Prisoner 489 (Black Labyrinth Book 2) Read online

  What he did know was tonight there would be a new one. A freshly dead one would be boated over by Kettle to go down in the ground, out by the big tree near the dock. The call had come, blunt and simple. The phone ringing like a single thought in an empty skull, an accented voice giving him the time of the execution, the estimated time of arrival.

  The phone only permitted calls between the islands. There was no way to call out. No chit-chat to the mainland. For that matter, there was no chit-chat between islands. There were only messages of importance. A need for supplies on the little island, the arrival of a freshly grilled prisoner.

  Since executions were not common, Bernard sometimes went months with nothing more than his books and magazines. There was no internet either. No e-mail. On that island you took a pledge to stay quiet, and the pledge was backed up by not providing temptations. He hated to think it, but when one of the prisoners was executed he felt a little festive. Something was happening to break the routine.

  Wilson was young and was here because he had been full of hormones and youthful stupidity. Two years from now, when he was able to have his break, his vacation, he just might be able to figure things out. Though he had five years to do on the island before they let him go, he would still be young.

  Toggle was a lot like Bernard. He neither wanted to be here nor wanted to go back to the mainland. He was merely letting his internal clock tick away his time on earth without trying to do any more than he had to.

  Kettle worked at the prison, and when he came from the big island he only stayed a few hours at a time. He brought supplies and he brought bodies. But it was Bernard’s guess he wasn’t much different from them. Maybe more of a talker, a bullshitter, but still a man with his soul in a sack. He enjoyed Kettle’s visits, all the stories he told, the hints he gave of what went on over at the big island, but he was also glad to see him leave.

  Fact was, things on the island pretty much ran themselves, and none of them had much to do. You had to make your own entertainment. Like now, waiting on the execution.

  Bernard sat in a chair at the window with a book and started to read. The last book he had read was Catcher In The Rye, and he hated it. He had heard all about it and how good it was, but within a few paragraphs he wished the kid would die on the first page. He himself had been like that kid in a lot of ways. The kid’s story, his point of view, wasn’t very appealing unless you were fifteen and thought that’s how cool people acted. Now he had a different book, and it seemed like it might be better. But he sat with it and found he wasn’t paying attention. He had gone back to his dilemma. He was thinking about how he might leave, and what he might do outside of the island, and the more he thought about it the more he felt he should stay until they carried him away. He tried from time to time to think about leaving because he thought that’s what he should do, but then he didn’t want to, and the next day he thought about it again as if it mattered. It was like being a poor old chained dog waiting on the next meal, the only thing there was to look forward to, and after the meal it started all over again, the waiting.

  The sky darkened and Bernard looked at his watch. Another fifteen minutes it would be night. He would turn the light on and wait. An hour later the lights would flicker here in this place he called a home, and across the way, of course, in the prison, the source of the interruption in service. He wasn’t sure how it was done, but both islands received their electricity from the same source. It was rumored there was a great battery beneath the waves, impervious to lashing seas, hot or cold. He doubted that. Most likely it was simply an underwater cable. And of course, there was a backup generator for both islands.

  The lights blinked when whoever was in line for their electric dose got it. A short time after it was finished would come the boat, Kettle at the helm, followed by the burying.

  Down below, he saw Wilson. He was sitting in a lawn chair amongst his plants. He had a tunnel-view of the prison there. He was in shade from the trees. Toggle would be down by the dock, near the big tree, waiting, smoking his cigarettes or chewing his tobacco.

  Wilson turned and looked up, called out. “It’s about that time.”

  “Yeah,” Bernard said, as if he had only just now thought on the matter. They had been waiting on it all day. The hole was dug. The boat would come. The body would go in the hole and they would fill it, using the front-end loader to fill it, and then the shovels to smooth it out. Tomorrow would come.

