Time Clock Hero (11 page)

Phoenix could smell the prison almost before the van pulled into the driveway.  Just the sight of it reminded him of the smell of an aircraft carrier he toured as a child, the USS Enterprise, when it came to Fort Lauderdale and docked at Port Everglades.  That same smell had also tainted the air in elevators, or in the boys’ restroom back in junior high after school resumed, shafts and walls freshly painted with something industrial and pungent.  He anticipated other smells as well, living smells emanating from the bodies of men, all of those men cooped up together and sweaty, concentrated in tiny places where air didn’t exist.  And he chuckled.  Ships, elevators, and schools were prisons. 

After being processed – some of the guards knew him personally, telling him they felt there must be some mistake and that they’d keep an eye out for him – Phoenix changed into a new, orange jumpsuit. It over fit him by a size or two, but he didn’t complain.  He even got a pair of white Ked’s, and those seemed to fit just perfectly.

He’d never been in this part of the prison, where the two story structure towered over him, spacious and open and longer than it was tall; and he looked to the left as he walked.  The bars seemed clean, he thought, though black paint could hide a world of dirt.  And he could smell other things above the fumes of the painted bars.  The floor beneath his feet, gray and hard, also looking freshly painted. It seemed to be level and almost new, without a speck of anything anywhere to distract the eye.

Phoenix looked up and saw the face of a man, an old face, wrinkled and gray-moustached, and he noticed the man’s light blue eyes following him as he walked along.  The old inmate’s two hands, knobby and old, held on to two bars; and the man pressed his face in between them.  Phoenix, without a smile and without a hint of emotion, nodded at the old man, and the old man nodded back.

“Well, I guess I have somebody to protect me against Bubba,” Phoenix said.  “Or maybe that was Bubba, and I just propositioned him.”

The guard led Phoenix to the end of the hall.  He stopped and radioed, and someone on the other end of the cell block did as he was asked.  The cell door, the last one on the end, opened.  The guard looked at Phoenix and smiled through a set of metal braces that would have triggered a terrorist attack alert had he tried to get on an airplane.  He stepped into the cell and waved for Phoenix to follow.  “Come on in, Detective Malone.  Make yourself comfortable.”  The young guard moved back towards the cell door and leaned out, perhaps looking for something or someone, then he looked towards the opposite side of the cell block.

Phoenix looked too.  He saw that the last three cell blocks, the ones directly opposite his, sat empty.  But all three of them were well lit.

The guard reached into his pocket and slid out a cell phone, a small iPhone, plain and without a cover, and he quickly put it under the bed.  He smiled crookedly and raised his eyebrows.  “You remember the Shawshank Redemption?  You know, Morgan Freeman and Tim Robbins?”

“Oh, you’re Red, the guy who can get things?  Now I can spend the next twenty years digging my way out.  How much for a rock hammer?”

“I’m Fred,” the guard replied.  “And there isn’t a way to tunnel out of here.  But the mattress will be softer if you flip it over.”

“A poster of Rita Hayworth?”

“I only know about the phone,” Fred said.  “The rest I don’t want to know about.  Are you good, Detective Malone?”

“That depends on who you talk to,” Phoenix replied.

  “Okay then.”  The guard turned and walked out of the cell.  The cell door closed, swinging under a power of its own, and shut with clang, loud and clunky.

Phoenix walked up to the bars and looked out as far to the right as possible.  Except for a few inmates and Fred, he saw nobody.  He walked slowly back towards his bed, startled at the smallness of his cell.  The walls, painted light gray, matched an even grayer floor, matched in turn by the tiny toilet, probably stainless steel, above which and attached to it sat a small matching sink with a faucet the size of two straws.  Above the foot of the bed was a tiny slit of a window that allowed in no light. It looked about three feet tall and barely the width of a canoe paddle, just wide enough for a mouse to climb through and jump to his death if only he could break the darkened glass.

He walked to the bed, eager to get a hold of the phone, and lifted the gray mattress.  What he saw shook him.  A semi-automatic pistol, A Glock 31, .357 caliber, complete with a silencer and two extra magazines, sat neatly on top of a padded piece of felt.  Next to it, ten chocolate Kellogg’s bars, a combat knife, camouflage cargo pants, a shirt, and a matching pack.  A pair of boots, sitting next to an Ak-47 with a pile of clips – he counted ten – sat on the floor up against the wall.

