’s together tight.”

Driver had tried to stammer a thanks,
but his throat had been too dry.

“Remember, the Mexicans won’t
help him none. They hate those Nazis damn near as much as I do.
They’re just there to make sure Kurtz gets a fair shot at what he
paid for. You start messing him up, they’ll be gone in a
heartbeat.”

The corridor lights snapped on and
began to hiss. Kehoe talked more quickly now. “You best go for the
face,” he said.

“Anyplace else ain’t gonna stop
that big piece of shit.” The words poked Driver hard in the chest
like a thick a finger. And then the doors slid back and Cutter Kehoe
came walking by with that same loose-jointed shamble Driver was
watching now.

He paused at the door of Driver’s
cell. “You comin’?”

Driver shook his head. Kehoe curled
his lip again.

“Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,
Mr. Captainman. Might as well have breakfast. The juice is in on this
thing. Not eatin’ ain’t gonna make no difference.” He smiled,
then headed off down the corridor.

Driver stood at the front of his cell
and watched Kehoe step through the security gate and join the other
prisoners on their way to breakfast, watched as the torrent of
prisoners instantly split in two, as every man sought to put as much
distance between himself and Kehoe as possible.

The house was shrouded in shadows as
she unlocked the front door and stepped into the foyer. Melanie
Harris could hear the sound of the television floating from the den.
The long, tiled hall was illuminated only by the sudden surges of
electronic light as they bounced off the walls and ceiling. She took
off her shoes and started toward the back of the house. The cold
tiles massaged her feet as she walked.

Brian was spread out over the
oversized Morris chair with a bowl of microwave popcorn resting in
his lap. She stood beside the chair for a moment, hoping he’d
acknowledge her presence or, better yet, scoot over a bit so they
could sit crammed together, hip to hip like they used to. Instead, he
kept his eyes glued to the TV.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he answered, without
taking his eyes from the screen.

“Sorry about today.”

“Yeah,” was all he said.

She waited another moment, then
crossed in front of him and sat down on the couch at the far side of
the room. “How’d your day go?” she asked.

“Same shit, different day.”

The tension in the air was as
palpable as a breeze. She hesitated before she spoke, not wanting to
start the argument they’d so carefully been avoiding these past few
months.

“Maybe we could make the beach next
week.”

“I don’t care about the beach. I
can go to the beach anytime I want.”

“I said I was sorry. What else do
you want?”

His sudden burst of laughter was
without a trace of humor.

“Since when does any of this have
to do with what I want?”

“Something came up. I was busy.
What can I say?”

“Don’t worry about it. You don’t
have to say anything.”

She sighed. “Not tonight, huh? I’ve
had a long day.”

“You’ve always had a long day.”

Her voice rose. “What’s that
supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said.” He sat up.
Lobbed the bowl of popcorn onto the coffee table, where it bounced
once before coming to rest. He threw his stiff arms out over the
sides of the chair like a baseball umpire calling the runner safe.
“That’s it,” he announced.

“I’ve had enough.”

“Enough of what?”

“Of all of it. Of L.A. Of the
sponsor cocktail parties. Of the network parties. Of the whole damn
thing. I’m sick to death of all of it.”

Her voice caught in her throat. “Of
me?”

“I didn’t say that. Don’t put
words in my mouth.”

She was on her feet now. “A lot of
people would love to be where we are.” She clamped her jaw shut
before she could blurt out something about being grateful for the
two-million-dollar house in the Hollywood Hills, the matching BMWs,
the maids, the gardener.

“Yeah . . . well I guess I’m just
not one of them,” he said. Melanie took several deep breaths to
calm herself and sat back down.

“I’d like to think I’ve done a
bit of good. You know . . . that maybe what happened to Samantha . .
.” The sound of the name stopped her for a moment. She couldn’t
recall the last time she’s said the word out loud.

Brian waved her off, as if he knew
what was coming and couldn’t bear to hear it again. “That what
you tell yourself? That it’s about Samantha? What a joke.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, really. Who are we kidding
here? This isn’t about Samantha anymore. It’s about you.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Whatever you
could do for children you already did. These days it’s about
ratings. It’s about sweeps week. It’s about what night and what
time slot.” He waved a disgusted hand. “It’s about everything
in the world except what we came out here for in the first place.”

To Melanie, their past lives in
Michigan were little more than a blur. It was as if her life had
begun in that awful moment when the phone rang and the cold clear
voice informed her that her daughter’s body had been found. In that
minute of time, the previous twenty-seven years of her life had
disappeared, leaving her only with the here and now.

To Brian, living in Hollywood was a
B-movie. Low production values and bad dialogue. A place where
everything was big but nothing was real. He’d reestablished his law
practice and was doing quite well, but he’d never taken to Los
Angeles. Not from the first day, when they’d moved into that rental
house in West Hollywood. Not for the past seven years, as the show
grew in popularity and Melanie became a household name. None of it
mattered to him. All of it just left him feeling empty and
unsatisfied.

