Getaway Read online

GETAWAY

  Anthony Jacobs

  Copyright 2015 Anthony Jacobs

  Discover other titles by Anthony Jacobs

  The Guard: Campground Stories

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Foreword

  About the author

  Prologue

  “Another night shift,” he muttered to himself as if it was the most tragic thing that had occurred in the past decade to anyone on earth. Tory had been doing a lot of talking to himself lately, because there really wasn’t any one else to talk to. Nighttime was a very lonely time in G section because it was the most isolated section of the prison. G section was the west wing of the penitentiary and was reserved for inmates deemed criminally insane, and too dangerous to be housed with the regular inmates. Most of the inmates in G section would never live to see society again, and were well aware of this. Because of this, no one wanted to go near that section of the prison. To say that the other officers were reluctant to do the job Tory was assigned tonight would be an understatement, and this assignment was usually given to people who had messed up or made the supervisor mad. Tory fell under the first category.

  In the time that he had been working as a detention officer at the penitentiary, Tory had earned a reputation of being a fighter. He had been in more fights in his career than even the most hardened criminals there. Most of it was because he had been in the right place at the right time. Some folks think that when you try to break up a fight between two or more inmates they will be glad to oblige. I am here to tell you, they could not be farther from the truth thought Tory. Usually, as soon as the inmates saw an officer coming toward them, they would move the fight to the officer. Unfortunately, the inmate can hit the officer and get away with it, but the officer gets in trouble if he hits the inmates. Well, that is why he was working the graveyard shift at the psycho ward.

  The psycho ward, as the officers called it, was set up differently than the rest of the prison. It was set up like the isolation ward, with a long hallway with doors on both sides facing the middle. There were no windows in the cells, and some of the cells had padding on the walls, ceiling, and floors. These cells were reserved for the inmates who were classified as an extreme danger to themselves or others.

  “Head Banger,” as he was aptly nicknamed, was an inmate who occupied one of the padded cells. This was his nickname, because for some reason he felt the compulsion to bang his head into every solid object in sight. When he was let out for exercise, he had to wear a helmet strapped to his head so he wouldn’t do himself in on some solid object.

  Most of the other mental cases had nicknames pertaining to their personalities as well. The ones Tory knew about, besides Head Banger, were: Slasher, Doc, Swinger, Crybaby and Diablo.

  “Slasher,” as he was called, was diagnosed as being, “psychotic with homicidal tendencies.” Given anything sharper than a stick of butter, he would slash out at anyone in sight. It was rumored that he had killed twelve people out of prison and eight inmates while in prison. When in court, he had tried to kill his own attorney with a ball-point pen. The story goes, that he started out as a door-to-door salesman selling cutlery, and one day when a customer told him to get lost, something inside of him had snapped. He consequently pulled a cleaver out of his demonstration set, and demonstrated its many uses on the customer’s body. The rest of the day until he was caught, he made several such demonstrations on customers that wouldn’t buy his cutlery, using a different piece of cutlery each time.

  “Doc,” on the other hand, was diagnosed as being a delusional schizophrenic. Doc, had about five known personalities. One of which was that of a medical physician. This is what landed him in jail, because he had decided to practice without a license, and consequently killed five “patients” on the operating table because he didn’t use anesthesia (at least not in the conventional sense). Doc would “anesthetize” his patients with a ball peen hammer.

  “Swinger” was an interesting case. He was diagnosed as “paranoid” and earned his nickname because he tried to hang himself several times. When Swinger was a teenager, he had begun to experiment with drugs. He had started out in middle school, smoking marijuana with his friends. They would cut class and walk to a nearby bridge and get stoned under the bridge, while listening to Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. At lunchtime, they would sneak back to the school and sit through the rest of their classes, which became much more interesting when they were stoned.

  In high school, Swinger had tried harder drugs like Quaaludes, cocaine, and LSD. It became more difficult to cut class, so he would go to lunch with his friends and they would get stoned and return to the school wasted for their fourth period classes. Swinger had Spanish class for fourth period, and his Spanish teacher was a fat German woman.

  One day when Swinger had returned to class after lunch, as he was looking at his teacher, her face had started to melt. When he regained his senses several hours later, he was in the school clinic. He had the vague taste of chalk in his mouth, and was told by the school nurse that he had emptied the pencil sharpener down his pants and had tried to eat the chalkboard erasers. Needless to say, he had been suspended that day.

  Swinger had never returned to school, and had started using drugs so often, that he had to steal things and sell them for money to pay for the drugs. One day, his drug dealer had sold him a “dirty joint” (a marijuana cigarette soaked in PCP). Swinger had smoked the joint just before breaking into a house that he thought was vacant. Unfortunately, a family was sleeping in the house at the time, and as the drugs had warped his sense of reality, he had believed that everyone was a monster that wanted to kill him. When the police had found him the next morning, Swinger had been dancing in the front yard naked with intes
tines draped around his neck like a macabre Mardi Gras necklace.

