No Man's Land (17 page)

A five-second vamp on the theme song and a camera pan gave Melanie
a chance to arrange her notes and Marty time to switch cameras.
Melanie counted to five in her head, adjusted her focus to the right
and waited for the light to change from red to green.

“
Once again, this is Melanie Harris with a special Tuesday
night edition of
American Manhunt
, live from Musket,
Arizona,
scene of this week’s prison riot where fifty
inmates and seven staff
members lie dead in America’s the
most violent and deadly prison
uprising ever.”

Back to front-on camera angle. “
If you joined us last night,
you
saw the spine-chilling beginning of this prison uprising
as inmate
number one o nine five six three, identified as
Timothy H. Driver,
a multiple murderer from the State of
Washington, murdered the
operator of the prison’s control
pod and took over the prison. For
those members of our
audience who were unable to join us last
evening, we are going
to run the clip at this time. Because of the
graphic nature of
this footage extreme parental caution is advised.”

Marty made the “cut” sign across his throat. Everyone relaxed.

“Bad enough we ran it last night,” Melanie groused. “I don’t
see why we needed to air it again.”

“If you got it, flaunt it,” Marty said without taking his eyes
from the monitor. He raised a hand and began to count with his
fingers. “Five, four, three, two, one.” His hand dropped like a
guillotine.

“
With that ghastly act began a thirty-six-hour period of
chaos
and death at Meza Azul Correctional Facility,”
Melanie
said in her voice of doom voice. “
Late yesterday afternoon,
prison officials reported that three persons were missing from the
penitentiary. Two inmates and one civilian.”
Melanie read the
names and bios.

Marty’s screen was filled with photos of Driver, Corso and
Kehoe.

“
As of late this afternoon, The Federal Bureau of
Investigation
and the State Police in a seven-state area are
conducting an all-out
manhunt for the three fugitives.”
Lapsing again into her voice of doom, she read the standard
admonition to the public regarding the armed and dangerous status of
the missing men. “
Stay tuned
to
American Manhunt
for
exclusive information on Timothy H.
Driver, the man who
instigated the most deadly prison riot in U.S.
history, then
managed to disappear like smoke from what was advertised to be the
most secure super-max correctional facility in the
country.”

Cut to commercial.

Melanie sat back in her chair. Makeup rushed forward, dabbing
here, patting there.

“You going ahead with that copy?” Marty asked. Melanie nodded.

“We’re going to hear about it.”

“I know,” she said.

“Network’s gonna go ratshit.”

“I know.”

“Places,” Marty intoned.

Again he counted down from five to zero.

“
Welcome back to
American Manhunt
, ladies and
gentlemen.
For tonight’s special edition,
American
Manhunt
has obtained
exclusive and until this time,
confidential information regarding
the mastermind behind the
uprising and subsequent escape. Initial reports from prison
authorities alleged that Mr. Driver escaped from his cell during
preparations for a routine medical
checkup.
American
Manhunt
, however, has obtained documents
proving beyond a
shadow of a doubt that Mr. Driver was being
removed from his
cell as a result of having demonstrated irrational and disassociative
behavior over the previous five and a
half weeks.”

Melanie allowed a pregnant pause, then continued. “
What
follows, although not graphic in the manner of the earlier footage,
nonetheless possesses an upsetting quality that may not be
appropriate for some of our viewers.
American Manhunt
recommends
extreme parental caution.”

Marty watched intently as the scene switched to the interior of
the prison. Split screen. One picture from far up in the corner of
Driver’s cell, the other taken through the bars from the outside.
Driver paced the length of his cell like a caged animal. His sandals
and orange coveralls could be seen neatly arranged on the narrow bed.
He wore only a pair of brown prison-issue underwear. His body was
pale but fit to a degree attainable only by someone with a great deal
of time on his hands. His voice sounded as if he was preaching to
hundreds of people in a huge room.

“Everyone contributes,” he shouted. “If not in one way, then
in another. You don’t have to agree. It doesn’t have to be okay
with you. From the bears to the tiniest of insects. A part for
everyone and everyone for his part. Nature cannot be subverted.

