The Corruptions Page 8

  “Lady and gentlemen,” I said. “We not only have us a real clue that could lead to the whereabouts of our two escaped convicts, we have us an honest to goodness map.”

  Taking hold of the lightweight balsa wood panel, I carried it with me outside the cell onto the front catwalk.

  “Hey,” Rodney barked, “you can’t take that with you. It’s police evidence.”

  “I’m just borrowing it,” I said. Then, turning to Bridgette. “You got somebody who can scrape off this paint and reveal the map under it?”

  She thought it over for a beat. “I think I have somebody in mind. Could take a little while.”

  “I’ll use that time to speak with Joyce Mathews and Mean Gene Bender. All goes well, Blood and I will be trekking through the woods on our way to Moss’s and Sweet’s exact position by lunchtime.”

  “I prefer we go after lunch,” Blood said. “And ain’t you forgettin’ something? Me and Betty got a date tonight.”

  “Sorry, old pal,” I said. “You might have to raincheck with the beautiful Betty. But on the other hand, that map turns out to be solid gold, we won’t even have to unpack the tent.”

  “I’m hoping for the latter,” Blood said, pursing his lips. “I prefer civilized living.”

  I heard it again then. It was just as faint as it had been inside the warden’s office, but still somehow unmistakable. The wail. A high-pitched noise that ran up the bony exterior of my spine and down into the nerve bundled center.

  “You hear that?” I said to Blood.

  He nodded.

  “Must be the pipes,” he said. But I sensed something else in his voice. The prison…any max security prison…was full of strange sounds that echoed throughout the steel and concrete block. Mechanical noises mostly that came from flushing toilets, humming industrial electrical fixtures, heating units that didn’t work, gates opening and closing, public address systems, you name it. But this noise was different. It was animal-like. Human animal. Unexplainable and in a word, haunting.

  “Could be the pipes,” said Sheriff Hylton. “Or a ghost.”

  “There is no noise,” Rodney said. “It’s your imagination. Now can we be done here? I ain’t got all day, people.”

  I felt the lightweight board in my hands. Rodney was right, much as I hated to admit it. Time was wasting. With every minute I spent researching the situation, Moss and Sweet could be gaining ground. My entire approach in their eventual apprehension depended upon their being held up in one place. Still seemed the likely scenario to me, based on my experience. And that’s the reason Governor Valente had hired me in the first place. Experience.

  “Show us the door, Rodney,” I said.

  “Gladly,” he said, brushing past me on the catwalk, like I was nothing more than a stranger on the street. And an invisible one at that.

  Having packed back into Bridgette’s Jeep along with the painted board from Moss’s and Sweet’s cell, she drove us into the heart of the town, down a couple of quiet lanes until she came to a small bungalow that, like most of the town’s homes, supported a wide, screened-in front porch. What made this porch different, however, was that almost every available wall space was covered in canvases. Paintings. Landscapes mostly of the Adirondack Mountains and the surrounding forest. There were also some paintings depicting upstate lakes and rivers, and even more of some old long abandoned train stations and ramshackle houses.

  Set up in the corner of the porch was an easel that supported a big canvas in the works. What looked to be an eight-point buck surrounded by lush greenery. The buck had big glassy black eyes that stared back at you when you looked into them.

  Set beside the easel was something that would, under normal circumstances, seem entirely out of place. A double-barreled shotgun.

  Bridgette rang the doorbell.

  “Maude,” she said through the screen door. “Maude, you home?”

  There was some commotion coming from the opposite side of the screen until a smallish woman with long gray, if not white, hair appeared for us in the door frame. Her face was all smiles while she held in her hands a paint brush which she was wiping clean with a paint-stained rag.

  “Bridgette, my love,” she said. “To what do I owe such a pleasant surprise?”

  Bridgette told her. She then introduced us.

  “Come in, come in,” she said, her voice and manner so affable I almost felt guilty for carrying a gun.

  Standing inside the small living room, which was also covered with paintings, expect for the far wall which sported a fireplace surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, she looked Blood and myself up and down. Rather, she focused the bulk of her attention at Blood. Go figure.