  Angel Dust had destroyed what remained of Swinger’s psyche, and he had never returned to reality. Every half hour Tory checked his room to make sure he wasn’t swinging again.

  “Cry baby” was a classic example of “Manic Depressive” personality. He was the victim of a homosexual rape by his father as a boy. One day, he had come home from school to find his father drunk, and screaming about the dirty dishes he had left in the sink. When Cry Baby had run to his room to get away from his father, his father had kicked in the door and raped him. Cry baby had not told anyone about the rape, because he was so embarrassed and ashamed, but a month later, he had found his father passed out on the living room sofa, and had cut his privates off with a knife. His father woke up screaming, and watched dumbly as Cry Baby had dropped his father’s privates into the sink and turned on the food disposal.

  His mother had discovered what her husband had done, and had confessed to the crime when the police arrived. Cry Baby had been placed in foster homes, but he had never recovered from the emotional damage of this. He had killed three foster fathers until he was caught. He was an emotional mess, and all he did all day and night was sit in a corner of his cell and cry.

  “Diablo” (or “Devil”) was the most dangerous one of all. He was diagnosed as an “extremely dangerous psychopath.” When Diablo was only eight years old, he had butchered his mother, father, and his five sisters with a curling iron, an axe and his father’s revolver while they were asleep. He spent eleven years in the state mental ward for boys, and escaped. When he was apprehended six months later, he was found living like an animal in a shack full of dead bodies. Since that night as a child when he killed his family, he had never uttered a single word, and now he just sat staring off into space. Although he seemed peaceful enough, his eyes betrayed him. All the hate and evil only a devil could posses lay waiting behind those black eyes.

  Every time Tory made a pass by the cells in G section, he could feel the danger lurking behind those closed doors, and this scared him, even if he would never admit it. All that stood between Tory and the inmates was a wall and several doors. The darkness wasn’t exactly reassuring either, because shadows moved, and dark passages looked like open doors. The section was so quiet at night, that every little sound seemed amplified hundreds of times. Every step he took echoed down the hallway.

  Every few minutes he would ask himself if he had really locked the doors, and if the doors were shut all the way, and if there was anyone lurking behind him ready to pounce. He could imagine that animal Diablo crouching behind his door like a tiger waiting to devour his prey.

  After a while, Tory relaxed a little, especially when he realized that all of the doors were closed, and things seemed quiet. He sat down in a chair at the end of the corridor and started to read a book that he had brought. Tory thought that maybe he could keep his mind off his paranoid fears and kill some time as well. As often happens with a good book, however, Tory lost himself in the story, and his mind started to wander. A sharp pain in the top of his head snapped him out of this trance-like state. Tory tried to stand up, but suddenly his legs were made of Jell-o and he weight a thousand pounds. He looked down at his hands and noticed that his lap was covered with a pool of red sticky stuff, blood. Yuck, he thought as his world started turning red and watery before his eyes. Suddenly, the floor came up to meet him and the familiar smell of floor wax filled his nostrils as the darkness surrounded him.

  A dark figure walked down the hall twirling a key ring on his finger and chuckling to himself. Then, like a cloud of smoke, he blended into the shadows and disappeared.

  Chapter 1

  Lt. John Granger was fuming as he stormed out of his office and headed toward G section slamming doors and cursing the whole way. “Tory Peters, you’ve really screwed-up this time, you S.O.B. Three radio-checks and you still don’t answer,” he hissed through gritted teeth. As Lt. Granger climbed the staircase that led up to the psycho ward, he had visions of Tory squirming and kicking while he choked him with his bare hands. When he opened the door at the top of the staircase, he froze. Something is not quite right, he thought. There was an eerie stillness all about. It reminded him of what happens after a shot rings out in the forest. All the crickets stop chirping, and everything seems still.

  The hallway smelled like wet copper and the steady drip, drip of a leaky water faucet echoed throughout the hallway. Something was wrong here, he could feel it, but he couldn’t figure it out. The copper smell! That was it. The floors had been freshly waxed that afternoon, and the hallway always smelled like wax. What was that dripping noise? There weren’t any water faucets in this section. As he walked cautiously down the dark hallway, he could make out a figure lying awkwardly sprawled out on the floor. As he walked closer to the figure, the coppery smell intensified and became overwhelming.