The plan cannot be altered in any way. It’s molecular. Beyond
the realm of man because it’s perfect and man is not. Acres of
concrete and the weeds will find the smallest crack. No matter . . .”

Marty continued to watch the monitor as Driver ranted and raved
for another forty seconds. He used his fingers to count down from
five, then pointed at Melanie.

“
What troubled us here at
American Manhunt
was the
question of how a fine mind like that of Mr. Driver, a Harvard
graduate no less, how an incisive mind such as he possessed could be
driven to madness by incarceration, when so many other inmates
manage to maintain their sanity over considerably longer periods
of time.”
She gave the audience time to join in on the
wondering, then continued. “
The answer lies in the privatization
of the American penal system and a positively medieval process called
Extreme
Punishment. Stay tuned.”

“I can hear the phones ringing already,” Marty said.

“Nobody deserves what they did to him.”

“Lot of our viewers are going to disagree.”

Another countdown to the final segment. Three, two, one . . .
Melanie went through it all. The Randall Corporation. The
eight-by-eight white-tiled cell. The unblinking white lights. The
cameras. Twenty-three hours a day in a fishbowl. No radio, no TV, one
visitor once a month. The early signs that Driver was losing his mind
and how the signs were ignored for the sake of profit. A call for an
investigation of conditions in all Randall Corporation institutions
and an immediate end to Extreme Punishment cells. By the time she
finished, Marty’s face was locked in a permanent wince. Cut to
commercial, then back to Melanie.

“
This is Melanie Harris for
American Manhunt
. Join us
next
time when
American Manhunt
again turns up the heat
on the
criminal plague permeating our nation. As of this week,
American Manhunt
and our millions of viewers at home are
responsible for
the arrest and successful prosecution of nine
hundred and seventynine dangerous criminals. Let’s add these guys
to the list. Let’s find
these three before the authorities
do.”
She offered a twisted smile and pointed at the camera.
“
Until next time,”
she intoned. Marty dropped his hand
with a slap.

“You sure your friend ain’t forgot about you?”

The kid was under twenty, dressed in black pants and a crisp white
shirt with SKYWAY VALET SERVICE stitched on the shirt pocket.

“I’m beginning to wonder myself,” said Driver with a wan
smile. “He said he’d be right back.”

A silver Mercedes coupe slid to the curb. The kid abandoned his
post at the key kiosk and hustled around the front of the car to get
the door. “Afternoon, Mr. Abrams. How are you today?”

Mr. Abrams was a big beefy specimen with a pockmarked face and a
diamond pinky ring as big as the Ritz. He slipped the kid what looked
like a ten-dollar bill and started up the stairs as if his feet were
sore.

“You gonna be going out again today, sir?” the kid inquired,
as he pocketed the cash and pulled open the car door.

“Going to Jersey to see my kids in the morning,” the guy said.

“You can put it in long-term if you want.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He stood holding the car door open, looking for one of his G.M.
Ford two helpers. A minute later a blond kid with bad skin and a
wrinkled uniform came running out from among the parked cars with a
set of keys circling his index finger.

Key kid held the Mercedes’ door open as Blondie slid into the
seat. “Put it in long-term,” Kiosk said. “He’s not going to
be needing it for a while.”

Driver casually raised one hand above his head, as if he were
stretching. Across a hundred yards of parked cars and asphalt, Kehoe
stood in the mouth of the parking garage. Overhead, the clouds above
were threatening to make way for the sun. Kehoe threw Driver a
two-fingered salute and stepped out of sight, into the dark mouth of
the garage.

Driver watched the silver Mercedes skirt the five acres of parked
cars and disappear into the garage. A red Chrysler convertible pulled
up. And then a blue Chevy Malibu. The kid let the drivers come to
him. Filling out tickets and trading them for the car keys. By the
time he finished the second car, Blondie was jogging his way across
the lot.

“Where in hell is Bobbie?” Kiosk demanded.

“He’s on break,” the kid said, handing over the keys to the
Mercedes. “I think he went to Arby’s.”

“Well hurry up, man. We can’t have them piling up out here.”

“D forty-three,” the kid said.