  Bernard made himself a cup of coffee, poured from a not-too-clean glass pot into a not-too-clean plastic cup, opened a bag of chocolate cookies, and sat back down, the cup and cookies on an end table at his elbow. He remembered reading of executions through history, how observers often brought snacks while they waited for the main event. In a way, that’s what he was doing.

  He dunked a cookie in his coffee and ate it. The sky swelled with darkness. He watched the prison carefully. Rows of yellow eyes ran along the top of the prison, those savage yellow lights. Bernard had no idea where the execution room was. Kettle said it was on the far side of the prison, and that’s all he knew.

  Bernard looked at his watch. He sipped his coffee. The lights at the prison dimmed from yellow to pumpkin-orange, and the lights in his room did the same. They stayed that way for a long time. Night was full now and the dimmed lights from the prison shone on the water, orange instead of yellow. Then the lights brightened in the prison and in his room, and the lights on the water became a bright, wavy yellow. The execution was over.

  But then the lights blinked again, and this time the lights everywhere went dead black. It had to be his imagination, but he thought he could smell the ozone cooking.

  He waited.

  Darkness still.

  Finally the lights jumped back, bright yellow.

  Damn, thought Bernard. He had remembered one time before when they had bumped the switch twice. Something didn’t go right and it had to be done again, but this time the lights hadn’t just dimmed, they had gone absolutely dark for several seconds.

  Bernard was contemplating on that when the lights went out again. It surprised him so much that he stood up and jarred the end table, knocking the cup of coffee to the floor. He felt hot coffee splash against his sock, warming him a little. He stood at the window and waited.

  One, one thousand, he counted.

  Two, one thousand.

  Three, one thousand.

  He went all the way to eight, one thousand, and then the lights kicked on, bright and warm and yellow, poking out of the prison windows, shining out of their great bulbs along the top of the prison, their reflections lying firmly on the water. It was as if a great ship had sunk and turned on its side and its lights were still burning beneath the waves.

  “Holy shit,” Wilson said down in the garden.

  “Yeah,” Bernard said, leaning out of the window. “Holy shit.”

  “You ever seen such a thing?” Wilson was out of his chair now, was turned to look up at Bernard.

  “No. I’ve seen it blink twice. I mean, they had to hit number 486 more than once for some reason. But three times. No.”

  “486. The one on the end near the row of trees,” Wilson said.

  “Yeah, her. They had to hit her twice. First time it didn’t kill her, second time they got her fixed right. But I haven’t seen anything like this. Three surges.”

  “Who in hell would need three bumps?”

  “Something wrong with the link-up is my guess. Probably only that last one hit the prisoner firm and fixed him up right.”

  “Jesus,” Wilson said. “How firm does it have to hit you?”

  “Good question.”

  “Guess we go to work pretty soon, huh?”

  It was a question with an obvious answer, so Bernard didn’t answer it. He eased back from the window. And then the lights jumped one more time.

  Darkness.

  The lights jumped back.

  “Now that,” Bernard said to Wilson below, “is what you call damn unusual.”
/>   Bernard felt cold, as if a draft had blown in off the water. But there wasn’t a draft. The trees hadn’t even moved. Soon, as if by clockwork, the wind would pick up and the limbs would tremble and the leaves would shake, but for now all the island was still as that goddamn corpse strapped smoking in the electric chair.

  Bernard picked up the plastic cup and placed it on the nightstand. He picked up the cookie, ate it anyway, figured the floor was clean enough. Besides, he wanted that cookie.

  When he finished it, he went to the cabinet, pulled down a bottle of liquid antacid, drank straight from it. It tasted like chalk. He wasn’t sure why he had stomach problems, the job being relatively easy, but he did. Maybe it was his life before all this, or maybe it was something inherited. Maybe it was his memory of that horrid execution. Whatever; two or three times a week he had to give the insides of his belly a good coating.

  And then, as expected, the sea breeze rolled in. He heard the leaves rattle like a tubercular cough, then the limbs shook against one another like dice rocked in a cup. The breeze slipped cool through the open window. He looked out through the tunnel between the trees, saw the water tossing whitecaps.

