The Territory A Novel - By Tricia Fields Page 0,82

“What’s going on with the National Guard?”

“I’m not sure. I guess the mayor organized it.”

“Are they stationed outside, or are they coming inside the jail?” he asked.

“No one told me anything,” she said.

Bloster nodded and wondered at her attitude. She was usually one of the friendliest employees at the jail. He hoped he was just being paranoid.

“Can you buzz me back? I need to check in with the guard about the transport.”

Maria buzzed him through to the center of the jail, where the inmate pods were located. As the door locked behind him, Bloster slowed his breathing and took measured steps down the short hallway. He pressed a red button on the wall, and Maria buzzed him into the day space.

Just inside the door, Dooley, the day-shift guard, sat at a desk, watching three inmates who were lounging at a metal table, watching a TV on the wall. Dooley was a giant man who barely fit into the folding chair he sat in.

Seeing Dooley at the guard desk caught Bloster by surprise. “How come they have you working night shift?”

“Sheriff called me in tonight.”

Bloster broke out into a cold sweat. He had told Maria the sheriff had also called him in, which was a lie. What if Dooley and Maria talked and decided to call the sheriff to check on the schedule mix-up? If everyone remained quiet tonight, Bloster knew he could cover his schedule with the sheriff and explain it as a mistake.

“You here to cover me for supper break?” Dooley asked.

Bloster was starting to panic. He needed time to sit down and work through his plan again. He had to check in with the transport driver first and make sure it was set up as a legitimate prisoner transfer.

“Give me ten minutes to run an errand,” Bloster said. “I’ll be right back.” He pressed the intercom. “Maria? I need back through again. Then I’ll relieve Dooley for supper break.”

The door buzzed and the lock clicked loudly. Bloster maneuvered through the series of locked doors, with each step expecting disaster.

Once outside, he felt a rush of adrenaline and a tinge of hope that he might actually accomplish the prisoner exchange without becoming one himself. He avoided eye contact with the guardsmen, now standing outside their trucks and talking in small groups in front of the jail. Bloster took the sidewalk beside the brick building to the back parking area, where the van and his own patrol car were parked.

The driver of the van wasn’t in the driver’s seat, but his head appeared after Bloster knocked on the window. The van was running and the driver lowered the window. He was a middle-aged man dressed in the uniform worn by jailers at the federal penitentiary. Bloster had never been to the jail, but he recognized the federal patch below the man’s name on his pocket.

“You here for the prisoner transport?” Bloster asked, his blood pounding like a hammer in his head.

“You got four for me to take back?”

“Yes, sir.”

The driver passed Bloster paperwork through the window, and he was shocked to see that it appeared legitimate, with signatures and times and the names of the prisoners. With the paperwork in his hand, Bloster realized he was making what would look like a legitimate transfer. He couldn’t believe the Mexicans had that kind of access to the inner workings of their prison system, but at that point, he was glad they did.

“You need help with the prisoners?” the driver asked.

Bloster said no, that he would bring them out to the loading dock on the basketball court. He had started to walk away when the driver called him back to the van.

“Let’s do this now before the prisoners are out here,” the man said. He reached down between the driver and passenger seats and picked up a briefcase, which he laid on his lap. He flipped the latch and opened the case to reveal stacks of twenty-, fifty-, and hundred-dollar bills.

“You want to count these?” the driver asked.

Bloster shook his head and attempted to keep his paranoia in check, forcing himself to face the driver and not look over his shoulder.

“You get all four prisoners in the van, I give you the case, and I’m out of here. I don’t like that convoy of National Guard sitting out front. The faster we get out of here, the better.”

“What happens to me when it’s discovered these prisoners were never received in Houston?”

“The paperwork is done. As far as your jail is concerned, the