And then there was the matter of
children. Brian wanted to have some more. Melanie wasn’t ready.
Wasn’t ever going to be ready. They both knew it, but neither of
them had said it out loud, like so many things left unsaid these past
few years. And then . . . like an alley cat thrashing his way out of
a bag, the great unspoken phrase burst out into the air.

“I’ve had it with this place. I
want to go home,” Brian said.

“Home?”

“Michigan.”

“You can’t be serious. This is
our home.”

He got to his feet. “I spoke with
my dad tonight. He’s finally gonna retire. I can take over his
practice. We’ll be fine. Better than fine. We can—”

“I can’t leave here. There’s
nothing back in Michigan for me.”

His eyes held hers now. “Then we’ve
got a problem.”

“I’m in the middle of
negotiations for a new show. I’m—” She stopped herself and
began to massage her temples. “Not now, Brian . . . please, not now
. . .”

“There’s never going to be a
better time,” he said. Melanie began to sputter out a denial but
stopped herself.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing
this,” she said finally. “There’s no way I can possibly . . .”

The phone rang. It was as if a
stranger had entered the room. It rang again, and then a third time
before Melanie reached down and picked up the receiver. “Yes.”

“You wanted fresh content well . .
. I’ve got it for you, baby,”

her producer, Martin Wells, blurted
into the phone.

“It’s late, Martin,” she said
with a sigh. “And it’s really not a good time.”

He ignored her. “I’ve got the
first unit on the way to Arizona as we speak. They’ll be set up and
good to go by morning.”

“What’s in Arizona?”

“Just the biggest prison riot in
U.S. history. Prisoners have taken over the supposedly escape-proof
prison. They’re armed with automatic weapons. The governor’s
called out the National Guard. There’s a hell of a fight brewing.”

“Are you talking about that place
where they send the worst of the worst. Meza somethingorother?”

“Meza Azul. Yep, that’s the one.”

“Are they holding hostages?”

“Something like a hundred and fifty
of them.”

She started to speak, but Martin
Wells cut her off. “Here’s the good part. You know who’s
leading this riot? Who’s turned out to be in charge?” He didn’t
give her time to answer. “Guy named Timothy Driver. Name ring a
bell?”

“The navy captain. Guy who shot his
wife and her lover.”

“Know what he wants? What he says
he’s going to shoot one hostage every six hours over until he
gets?”

“What’s that?”

“He wants Frank Corso delivered to
him at the prison.”

“The writer?”

“That’s the one.”

“How long before the first
deadline?”

“Just under two hours.”

“Can you zoom in? Can you get his
badge number?” Elias Romero reminded himself to relax and not
breathe into the microphone.

“He’s too deep in the shadows,”
the CNN cameraman yelled over his shoulder. “I can’t get anything
from here.”

“I don’t believe it,” somebody
whispered from the back of the van. “You think he’s really gonna
do it?”

“Let’s pray he doesn’t,” the
state police captain said.

“Here he comes,” the cameraman
shouted.

All eyes turned to the screen, where
a sandy-haired man in a guard’s uniform was being pushed through
the central arch of the administration building, out of the shadows
into the harsh overhead lights. His gait was a stiff-legged stagger;
his face was white with fear. His hands were manacled to a wide
leather belt encircling his middle. The camera caught the clenching
and unclenching of his fingers as he walked out into the stark
artificial light, then zoomed in closer and closer until only the
portion of his blue shirt holding his badge filled the grainy screen
inside the van. The degree of magnification combined with a slight
jiggle of the camera made the numbers on the badge dance before their
straining eyes.

“One seven three four five,”
somebody finally read out loud. Elias Romero repeated the numbers
into his cell phone and waited for Iris Cruz, who was back at the
command center, to look up the number.

They were parked on the grass, hard
along the left side of the main gate, just as Driver had ordered. One
remote truck providing the video feed for the multitude of media
outlets now lining Boundary Road, the access road to the prison, a
quarter mile to the east. Only the cameraman was outside, shooting
the man standing in the prison’s front courtyard from a distance of
seventy yards. He had his camera pressed hard against the chain-link
fence. Above his head, massive coils of razor wire garnished the
fences for as far as the eye could see. The air smelled of dust and
steel. The manacled guard stood motionless. Movement could be
detected within the deep shadows of the arch. He seemed to turn his
head to listen. Seemed to nod in agreement before dropping to his
knees. His face knew.

“Cartwright, Wally A.” Iris
Cruz’s voice pulled Elias Romero’s attention from the wavering
picture of the kneeling guard. “Single white male. Only been on
duty for a month and a half. Still on probation.”

His given name was Waldo Arens
Cartwright. He’d been named after his only reputable uncle, a
steely-eyed beet farmer with a jaw like a bass, who, having had the
great misfortune to have stepped on a land mine on only his second
day in Vietnam, had thus earned a place of honor in the sparsely
populated Cartwright family wall of fame, where he now rested in
perpetuity on the north wall of Aunt Betty’s dining room. As the
name Waldo seemed to attract derision in much the same manner in
which a spring flower attracts the bee, the war hero’s namesake
had, early on, made certain that he was always known as Wally. The
way Wally figured it, life was hard enough without asking for
trouble, so he’d used Wally on his job application.