"Don't shoot, Nickerson. We're not looking for trouble."
Hearing the soft voice coming from somewhere in the woods close to him, Frank Nickerson froze for an instant. Then, quickly, he crouched and began scanning the area, his pistol ready.
"I said, 'don't shoot.' And we're over here."
The voice was accompanied by a rustling branch. Frank's eyes could see it moving, when he pinpointed the location of the voice and the noise. But he still couldn't see anyone.
Another voice came from a different part of the woods, about four o'clock from the rustling branch and the first voice.
"I can take him if he tries anything, James."
"Don't you get trigger-happy either, Geoffrey."
A laugh came from the area when Frank had heard the second voice. "I don't never get trigger-happy. Pulled too many triggers. The thrill is gone."
The first voice spoke again. "You don't have to put the pistol away, Nickerson. But lower it a little, will you? Once you do, I'll come out."
Frank's mind was racing. These had to be convicts speaking to him. He was trying to remember which of the convicts were named James and Geoffrey. The problem was that he'd been too new to the prison to know most of the inmates by name.
He did recall one Geoffrey, though. The man had been pointed out to him by another guard. Geoffrey Kidd. One of the more notorious inmates. Not because he ever gave the guards trouble, but just because of who he was and what he looked like.
He hoped to God it wasn't that Geoffrey. Or that if it was, he didn't have a gun.
But he had a bad feeling he was going to be out of luck, on both counts.
Seeing nothing else to do, he lowered the pistol. Doing that much didn't bother him, since Frank was very good with a pistol. He could get it back up almost as quickly as he could pull the trigger. The man named James probably understood that himself. He'd just wanted to make sure no triggers got pulled by reflex when the pistol was pointed at him. All things considered, it was a reasonable enough request.
Then, with a considerably greater mental effort, Frank made himself stand up straight. There really wasn't much point to staying in the crouch, he figured. If these convicts didn't have guns, the crouch would be worse than standing up in case they attacked him with blades. And if they did have guns, they could have ambushed him before he even realized they were there.
The brush moved again and a man stepped into view. A convict, sure enough. The reason Frank hadn't been able to spot the distinctive orange coverall was because the man had it covered with a blanket.
He even recognized him, although he wouldn't have been able to attach a name to the face except the other convict had called him James. It was that new prisoner who'd been working in the infirmary.
More to the point, from what Frank had heard, the one who'd gotten into trouble with Adrian Luff. Under the circumstances, that was a relief.
The man completed his name. "I'm James Cook." He hooked a thumb toward the bushes behind him. "What's left—most of 'em—of Boomer's boys are with me. We escaped the prison three days ago. A rebellion started against Luff, he went berserk and started a slaughter, and we figured it was time to bail."
Boomer's boys. Frank knew who they were, too, although he didn't know most of the individuals in the gang. The other guards had told him about Boomer.
That was another bit of relief. Boomer's gang never caused the guards much trouble. Not even Boomer himself, whenever his temper blew, because his fury was always targeted on some other inmate. Restraining him was something of legendary task, though, by all accounts.
Since Frank couldn't think of anything better to say, he asked: "What do you want?"
"Well, that's partly up to Captain Blacklock. At a minimum, we want full paroles. But we actually think some kind of alliance would make more sense. At least, if you plan to take the prison back."
Frank had no idea what to say in response. He had no authority to make any sort of deal with convicts.
Cook must have understood that, because he nodded. "Yeah, I know. It's above your paygrade. So how about you just go get Blacklock?"
"I can't. He—ah—well . . ." Frank didn't want to say too much. Not to men like this, when he had one of the only two pistols in the group of nurses and guards.
"He'll be back soon," he finished lamely. "Just went out for a bit."
The second voice chuckled. "Yeah, sure he did. Went down to the 7-11 to get some soda pop. Damn, boy. You want to get ahead in life, you gotta learn to lie better."
There was another rustle and the man connected to that voice came out of the woods some thirty feet away from Cook.
Sure enough. It was Geoffrey Kidd. And, sure enough, he had a gun in his hand. The same prison-issue model that was in Frank's own hand.
The big, heavily tattooed convict smiled at him. "Tell you what. Now that you've shown me yours and I've shown you mine, how about we tuck 'em back into our pants?"
That seemed . . . like a good idea, all things considered. Not easy to do, of course.
With another mental effort, Frank forced himself to shove the pistol back in his waistband. He wished he had a holster, but if need be he could get the gun out of his pants pretty damn quickly.
Of course, he was sure Kidd could do the same. But the convict had his own gun tucked away, and what was done was done.
"Where is Blacklock?" Cook asked. "And please spare us any more bullshit."
Frank said nothing. He wasn't about to let these convicts know that there were dozens of almost unarmed guards and nurses nearby.
Cook shook his head. "I'm not stupid, Nickerson. If Blacklock isn't here—and given how jumpy you are—that means you never hooked back up with him. So it's just you and the nurses and the guards that Marie Keehn and Casey Fisher freed from the cages. Which means the only guns you've got will be the one stuck in your pants and whatever happened to the other piece."
How the hell did he know all that?