He grabbed the phone lying at the edge of the box springs and quickly dropped the mattress.  He sat down on the bed, shaking his head no, telling himself he hadn’t seen the cache.  Just another set up, he told himself, a set up big enough to put him away for good.  He put his hand on his stomach trying to calm it.  He looked at the phone and quickly set it on the bed where prying eyes wouldn’t see it if someone happened by.

Somebody would call – that’s why Fred had given him the phone.  And that person who’d call him would be Phillip Mercer.  He’d call, and he’d talk calmly, like he always did, and he’d tell Phoenix to do something.  But hadn’t Mr. Krystal alerted him and protected him more than once?  And what if this guy, whoever he was, didn’t have anything to do with Vernon King getting bit by Dr. Cain’s rat?  What if Dr. Cain was involved?  And now all these weapons?  Maybe Phillip Mercer had seen to it all this gear had been hidden under the bed just so Phoenix could defend himself, or break out, or do both.  Maybe Phillip Mercer had nothing to do with anything.  Too much to think about.

Phoenix picked up the phone and called Alaia.  The phone rang, and she answered.

“Detective Jenkins,” she said.  “How may I help you?”

“It’s me – Phoenix.”

No answer came from Alaia.

“Listen, we need Dr. Cain’s phone records – land line and cell – the day I brought him the syringe, just up until the virus outbreak.  I’m interested in outgoing calls – but I’ll take everything.  I want to know who he called.  Just note anything that strikes you, Miss Details.  Can you make that happen?”

“I can do it, but if Dr. Cain’s guilty, he’ll have his phone records wiped just like that boy’s phone, the one who got bit by the rat – but how do I reach you?”

“You can’t,” Phoenix said.  “I’ll call you in two hours.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think Phillip Mercer has been helping me, but that sounds stupid.”

“No, I don’t think Phillip Mercer was helping you, Phoenix.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he’s dead,” Alaia said.  “That casket was full of DNA.  His DNA.  Only bits and pieces of him.   Now everyone thinks you stole the body.”

“But we have proof that Phillip Mercer’s grave was dug up last week, don’t we?”

“The records are gone – just up and vanished, along with Bill Turner, the old lady, and everything in the Green Lawn Cemetery Office.  The copy you had?  The one you put in the file?  Gone, too.”

Phoenix paused.  “Cobb.”

“And there’s another thing,” Alaia added, with a quirky sound in her voice.  “Those redneck boys?  They’re scared – and they confessed that you did in fact carry away Phillip Mercer’s body.”

“Figures.  People will do anything to save themselves.  But, if something is missing from my files, either you’re lying and you took it, or somebody else in the department did.”

“Are you accusing me?”

“Not at all,” Phoenix said.  “Right now, I don’t have enough evidence to accuse the Pillsbury Doughboy of making it with Toaster Strudel.”

“I gotta run,” Alaia said.  “Call me in two hours.  I should be able to comb through Dr. Cain’s calls in less time than that.”

The call was over.  Phoenix laid back and stretched himself across the rather Spartan mattress.

He looked up at the gray ceiling for a short while, lying as still as he could and without as much as blinking his tired eyes.  But his mind remained in constant motion, turning somersaults, as he tried to piece together the absolute mayhem of the last few days.  Maybe he was too tired to make sense of it all, having failed to get a decent night’s sleep. 

Maybe things weren’t meant to make sense.  Could this be what the person behind the kidnappings had in mind?  A diversion?  Phoenix closed his eyes.  He let the weariness in his head and in his body take the reins, and his mind seemed to clear.  When it did, he remembered June Buckner and Roxy Cotton, who had both disappeared after seeing Dr. Marshall at one of Dr. Patrick Carson’s clinics.  He thought about that for a moment.  Then he rolled over on his side, pulled a dark navy wool blanket up over his shoulders, and fell asleep.

Late that afternoon, Phoenix opened his eyes and sat up on his bed knowing he’d failed to call Alaia in the time he said he would.  He knew she would have downloaded Dr. Cain’s phone logs hours ago, having first gotten them like everyone at NPD did, illegally, and would have a list of names that might or might not contain a person of interest.  Only two people knew about the syringe being delivered to Dr. Cain.  Dr. Cain and Chief Cobb.  Dr. Cain could have made a call to someone, someone he trusted.  Whether Dr. Cain had acted maliciously or whether he had been duped remained to be seen; but, more than likely, he’d been a victim.  That left Cobb.  Phoenix picked up the phone.  It was 5:45. Alaia would either be at home or on her way home.