  Bernard took a deep breath, moved from the window, pulled on a light coat, picked up his flashlight, and went out and down to the dock, Wilson tagging along not far behind with his own flashlight.

  That’s where Kettle would be arriving in a pretty short time.When he got to the dock, Toggle was there. He had the front-end loader parked near the grave, shovels nearby. Toggle had already put the device for lowering the coffin into place. Wilson came wandering up behind Bernard, came to stop by him with his hands stuck down in his light coat pockets.

  “Howdy,” Toggle said.

  Bernard nodded and Wilson greeted them both. He always had the attitude of a big puppy, happy to see you under whatever circumstance. Toggle kept his own company most of the time. He and Wilson got along well enough, but they didn’t keep each other company any more than Bernard did. Toggle had his spot on the bottom floor of the garage, and he sat there watching DVDs on his little TV screen. He watched the same movies over and over. Mostly action. Of course, there was no real TV connection, no channels to watch, no news. Like Bernard with his books, Toggle had to wait until a shipment came in with new DVDs. Bernard had watched a few, but grew bored with the process early on and dedicated himself to reading and masturbation, though the latter was becoming more and more difficult. He had a hard time imagining a woman who wanted to go to bed with him. He had a hard time imagining a woman anymore, for that matter, and that distressed him.

  Toggle had a thermos of coffee, and he poured himself some. He didn’t offer Bernard any, but that was all right with Bernard. He would have had to share the cup with Toggle, and Toggle always smelled of chewing tobacco and dirty shorts.

  Bernard took hold of one of the three shovels provided and leaned on it. Wilson started in talking about the weather, like they hadn’t noticed it was getting windy and was soon to be wet. Wilson just liked to hear himself talk.

  Wilson was a friendly kid, and likeable, but even so, Bernard always hated his chatter. Way he figured it, when the kid finished his term, he’d be gone. That’s what he should do. Not like himself. He had been here so long he didn’t believe he deserved to be in the outside world where people talked and chatted over dinner, made love and raised families. This lonesome island seemed like the only thing real in the world.

  Bernard then realized that the reason he hated Wilson’s chatter was that he envied him. Wilson would actually leave this island, he was certain, and he was the only one among them that had a chance at a real life. He wanted the kid to leave, but the fact that he could, and most likely would, was something he envied.

  Wilson was still chattering on about the weather, when Toggle turned his head, looked out at the water, and as if Wilson were not talking at all, said, “Here he comes.”

  They all looked, and there was the boat. It was a simple thing, somewhere between boat and barge, painted black, befitting its use. It was like the boat that carried the dead across the river Styx, and this little island was Hades. Kettle was its Charon. The boat churned steadily against the growing pressure of the wind and waves. As it neared the dock, its motor chugged and huffed and puffed like a dying dragon.

  “That motherfucker needs some mechanic work,” Toggle said. “Some new spark plugs and a completely overhauled engine. Better yet, get it on shore, jack it up, and drive a real boat under it. That piece of shit, one night it’s going to come this way and not make it. They’ll find Kettle with a swordfish up his ass, and the body he was bringing over covered in seaweed down at the bottom of Davy Jones’ Locker.”

  As the boat neared the dock its struggling motor slowed, sputtered and coughed, gave out with one loud fart, and slid up alongside the dock with a thump. A moment later, Kettle, who was a large, gray-haired man, came out of the water-splashed wheelhouse, onto the deck. Already Bernard and the others had started down to meet him.

  Kettle stepped out on the dock and secured the boat with a length of heavy rope. He looked up and said, “Hey, boys. Getting any pussy?”

  “That’s some funny shit,” Toggle said. “It was funny first time you said it, and every time since, and I bet it’s funny six months from now. No. From now on each and every time.”

  “Yeah, well, I got to tell you, over on the big island, they bring in some split tail for us once a month. Last night was the most recent. They always bring the whores in the night before an execution. Female workers get some dick, and men get pussy. The spouse-faithful and the in-betweens do without.”