Kiosk wrote it down on the ticket, stepped inside the little booth
and pulled open the double doors of the key cabinet. Driver was no
more than three feet behind him as he hung the keys from a brass hook
in the interior. Top row, second from the right end.

“Guess I should go looking for my friend,” Driver said.

“Probably better take my bags with me in case I find him.” He
held out a five-dollar bill. As the kid stepped to the front of the
booth and bent to retrieve the two Nike bags, Driver lifted the set
of keys from the hook and soundlessly slipped them into his pants
pocket.

“Feels like you got lead in these things,” the kid said
through his teeth as he set the bags on the sidewalk. “Sure as hell
wouldn’t want to be carrying them too damn far.”

“Good exercise,” Driver said with a laugh.

A pair of quick good-byes and Driver was on his way across the
lot, winding back and forth through the maze of cars, parked nose to
nose at angles. Overhead, the clouds threatened to split into rays of
sunshine. By the time he reached the mouth of the garage, Kehoe was
jogging down the ramp in his direction. He stopped and put his hands
on his hips. He was out of breath.

“You get the keys?” he wheezed out.

Driver patted his pants pocket. “Right here.”

“Silver Mercedes?”

“That’s the one.”

Kehoe grinned. “It’s up on the roof.”

“Let’s went.”

Three minutes later, they crested the ramp and stepped out into
the suddenly bright sunshine. Both men’s faces wrinkled to a
squint. Kehoe indicated they should take a left, then a quick right.
The Mercedes was backed into the slot. Driver pushed the keyless
entry button. Kehoe slipped around to the left and dropped into the
passenger seat. He craned his neck and watched Driver open the back
door and set the Nike bags in the floor cavities behind the seats.
Any questions he might have had were immediately answered by the rush
of zippers, the snap of metal parts, and the quiet sound of skilled
hands assembling well-oiled weapons. He watched in silence as Driver
loaded both guns and laid them out across the backseat using the
towels to cover them. The Nike bags he dropped on top of the towels.

Kehoe nodded his grim approval. “Where we headed?”

Driver got in, fastened his seat belt and turned the key. The
engine sprang silently to life. “Nearest beauty parlor,” Driver
said Kehoe folded his arms across his chest and scowled. “What’s
that shit about?”

“We need a makeover.”

Special Agent Rosen dropped the file folder on the desk. “Kehoe
hasn’t had a letter or a visitor in the better part of seven
years.”

Somebody gave a low whistle. “Talk about being alone.”

“You go down for life without, the phone calls taper off.”

“We followed up on everybody who’s been in touch with him, no
matter how long ago,” said a younger FBI agent in a chocolate brown
suit. He began to leaf through a sheaf of paperwork held together by
a black spring clip. “His mother, Gladys Alma Kelly, stopped
writing in eighty-five. Died of congestive heart failure in
eighty-six. She was forty-nine. His half sister, Dorsey Anne
Clements, was shot and killed outside a bar in Lake Ponchartrain,
Louisiana, in nineteen ninety. The case remains open.” He rustled
the papers again. “The only visitor he’s ever had was a guy named
Harvey Gerald Raynes. Visited him twice in ninety-two and twice in
ninety-three. His letter in ninety-eight was the last one Kehoe ever
got.” He pulled it out and slid it onto the table for anyone who
might be interested. The big guy with the square head and the Arizona
State Police uniform picked it up for perusal.

“Raynes was a cellmate of Kehoe’s from his days in the
Mississippi system. He went down again in ninety-nine for armed
robbery and aggravated assault. Was beaten to death by a fellow
prisoner in November of ninety-nine.”

He pointed his palms at the ceiling. “That’s it.”

“What about this Corso character?”

“Corso’s a famous writer. Been on Leno half a dozen times.
More or less a recluse. Lives on a boat. Moves around so the press
can’t keep track of him. His tax return for this past year shows he
made just over three million after taxes. He’s got quite a bit of
family in south Georgia. We’ve got people on the way and wiretaps
ready as soon as they arrive, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He
keeps in touch, but hasn’t been there in the better part of ten
years. We’ve got the Seattle office working his ex-boss at the
Seattle Sun
. One Natalie Van Der Hozen. Wiretaps are probably
not going to be forthcoming. We’ve already been denied twice.”