“Detective Jenkins,” she said.  “How can I help you?”

“It’s me,” Phoenix replied. He got up off the bed, grabbed a cup sitting on a small, metal table, and carried it to the sink.

“Mr. Always-On-Time,” Alaia shot back.

Phoenix rolled his eyes and made a face, glad Alaia couldn’t see it, and he said nothing.

“Looks like Dr. Cain made a call to – you guessed it, didn’t you? – I’m going to let you guess.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Carson Research Labs,” Alaia said.  “We’ve got a call to a florist, a couple of other professors – and it looks like he’s seeing someone on the side – and the call to NPD.  And yes, he called NPD first.”

“Do you know the number he called at the lab?”

“He called the front desk, but that number’s all over the internet.”

“How long was the call?”

“Twelve seconds.”

Phoenix shook his head.  “That means – well, that doesn’t give us anything other than the fact that he made a call to Carson Research Labs.”

“So we’re still stuck with Dr. Cain and Cobb.”

“You deserve my job, Alaia,” Phoenix said.  “But something tells me you won’t have it for very long.”

“Oh, and there’s something else, Phoenix,” Alaia said.  “I walked into Cobb’s office to get the missing person’s case folders and accidentally picked up something – but maybe it’s nothing.”

Phoenix waited.

“The printout of Dr. Cain’s phone calls.  He had an exact copy – so he knows I went into the Verizon database.”

“He was just being thorough,” Phoenix said.

“Too thorough,” Alaia whispered.  “Dr. Cain’s call to Carson Research wasn’t on his print out.  And get this – I got into Verizon’s phone records a few minutes
after
I’d spoken with you.  Cobb went into the system
an hour later.
”

“Somebody’s cleaning up the mess – and Dr. Cain did call Carson Research Labs.”

“And there’s one more thing.”

Phoenix heard footsteps, a guard, coming in his direction.  He walked towards the bars of his cell and looked out.  “Can’t you say it all at once?  I don’t have a phone charger in here and I’m expecting – I mean, dreading – a call that I’m sure I’m about to get.”

“In the upper right hand corner I saw a smiley face,” Alaia whispered.  “Do you think Cobb scrubbed the call from the system?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“And Dr. Carson?”  Alaia said.

“Can you please hurry?”

“He’s turned up missing.”

The smart click of the officer’s boots, now close, and the incessant hum of inmates above and around Phoenix’s cell, seemed to be getting louder.  Phoenix slid his phone back under the bed just as Fred, the same guard who’d slipped him the phone, appeared.  He nodded at the young man who, because of his height – he had to be every bit seven feet – should’ve been in the NBA, if only to be the goal post.  He wore a guard’s cap over his closely cut, blonde hair, and he had a cool, assured air about him, something guys his age only wished they had.

“Dinner time,” Fred said holding up a Krystal’s bag with a smile.  “You need to stay in the cell – and you certainly don’t need to be eating what’s on the menu tonight.  And no water, just in case.”  He handed Phoenix the fast food bag, reaching through the bars with arms a mile long.

“And should I be eating this?”  Phoenix asked, with his eyes scanning the face of the young guard. 

“I brought enough for me and you both – but I’ve already had mine.”

Phoenix watched.  Fred didn’t bat an eyelash, nor did he avert his gaze.  His voice, in the medium-low range, sounded calm, smooth, and consistent when he spoke.  His body looked completely at ease.  Whatever was in that Krystal’s bag, hopefully some pups and burgers and a large bag of fries, would be fine.  And Phillip Mercer, or whoever it was pretending to be him, wasn’t about to kill Phoenix.  If that had been the case, Phoenix would already be dead.

“Thanks,” Phoenix said.

“Now, here’s the hard part,” Fred said.  “Tomorrow morning, at eight – I’ll have breakfast for you at seven – Chief Cobb is going to arrive.  He’s going to want to have a talk with you.  But you’re not going to want to talk much to him.”

“Why would I not want---?”

“That’s all I know to tell you,” Fred said, his deep blue eyes looking straight into Phoenix’s.  “And you would do well to do everything you’re told to do without question or reflection.”