  “My, my,” she said, “aren’t you the ruffians. Sure you’re the good guys?” Giggling, she skipped into the kitchen, came back out with a plate of homemade Toll House chocolate chip cookies, which she didn’t set down on the coffee table, but instead, passed around. I took two, just to be polite.

  Bridgette handed her the board we nabbed from Sweet’s and Moss’s cell.

  “Think you can get to the map underneath without ruining it? Or erasing any of the writing that might be on it?”

  Maude stared at it, the same way a garage mechanic might open up the hood and examine the engine underneath it. In her mind, she wasn’t seeing the painted board so much as seeing what lie hidden inside it. Like she had X-ray vision.

  “I’ll give it a go,” she said. Then, with a stern face, “But no promises.”

  “We’ll gladly pay,” I said.

  “My partner on an expense account,” Blood said. “Money no object.”

  She lightened up again. “In that case, I’ll make sure to give you the premium package. But you need to give me an hour or two. Agreed?”

  We all agreed.

  Giving Bridgette a hug, and making sure we each took one last cookie for the road, she showed us the door.

  “See you in two hours,” she said through the screen door.

  We piled back in the Jeep and ate our cookies.

  Next stop was the county lockup, which also doubled as the sheriff’s office. It was located on a country road in the town of Plattsburgh directly across the street from Sal’s Pizza. When we piled out, the delicious aroma of pizza cooking in the oven immediately filled our senses.

  “Who’s hungry?” Blood said.

  “Sal’s is the best,” Bridgette said, inhaling a dose of the garlic, cheese, and fresh sauce-tainted air.

  “Have you noticed, Blood,” I said, “that since our arrival last evening, all we’ve accomplished is to eat and drink our way through the Adirondacks?”

  “Eating and drinking is fun,” he said.

  “We’re supposed to be on the trail of some dangerous criminals.”

  “We dangerous gumshoes. But hungry gumshoes too.”

  “Better that we talk with Joyce and Mean Gene first, then satisfy our cravings,” I said. Peering up at the sky and the black and blue clouds rapidly coming our way. “There’s a storm coming,” I added. “Soon as it passes, I wanna head back to Maude’s, grab that map and get to the footwork portion of our program. Before Valente starts yelling at me.”

  “He’s just the governor. He paid to yell.”

  There was a rumble, and the distant flash of lightning.

  “Tell you what,” Bridgette said. “I’ll get you set up with Joyce and Gene and then order a pie for delivery to the station house.”

  “Righteous,” Blood said. “Make it two pies.”

  “Righteous?” I said.

  “We get some wine with that too?” Blood said.

  “How about a six pack of Budweiser,” said Bridgette.

  “I beginning to like Dannemora,” he said. “Makes me feel like a working class hero.”

  Several reporters and camera crews were crowded around the glass-doored entrance to the sheriff’s office. Bridgette ignored their shouts for an interview as we entered into the office at the precise moment a bolt of lightning st
ruck the road and the thunder that followed shook the building. Ominous. The thunder concussion was followed by a downpour that made the reporters scramble for cover.

  The facility wasn’t much to write home about. Just a small waiting area attached to an even smaller dispatch office occupied by a young dark-haired woman dressed in a deputy’s uniform. She sat at a desk that had been pushed up against a reception window. A laptop computer was set on the desktop along with an old-fashioned radio and a telephone that contained several lit-up lines.

  “Morning, Bridgette,” she said. Then peering at her watch, “Errr, well, it’s almost afternoon. Ummm, don’t shoot the messenger but there’s a reporter on hold on every line. You want me to get rid of them?”

  “You know what to do,” Bridgette said.

  “Amscray with the reporters.”

  “We’re ordering pizza, Karla,” the sheriff added, stepping away from the window. “You in? Clinton County is buying.”

  “You betcha,” Karla said from behind the window. “I’ll order one pie with pepperoni and another just plain.”

  “Don’t forget to get enough for Joyce and Gene too,” Bridgette said, leading us to an interior door, the name Bridgette Hylton, Sheriff painted on the glass in white block letters.