Cook shook his head again. "I told you we weren't looking for any trouble. I can even prove it."
"How?"
Cook turned his head. "Okay, guys. Come on out. And bring Elaine with you."
Elaine . . .
The only Elaine whom Frank could think of was Elaine Brown, the injured CO who'd been left behind in the prison. But everyone who'd seen her at the end seemed to be sure she was dead by now. They didn't talk about it much, though. Abandoning Brown was something that obviously preyed on them a lot.
Had she survived after all? And, if by some miracle she had, were these bastards now holding her hostage?
It was Elaine Brown, sure enough. But when she came out of the woods, she came out in a stretcher—more like a jury-rigged litter of some kind—and she was smiling in no way he could imagine a hostage smiling.
"Hi," she said. "You're Frank Nickerson. We never really met except in the infirmary and I was in bad shape at the time."
By now, Frank was confused more than anything else. He had no idea what to do.
"Who's in charge, Frank?" she asked. "It probably wouldn't be you, as new as you were."
He scratched the back of his neck. Pressed to the wall, he decided honesty was probably the best policy. Certainly the easiest one.
"Well, actually, I am. Sorta. Marie Keehn left a few days ago, to see if she could find Blacklock and the others. They're supposed to be with the Cherokees. She left me in charge because I'm the only one besides her who really knows anything about getting by in a wilderness."
In for a penny, in for a pound. "Lieutenant Joe Schuler's with us, too. But he got hurt badly by an animal and he's not in good shape."
"Is he in good enough shape to talk to us?" asked Cook.
"I don't know, to be honest. He sort of comes and goes."
Elaine spoke up. "Frank, just take us to him, will you? And the others. There won't be any trouble."
Her hand reached out and held Cook's. The clasp was easy and intimate.
"Oh, what the hell. Okay. Follow me."
Frank was worried about how the guards would react. But Cook seemed plenty smart enough to figure out that might be a problem. So he made sure that the first convicts coming out of the woods were himself and a stocky guy named John Boyne, carrying Elaine between them on the litter.
That did the trick. Elaine caused so much of a stir that by the time the guards fully digested the fact that they had almost two dozen convicts in their midst, things were fairly relaxed. Especially when they saw that the inmates had brought three kids with them—and the kids seemed attached to that scary Kidd like barnacles.
Luckily, Casey Fisher had the other gun at the moment, and she was the first guard who spotted Brown.
Her face turned pale. For a moment, Frank thought she might even drop the gun.
"Elaine?" she gasped.
Brown waved her hand, very cheerily. "Hi, Casey! How's tricks?"
"Elaine!"
That shout drew everyone's attention. Barbara Ray had just come out of the cave. Her mouth fell open. Then she started yelling—Elaine's here! Elaine's here! She's safe!—and before they knew it they were being mobbed.
Cook and Boyne set down the litter. Boyne stepped back, but Cook came down on one knee next to her.
"Dammit, keep your hands off!" he half-yelled. "I'm not taking any risk with infection, not after all she's been through. And where are the nurses?"
"Here," said Barbara Ray, pushing herself through the little mob. She came down on her knees and surveyed the way Elaine was wrapped up in what looked like at least a half dozen sheets.
"You're James Cook, right? The new inmate who's an EMT?"
"Yeah, that's me."
She placed her hand on Elaine's forehead. "How long has she been wrapped up like this?"
"Since we got her out of the basement in the admin building where she'd been hiding. I made sure she stayed wrapped up, too. Well, except when she had to go to the bathroom. So to speak. But she managed that on her own, and didn't take off more than she had to. I insisted. No peeking at the wound."
"Even at night," Elaine said, smiling. Again, she reached out her hand and took Cook's.
Barbara looked at the handclasp, then up at Cook. "She doesn't have a fever."
"Yeah, I know. She hasn't run a fever once."
"Any other symptoms?"
"No. Not any. I think the wound's probably healed, but I didn't want to risk taking off the bandages to look."
"Good."
"Hey, I feel fine!" Elaine said. "Except I'm dying to get out of this stupid mummy wrap."
Barbara Ray and James Cook gave her the identical sort of look. Frank almost laughed. Two medical pros, not about to listen to a damn ignorant civilian telling them their business.
"Well . . ." Barbara Ray shrugged. "I'm tempted to wait until Jenny Radford gets back. But that could be a while. If Elaine's survived this far and doesn't have any bad symptoms, we should probably get her unwrapped and take off the bandages so we can see what kind of shape she's in."
Cook frowned.
The nurse chuckled. "You can't keep her wrapped up forever, you know. Don't worry. We were able to get some medical supplies out of the infirmary before we made our break. The worst that happens is that I just put on some antiseptic and wrap her back up again. In fresh, clean bandages, right out of the original package."
"Okay," said Cook.
"You'll have to let go of her hand, young man."
"Oh. Yeah."
But when he tried, Brown wouldn't let him.
"Not just yet. Barbara Ray—everybody—I'd like you to meet my new fiancé, James Cook. We got engaged three days ago, as we were on our way out of the prison." She giggled. "It's quite a story, actually. But it's way too long to tell it now. I really, really want to stop playing mummy dearest."