Phoenix nodded.  Fred nodded back with all the seriousness not typical of a young kid, and he turned and walked away.  A bell rang and the cell doors on the block opened, first with a click and then with a heavy, metallic bang.  The hum of voices and the sound of inmates walking away from the block filled the air.

Phoenix opened the bag.  Six burgers, a large bag of fries, and a couple of pups.  All of it remarkably fresh, or so the light wisp of fragrant steam said.  Too bad Fred hadn’t included a Coke; but Phoenix wasn’t about to complain.  He filled his standard, prison-issue cup, stainless and about the size of a large coffee cup, and sat down on the edge of his bed near the small table.  Then he remembered what Fred had said about the water, and he drained his cup back into the sink.

He downed one burger after another, staggering the pups in between for variety, and wolfed down the bag of fries.  Each fry tasted perfect, not too hard and stiff, because every last fry was warm, limp, and soft.  Nothing went down as easy as a Krystal’s fry with a quickly approaching expiration minute.  Too soon from the fryer, you got burned by a hard, flavorless fry.  Too long after, and you got a cold, sluggish piece of potato that hung in your chest like a glued shoelace.  Limp and dying – a perfectly-ripened French fry that feared ketchup – was hard to beat.

Morning came, dark and painty, and Phoenix never saw it coming.  But Fred had.  Seven on the nose and Fred was standing over Phoenix, shaking him awake, holding yet another Krystal’s bag in his hands.  Phoenix thanked him, sat up, and took the bag.

“Coke’s over on the table,” Fred said, pointing to it.  “But I forgot the straw.”

“Thanks.”

“This is your last meal here,” Fred said.  “Remember what I told you.  Cobb got here ten minutes ago.  He’s in with the warden.  Don’t say a word.”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“That’s all I know,” Fred said.  “I’m here to tell you what I know.  It’s time to get the inmates moving.  You’ve got an hour.”

Fred turned and let himself out.  The bell rang in the cell block – breakfast time.  The hum of voices and the sound of feet once more filled the block.  Phoenix gobbled down what Fred had brought to him.

The cell block was quiet at 7:50 am.  Not the sound of a voice, nor the click of a guard’s boot, broke the silence of the prison.  Phoenix couldn’t remember a time when he’d heard anything like it.  Living in an apartment above I-24, he learned to live with the noise of loud trucks, trucks always downshifting, and the deep, throaty roar of engines powerful enough to shake his spine loose from his skull.  And the music of drivers laying on their horns, all of those horns blaring out at varying pitches, was loud.

Phoenix didn’t know if liked silence like this.

At 7:55 am, the phone lying beside him rang, softly and quietly.  He put his left hand on his stomach and reached for the phone with his right.  He looked at the screen and swiped the green phone icon.

“Phoenix here.”

“Cobb is on the way.” 

Phoenix recognized the voice – the Krystal voice – and he froze, not knowing what to say or ask.  Should he thank him for bailing him out?  Thank him for the dinner and breakfast?  Or should he tell him something else?  Maybe about the grave – but no, he’d know about that.  How could he not?  He could find it all in the news.

“Why are you telling me this, and why do I need to care?”

“Cobb is coming to do a job and you’re it – but it isn’t quite your time yet.  He’s acting alone, jumping the gun, ahead of schedule because he’s spooked.  And I need you.”

Phoenix scratched his head and looked around his cell.  “Job?  My time?  You need me?”

“The pistol under your bed.”

“What about it?”

“Get it and put it under your leg.  When Cobb comes in, you’re going to put a bullet in his head.  When he’s dead, you’re going to suit up with what’s under the bed, fill the pack, and take your weapons.  Shame.  If Cobb kept his cool, he’d live.”

Phoenix drew his mouth into a straight line and bit his bottom lip.  Kill DeAndre’?  The sound of a man, screaming, filled the cell block, and Phoenix could hear others yelling.  Another man began cursing.

“Are you listening to me?”

“I---”

“If you don’t do it, you’re a toasted Krystal’s bun, understand me?  I don’t know why I waste my time on you – but that’s my lot in life, or in death, whichever the case may be.”

The sounds in the cell block died away as quickly as they’d come.  The silence returned, only to be broken by a familiar click-clump – Chief Cobb’s heavy boots – and Phoenix knew that sound belonged to Cobb.

“How did you know---?”