  We entered into the small office and faced her big wood desk while to our right-hand side was a plain wall with a bulletin board on it, to which was attached a map of the Adirondack region surrounding Dannemora. Pinned to the board beside the map were full-color 8X10s of both Reginald Moss and Derrick Sweet. Below them were photos of Mean Gene Bender and Joyce Mathews. A size-reduced printed rendering of Dannemora Prison had been pinned to the center of the map. A red circle had been drawn around A Block. A series of straight red lines extended out from the circle. The lines ran from the block following the path of the sewer line all the way to the center of Broadway, where, supposedly, the two cons escaped through a manhole cover and were supposed to meet up with their ride, Joyce Mathews.

  Hollywood couldn’t have scripted this one any better.

  From the manhole cover, the lines spread out in three different directions. One of them ran south, as if indicating Mexico. Another ran directly into the woods to the west and stopped in the middle of nowhere, while a third and final line ran all the way up to Montreal, Canada.

  Bridgette took off her sidearm, wrapped it up in the leather holster belt, set it onto her desk. She noticed me noticing the map. Taking her position directly beside me so that she, too, faced the map, she sighed.

  “As you can plainly see,” she said, “I’m a bit stymied.”

  “You would think that after three and a half days, at least a clue to their whereabouts would be found. A piece of clothing, a candy bar wrapper, something.”

  “People gotta eat,” Blood said. “Even cons.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bridgette said, “Pizza’s coming, Blood.”

  “You one funny sheriff.”

  Bridgette turned. “You wanna meet, Joyce?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” I said.

  She went into her desk and grabbed a ring of big, heavy keys.

  “Follow me to the dungeon,” she said.

  His scream reverberates throughout the valley. Even the birds are so frightened they take flight from their nests. But just as quickly, Moss slaps the palm of his hand over his mouth. He knows that if someone hears the scream, their position will be compromised and the show will be over before it begins.

  Overhead, the black clouds fill the sky, and already he can feel raindrops on his face. Hesitatingly, he removes the hand from his mouth, and looks down at his leg. The metal teeth that ridge the interior of the old steel trap clamps have buried themselves into his shin bone, and the skin and flesh that surround it. A piece of the shattered white bone is sticking out of the bloody, hamburger-like flesh. Just looking at it makes Moss so sick, he immediately upchucks a combination of bile and mucous.

  “Oh Christ,” he whispers to himself. “Get me out of here.”

  What he knows so far, besides the fact that his leg and his mission to get to Mexico is now totally fucked: somebody had to have planted that antique, untagged, and very illegal trap where they did not plan on trapping a bear, like the old-time trappers used to do in the fall, but instead to catch a man. A man in the form of he and/or Sweet, to be precise. The man-poachers, whoever the fuck they are, could, in fact, be watching him right now, working up the cojones needed to pounce on his sorry ass.

  Then, coming from behind, a rustling through the thick brush.

  Sweet.

  The tall, skinny con stops suddenly, takes in the scene, his face assuming the expression of a man who just swallowed a live spider.

  “What the fuck happened to you, Picasso?”

  “What’s it look like?” Moss bellows, tears in his eyes, a tremor in his voice. “I fucking stepped into a fucking bear trap. A fucking outlawed trap with fucking teeth.”

  Sweet feels his heart pick up speed inside his chest. His throat constricts, and his stomach grows tight. He’s never seen anything like this. Not even after he ran over the cop nearly two dozen times with the pickup and the lawman’s flesh resembled raw hamburger.

  “What the fuck do I do?” he says, his words exiting his mouth with a tremble. “What the fuck, fuck, fuck do I do? How do I fix you, man?”

  A flash of jagged lightning strikes the valley center. Thunder follows, making the earth tremble.

  “Jesus, that was close,” Sweet adds while peering up at the darkening sky.

  “Listen to me,” Moss says through clenched teeth. “You gotta open this thing up so I can free my leg.”

  “How you expect me to do that? I weigh a buck thirty. I’ve got weak arms that belong to a computer geek.”

