Max - Bey Deckard Page 0,57

funny?” Matty asked, looking over with a smile. “I like a good joke.”

He wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t exactly attractive either. However, it didn’t really matter what Crane thought. It wasn’t as if he had to “get it up” if he was expected to be on the receiving end of things. His life was turning into a tired prison trope.

Sighing, he shrugged. “Not really a joke. I was just… thinking of something.”

“Oh yeah? What about?”

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“Okay,” Matty conceded. “Hey, you were a shrink on the outside, eh?”

“I was.”

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Sure,” Crane said, putting his book down. Maybe if he tried to counsel Matty, really connect with him, he’d be able to explain that he was being forced into their situation without making an enemy of him. Maybe everything would be okay.

“Well… I been having these dreams where I’m like real tiny, and I’m tryin’ to steal a car but I can’t reach the pedals…”

Nodding, Crane settled back and listened to Matty ramble on.

11:00 p.m., Sunday, May 28th

The lights above clicked off on schedule, plunging the cell into darkness, but right away Crane noticed something was strange. Normally there were inmates that kept their own smaller lights on until they were expected to go to sleep at eleven thirty. However, when he got up to look out into the hallway, he saw the whole cellblock was nearly pitch dark. The only lights came from the guards’ flashlights and the emergency lights at the ends of the hall.

A hand reached between the bars, startling Crane into tripping backwards, and he slammed into Matty’s thick chest.

“Whoa,” rumbled his bunkmate, grabbing him by the shoulders to steady him.

The hand at the cell door lifted four fingers, pointed to the lock, then retreated.

“Four minutes,” said Matty.

“Four minutes to what?” whispered Crane, his pulse a bit erratic.

“You’ll see.” It was accompanied by a laugh that made Crane’s stomach twist. What was going on?

Four minutes later, Matty started coughing, and he clasped Crane by the forearm, dragging him towards the door. When the door opened with a quiet squeak, Crane realized the coughing had been to cover the sound of the automatic lock disengaging.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Shh. I’m gettin’ you out of sight.”

“Out of sight? Why?” Crane spoke quietly, but Matty shushed him again, pulling him along the hallway towards the kitchen and the larger of the two exercise yards. Were they going somewhere private, in case Crane cried out while he was being “broken in”? Had Max arranged for this, paying off guards and maybe even the warden like he’d obviously done to get Matty into his cell. Knowing Max, he wanted to get it all on film, playing it back for his own sick enjoyment. Crane stopped walking, but Matty was too strong, and Crane quailed when the big man whispered into his ear: “You come along now, Doc. If you make a sound or try to get away from me again, I’ll break those pretty fingers of yours. Got it?”

Miserable and faint, Crane stumbled along after Matty in the dark, trying to quiet his panicked breathing. They made their way through the kitchen, lit only by a red light over the bank of stoves, and out through a cold storage area. Every door opened with ease—Matty seemed to have the run of the prison.

God help me. God help me. God help me. It was a mantra running through Crane’s head, even though he’d never sought solace in religion before. When they reached a big metal door and Matty pushed it open, he realized they were outside in what looked like a loading dock area.

Briskly shoving him towards a big truck, Matty leaned in close and pointed to a long flat storage bin. “Get in. Hurry up.”

Bewildered, but with stunned hope suddenly blooming bright in his chest, Crane hastened to get into the bin. This was an escape! However, once he was flat on his back, a cynical thought occurred to him. What if this was all orchestrated by Max to get him in even more trouble? What if it was only to get his hopes up to bring them crashing down again. He tried to sit up, but Matty pushed him back down again and covered him with a heavy, scratchy blanket.

“ ’Frigerator truck,” the big man explained quietly, patting his chest. “Lie down there. Be quiet. Hope you don’t have to take a piss.” He turned his head and nodded to another figure that emerged from the shadows.