“Bullet to the head, trust me,” the voice said.  “Have I let you down before?  If you want to walk out of here with your brain and soul intact – and believe me, you’ll want to – you’re going to need to eighty-six this guy.  Or don’t.  But I told you.  What happens to you won’t be on my hands.  And all those prisoners? They’re all about to go June Buckner on you.  Even Cobb knows he might not make it out alive.  So, he’s planning on – well, you know what to do.”

The phone went silent.  Phoenix quickly set the phone to video record, got up, and leaned the phone against the wall where it could see and hear everything.  He lifted the mattress and grabbed the Glock.  He checked the weapon.  A round sat in the chamber.  He dropped the mattress, sat down, and slipped the gun under his right thigh. 

Chief Cobb arrived at the cell door.  He carried a small case about the size of a hat box but thinner, and it had a handle.  He smiled, looking back the way he’d come. 

Phoenix slid his hand down beside him, feeling the silencer, wondering why he’d been told to shoot his friend, wondering if he could do it, even if Cobb deserved it.

Cobb brought a radio up to his mouth.  He said, “Let me in,” and the door opened.  He stepped inside and stopped, setting the small case on the floor.  The door behind him remained open. 

Phoenix looked at Cobb and watched him as he hooked the radio on his belt.  He had on a white shirt, and his shoulder holster, snug around his chest, held his thirty-eight.  How had he gotten a weapon into the cell block?  Phoenix chuckled to himself and shook his head.  How had Mr. Krystal gotten an AK-47 into this cell? 

Phoenix didn’t get up off the bed when Chief Cobb entered, but remained with his butt pasted to the mattress, his hand on the pistol, his mind going in circles.  There was no way he was going to shoot Chief Cobb – doing such a thing didn’t register a faint ping on his radar.

“Time to go Phoenix,” Cobb said as he looked away, his eyes and manner cold and distant.  “You and me, together.”

Cobb never looked this way before – not even back in East Nashville when the two had first met.  The man, as big and burly as he was, was the essence of compassion and friendliness to those close to him.  Always with a joke or a laugh, or with a sincere, warm smile that said, “I’m no ex-Titan.”  But DeAndre’ knew his business, especially when it came to handling suspects and convicts; and he wasn’t afraid to use brute force, verbal or physical, when he thought his demands weren’t being met.  Phoenix sensed it coming.

“Looks like your little stint in the pokey has just come to an end.  You ready?”

“Do I have choice?  Because, if I do, I’d like to confess and stay here a day or two more,” Phoenix said.  “That is, if it’s all the same to you.”

Cobb looked up.  “We don’t have time to play around.  Don’t make me drag you out of here.”

“Drag me?” Phoenix asked.

“You heard me.”

“Like you’re going to drag me into the end zone or what?  Why are you talking to me like this, DeAndre’?  What are you saying?”

Chief Cobb reached into the hip pocket of his light tan slacks. 

Phoenix flinched.  But Cobb, who was looking down at the floor, hadn’t seen him jump.  He slid the pistol forward a little and got his hand around the pistol grip.

“What’s going on, DeAndre’?” Phoenix said.  “You’d better talk to me.  What are you doing?”

Chief Cobb pulled a syringe out of his pocket, something horse-sized, with a needle the size of a straw. 

Phoenix slid his finger through the trigger guard and, with his hand firmly on the grip, pulled the gun out from under his leg, but still kept it hidden.

“I’m just doing what I have to do, Phoenix,” Cobb said.  “It’s either you or – well, just you. But you have to trust me on this.  I’m doing this for your own good.  I promise. It’s now or never.”

“Before you do this, can you at least tell me why?”  Phoenix said, playing for time, trying to draw Cobb out.  He squeezed the grip of the weapon firmly, and he slowly pulled the gun out from under his leg.

“You’re just going to become a missing person, that’s all – just like the rest of them.  You’re making people worry.” Cobb said.  “And stop asking me questions.  I can’t talk to you.”

“How much did they pay you, DeAnte’?”

Cobb raised the syringe in his right hand and came towards Phoenix with his left hand in a claw, ready for a fight. Two hundred thirty pounds of trained muscle, attached to a Titan’s hall of fame linebacker who knew how to throw quarterbacks down hard enough to end their careers, against a one hundred seventy-five-pound lightweight.

Cobb lunged at Phoenix.

Phoenix raised the gun and fired.