  “Bullshit,” Toggle said. “I didn’t believe that the first ten times you told me, and I don’t believe it now.”

  “Want to smell my fingers?” Kettle said. “I don’t wash them for a week after I get them up some snatch.”

  “Shit, you been eating tuna fish.”

  “Let’s just get this done,” Bernard said. That kind of talk always embarrassed him.

  “Bernard, you are a boring sonofabitch,” Kettle said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Most everyone, and you, frequently. Let’s get it done.”

  Wilson said, “Hey, you bring some supplies this time? Something worth a shit?”

  “I’m making the big run next week,” Kettle said. “I did bring some coffee and tea. A box of cookies. That’s it for now. Next week, all the goods. Oh, Bernard. I have a book from the warden for you. Charles Dickens. I tried to read him once and he made me sleepy.”

  “I’m glad to get it,” Bernard said. “You sure it’s in the box? Last time you got me excited about The Old Man And The Sea, and it wasn’t in there. Some magazines was all.”

  “Naked-women magazines,” Toggle said. “I thought it was a kind of bonanza. You got to get your priorities straight, Bernard. A book on fishing, or some fresh young things with their legs spread?”

  “Let’s check,” Bernard said, and they all went on board. There were two wooden crates there, a smaller one that supposedly held the coffee and tea and book, the cookies, and another large one. That one held the body. Bernard lifted off the lid of the small crate. Inside was a cardboard box. Bernard took out his pocket knife and cut the cardboard box open where it had been sealed with tape. The book was there, so were the tea, coffee, and cookies.

  “Good deal,” Wilson said leaning over, looking in the box. “I read that book after you?”

  “You can,” Bernard said.

  “Now you’re starting bad habits, boy,” Toggle said.

  “That’s the largest crate I’ve seen for a body,” Bernard said.

  “Because it’s a large body.” Some of the humor had gone out of Kettle. “How about helping me get it on shore. I’ll be glad to get rid of it. This ole boy gives me the willies, even dead.”

  The crate was made of good firm planks and there were metal handles along the sides of it. It took all of them to hoist it onto the dock, where they paused to get their b
reath.

  “Damn,” Wilson said. “What’s in that, an elephant?”

  “Inside the box they got a good metal coffin, and inside that they got the Guest of Honor.”

  “They’ve never done that before,” Bernard said.

  What he meant was the metal coffin. It was always the shit coffins, the biodegradable stuff.

  “No, they haven’t,” Kettle said. “But they’ve never put to death anyone like this guy either. Big motherfucker. Head like a goddamn volleyball, shoulders just a little wider than Boulder Dam. They hit him hard with three shots tonight.”

  “Four,” Bernard said.

  “Yeah,” Kettle said. “Four. He was still breathing after the last hit.”

  “No way,” Wilson said.

  “Way,” Kettle said. “They smothered him for the finish by putting a plastic bag over his head. You ain’t supposed to know that, and neither am I, but I was there. I was a witness. I always like to see who gets killed. Somehow it makes my job more real.”

  “I can pass on that,” Bernard said. “No more for me.”

  “Not me,” Kettle said. “It gets easier every time out.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bernard said.

  “I don’t want to see it either,” Wilson said.

  “Look, who gives a shit?” Toggle said. “Let’s get fat boy unloaded off the boat and in the ground. I feel like watching a movie.”

  “Like you haven’t seen them before,” Wilson said.

  “I got a bottle,” Toggle said, “and you start sipping early enough, and all the way through, no matter how many times you’ve seen something it feels just like new.”

  “I brought a bottle of Scotch with me for the big finish tonight,” Kettle said. “We get him in the ground, maybe we can all have a little nip before I start back across. They haven’t got me on a tight leash.”

  “I could taste some Scotch and not feel bad about it,” Toggle said.

  They carried the crate along the dock toward the open grave. They had to stop and put it down a couple of times and regroup.