  Concentrating completely on the body, he failed to notice that the floor was wet and went sailing head over heels, landing on his back in front of the body. The coppery smell was the smell of blood, which was all over the floor. Lt. Granger could feel the hair on the back of his neck raise and bristle like a pissed off porcupine when he looked up into Tory’s vacant eyes.

  When Lt. Granger recovered from the initial shock, he called for backup and a medical team on his radio. Then he ran to the end of the hall and turned on the light switch.

  When he turned around, he saw that he ill prepared for the scene that awaited him. Never in his life had he seen such a heartless massacre.

  The floor was a pool of blood and the blood had been used to write a message on the walls. The message read “AND NOW TO FINISH WHAT WE STARTED.”

  In the middle of the hall lay Tory Peters, or most of him. Approximately half of his head was missing, and he had been disemboweled with the same pole that lobotomized him. The pole appeared to be the leg of a single bunk-bed, and had been crudely torn off of the bed.

  After taking in the scene, Lt. Granger, nicknamed “Danger Granger” aptly tossed his cookies, adding to an impossibly disgusting scene. When he stopped retching, he decided to check on the inmates in the cells.

  The first cell he entered was “Swinger’s” cell. Swinger was hanging from the ceiling by bed sheets, but he also had a slit throat. This was where the dripping noise had been coming from. As the blood ran down Swinger’s body and dripped from his feet into a puddle on the floor, it made a dripping sound, like a leaky faucet.

  “Crybaby” was in the next cell lying on his bed with bedsprings sticking out of empty eye sockets. His cell had been ransacked as if a wild animal had been trapped in there and had tried desperately to escape. John gave the cell a cursory once over, thinking: what the hell happened to his eyes? It took a few minutes for it to register after he saw it because they were so out of place, but eventually he realized that both eyes were staring at the lifeless body from the faucets on the sink in the cell. John swallowed the bile that was building up in his throat, and vowed not to barf again. Without thinking, John went to the sink to splash some water on his face, and unwittingly grabbed an eyeball as he tried to turn on the faucet. That was all it took. John retched so hard, he actually threw out his back. Ten minutes later, when he was through, and was able to somehow straighten up, he continued his assessment of the situation.

  Slasher, Doc, and Diablo were missing, and one of the legs had been torn off Diablo’s bed. A wad of toilet paper had been shoved into the doorjamb in a way in which the door would have appeared closed, but was not fully locked. A few pounds of pressure on the door coming from inside the cell would have easily forced the door to open, if the occupant had used something solid to help pry it open. Solid, like maybe the leg of a bunk, thought John?

  John Granger, usually a calm, subdued man, now was on the verge of total panic. As quickly as he could find the words, he issued a red alert in the prison. Soon after this, sirens wailed, spotlights flicked on, and all the lights in the prison came on
.

  “My God, it looks like Christmas around here,” John muttered as he looked out of the window at the end of the bloody corridor. “Why did this have to happen tonight, when I’m in charge?” he wondered out loud.

  It seemed like the craziest, stupidest things happened to him when he was in charge. This was, at least partially, the reason people referred to him as “Danger Granger.” The prison had a large population of Haitian inmates, who were well known for practicing voodoo rituals after lights out, when the officers were elsewhere. One night, he had heard a disturbance coming from one of the sections, and had gone to investigate it. What he had discovered even made his skin crawl years later. One of the Haitian inmates had been duck walking around the section with a blanket thrown over his head. When John had snatched the blanket off the inmate’s head, the inmate had dropped to the floor and slithered like a snake under his bunk. The other inmates had been so freaked out, he decided to leave the section and call for backup. When several other officers had arrived and entered the section with him, everything had gone back to normal and the inmate who had slithered like a snake was sound asleep on his bunk. This was one of many instances, so the other officers had become somewhat skeptical when he called for assistance. “Not this time,” he muttered to himself.

  Seconds later, the stairway door burst open, and four officers ran up to him. “What’s wrong sir? We heard you needed backup,” said the nearest one with what sounded to John like disbelief.

  “Turn around,” was all John had to say. Their reactions were similar to Lt. Granger’s except that two of them kept muttering something about God and Mary in Spanish.

  Lt. Granger ordered them to guard the hallway and not touch anything until investigators arrived.

  John then headed back to his office to await further developments.

  Chapter 2

  Thirty miles away in his typical suburban home surrounded by a white picket fence, Tom Kincaid, state homicide detective, woke up to the ringing of his bedside telephone. He had always hated having a phone next to his bed, because it never failed to ring when he was making love to his wife, Heather, or when he was sound asleep. As he fumbled for the phone in the dark, he knocked over his alarm clock. Picking the clock up off the floor, he noticed that it was three o’clock in the morning. “This had better be important,” he muttered to himself as he picked up the receiver.