"Well, hell," said one of the guards.
"What do we do?" Casey Fisher asked, that evening. She and several of the guards had gathered around Frank at the campfire, along with Barbara Ray and Lylah Caldwell.
For his part, Frank really, really wanted Joe Schuler to come out of his state of near-unconscious. So much so that he'd had to restrain himself mightily from asking the nurses to wake the lieutenant up.
But they would have refused anyway.
So. That left Frank in charge. Whether he wanted to be or not.
"I don't know," was his sterling contribution to leadership principles.
One of the older guards glanced dubiously at the area where Boomer's gang had set up for the night. Elaine Brown was with them. She'd insisted. And now, she was lying under a blanket with James Cook. With nothing but a small bandage in place of the wrappings she'd had on. Even that bandage, according to the nurses, was more of a formality than anything else. They were quite sure that Elaine had recovered fully from her injury.
"Sexual relations between guards and convicts are strictly forbidden," he said. "They'll fire you for that in a heartbeat."
"That is possibly the most asinine statement I've ever heard," Barbara snapped. "Josh Edwards, use your head. First, you can't fire Elaine Brown. She doesn't work for the Illinois Department of Corrections anymore, for the good and simple reason that it doesn't exist. Second—"
Lylah Caldwell interrupted her. "Just drop it, Josh. Leave aside everything else. That wonderful young man has kept me from having nightmares for the rest of my life." Her eyes gleamed wetly in the firelight, and her next words came in a whisper. "I thought I'd never be able to forgive myself. For the way we left her behind."
That caused a moment's silence.
"Me neither," said Casey quietly. "Or me," added Barbara Ray.
"Yeah, I agree," said Frank. "It's a moot point. Period. It just is."
He looked over at the couple under the blanket, then looked away when he saw the blanket was moving in . . . interesting ways. The funny thing was, he was pretty sure that if anyone under there was putting up any resistance, it was Cook and not Brown. He'd been her guardian for so long he was probably struggling to let go of it—and she was gleeful that she was finally free of her wraps.
Edwards wasn't going to give up that easily. "Fine," he said, almost snarling the word. "What do we do about the rest of the cons? Dammit, those men are dangerous. Kidd's an out-and-out cold-blooded killer."
"Kidd . . ." said Lylah, as if she were musing over a strange word. "Isn't he the one with the three kids wrapped around his neck?"
Edwards glared at her.
One of the other guards spoke up. That was Renfrew Smith, who'd been working at the prison longer than any of them. He was related to Frank, although the relationship was distant. Some sort of second cousin. Maybe even third cousin. Frank never had been able to figure out the difference.
"Just let it go, Edwards. They're not threatening anybody. And I never had any trouble with Boomer's people anyway." Renfrew gave the other guard a sharp glance. "Neither did you, for that matter."
"Frankly," said Casey, "I'm a little relieved to have them here. Between Kidd's gun and those matchlocks they've got, I figure we don't have to worry as much about predators."
Edwards looked mulish. Frank was coming to the conclusion he didn't much like the man. And he was remembering something Captain Blacklock had said to him, shortly after he was hired.
Frank, we are guards. Our job is to protect society from these men, and protect them from each other. We are not juries. We are not judges. Just prison guards. And, believe me, that's a hard enough job as it is, without trying to play God in the bargain.
He'd thought it was good advice at the time. Now, he was sure of it.
"Drop it, Edwards," he commanded. "When Captain Blacklock gets back—or if Joe Schuler's in good enough shape—they can make any final decisions. For now, we're just going to accept the situation as it stands. They're here, and at least for the moment we're on the same side."
A little later that evening, Frank decided he'd better follow his own instructions. He went over to Kidd and squatted next to him.
"I'm only asking because I need to know what we've got in case predators come around. What I mean is—"
"Two rounds," said Kidd. He put an arm around one of the Indian girls, who was cuddled against his chest and half-asleep. "I had to use the rest to take care of the Spaniards who had 'em."
The fact that the news Kidd only had two rounds left worried Frank instead of relieving him was as good a sign as any that the world had definitely changed. Again.
He eased himself out of the squat into a comfortable sitting position.
"Tell me what happened. It sounds like one hell of story."
Sure enough, it was.
Frank got the whole story, too, starting from the prison rebellion where Boomer got killed. Finding Elaine in the basement, the confrontation with Bostic, the escape, the whole works.
After Kidd finished, they didn't talk for a while. Then Frank asked, "What are you going to do with the kids?"
"Adopt 'em, I guess. Don't think I got much choice. It's either that or shoot 'em—and, like I said, I only got two rounds left. Count 'em. Three kids. I might have the heart to shoot all of them, but I couldn't possibly pick which ones."
After another silent moment, he added, "That was a joke, Nickerson."
Frank nodded sagely. He'd been pretty sure it was a joke.
Kidd's scary grin flashed in the campfire light. "And I'd have to pick two to keep alive, anyway. Seeing as how I always double-tap my targets."
There was another silent moment.
"That was a joke, Nickerson."
"I knew that."