  “You gotta find a stick. A strong stick that you can use to pry it open just long enough for me to pull the leg out. Understand?”

  The rain starts coming down. Hard now.

  “Okay, okay,” Sweet says, his beady eyes already looking around the woods and the clearing. “I’ll find something. Stay here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, dipshit.”

  Sweet doubles back, wiping the rainwater from eyes that are on the lookout for a stick. Something sturdy. Of course, the forest is full of sticks and branches. But he needs something that will fit the bill. Then, once more wiping the rain from his eyes, he sees something on the forest floor. A stick that looks sturdier than most. But also one narrow enough to fit into the small space between Picasso’s mangled leg and the steel trap clamps. Grabbing the stick, he goes to Moss, takes a knee beside him.

  “Fuck, dude,” Sweet swallows, “I can hardly look at it, it’s so fucking gross.”

  “Will you just please open that trap up already?” Moss grouses. But he’s gotta watch his mouth. The volume. It can carry, even in the woods. Even in the midst of a thunderstorm.

  “Okay, okay,” Sweet says, positioning the stick in between the two cleats. “You ready?”

  “Just fucking do it. Open it.”

  Sweet’s seen this situation before. On old Lassie reruns. Lassie finds a dude stuck in a trap and goes for help. When she finds Timmy, she barks and trots anxiously in a circle. Timmy’s just a kid, but he knows something’s up.

  “What’s the matter, girl?” he says.

  “Bark, bark, bark,” says Lassie

  Timmy’s eyes go wide, because he can translate those barks as easily as Han Solo can translate Chewbacca’s groans and grunts.

  “What’s that?” Timmy says. “A man caught in a bear trap? Well, let’s go save him.”

  “Okay, partner,” Sweet says, looking down at an agonized Moss. “Here we go.”

  Standing, he presses both work-booted feet down on the two steel plates connected to the trap clamps. He then yanks the stick sideways, separating the clamps. The jagged teeth are yanked out of Moss’s bone and flesh, the blood spurting and spraying in the falling rain. Moss screams like a girl, but somehow manages to
pull his foot out from between the open clamps.

  But the stick is now covered with blood and rain, making it oil-slick slippery. Physics kicks in and Sweet’s left hand slides south, at the very same instant the stick snaps in two and the clamps snap shut against his thumb, severing it at the knuckle. Now it’s Sweet’s turn to scream while the blood spurts out of an exposed red vein. The two of them are screaming and crying and bleeding and holding to their wounds like their lives depend upon it.

  “You fucking, fuck, fuck, fucking asshole, Picasso. That fucking thing took my thumb off. You fuck, fuck, fucker, I will get you for this.”

  “How’s it my fault? Huh? How is it my fault? I’m just as fucked as you. More fucked because they’re gonna have to amputate my leg if I don’t get to a hospital. And right now, I can’t possibly go to a hospital, never mind Mexico. You got it?”

  Lightning strikes again. It’s the devil’s way of laughing at them. The thunder follows along with a sheet of rain. For a moment they both retreat into their pain and their misery, until a noise other than the noises associated with the forest captures their attention. It’s quiet at first, but distinctive enough to raise up the hairs on the back of Moss’s neck.

  “You hear that, asshole?”

  “What?” Sweet grouses, holding his damaged hand tightly by the wrist. “The thunder?”

  “No.”

  “Hear what, then?”

  Moss sits up, fast. “Help me up, asshole. Help. Me. Up. Now.”

  “Why, what’s going on? What do you hear?”

  “Dogs, asshole. Whoever set up that ancient hillbilly trap is coming after us with his goddamned hillbilly dogs.”

  Turned out the dungeon was a cell bay that contained four concrete block spaces set side by side. The cells were accessed by a brightly lit corridor also constructed of concrete block painted hospital white, while the smooth concrete floor sported a glossy coat of industrial battleship gray with a bright yellow stripe running along the center. There were no iron barred doors in the county lockup, but instead, thick white metal doors that supported a narrow safety glass panel just left of center. Built into each door was a separate, mail-slot-like access for the exchanging of materials, meds, and food.