In the End Page 7

  I start to read aloud, and for a tiny moment I forget where I am. I forget New Hope and the Ward. I forget about finding Ken and being in Fort Black. I allow myself to forget everything . . . everything but Baby.

  I could never forget Baby.

  After a few minutes I stop, and Jacks gets off the bed.

  “We should continue this later,” he says. “I need to go to work, and you should rest some more.”

  I’ve been sleeping for two days. What I need now is a plan of action. “No more resting. I’m going to look for Ken.”

  “Sorry, you’ll need to stay here, in the cell,” Jacks says apologetically. “Just for a while. I can’t take you with me to work, and if I don’t do my hours, I lose this palace you’ve been lounging in . . . no matter whose nephew I am.”

  I stare at him. “I’m not actually a prisoner. I can leave if I want.”

  “It’s not safe for you to walk around without me. Not until word gets out that you’re with me.”

  I nod. I understand, but I hate that he’s locking me up again, even if I have a key. I know I can’t go out in Fort Black without him. I don’t even want to risk it. He clanks the door shut apologetically and disappears.

  Before he leaves, he pauses in the entryway. “I left something for you . . . on the table.” He tells me, staring at the floor. “You should know what you’re up against.”

  I rush to the table, thinking he has info on Baby or Ken, but the file is about one person: Ellis Lawson. Tank. Deflated, I open it and look at the first page; there’s no mistaking that hard face staring back at me from his mug shot with a creepy, crooked smirk.

  I skim through the pages then start back at the beginning and begin to read through each page one by one.

  The second page is an information sheet on his crimes. Sentenced to sixty years to life for the disappearances of two teenaged girls, one seventeen, one fifteen, both of whose bodies were never found.

  Next is a court transcript. Testimonial, Daniel Nahon, ten years old:

  I threw the Frisbee far, past the trees, and Cordy went to grab it. She was taking a long time, so I followed and saw a big man pulling her by the neck into a green car. I ran at them and shouted, but the man just looked at me. He put his hand to his neck and pulled it across, like he was going to cut off my head if I didn’t shut up. But he had Cordy, so I yelled louder and ran after the car as he drove away. Then I found a policeman in the park and told him what had happened.

  I close my eyes, sickened. What a thing for a little boy to witness. A kid just a few years older than Baby. And then there was the girl, just a few years younger than myself. What happened to her? The body wasn’t found. No coroner’s report to read.

  Then there’s a newspaper article in with the papers, dated the year I started high school.

  Ellis Lawson, was convicted today of the murders of Cordelia Embry and Jasmine Norman. Though their bodies were not found, there was eyewitness testimony, and DNA evidence was found in Lawson’s house. Lawson is suspected of abducting three other girls, but the district attorney did not have sufficient evidence to charge Lawson with those crimes. The families of the girls have pleaded with Lawson to reveal the location of the bodies, but Lawson asserts his innocence. There will be a memorial service for Cordelia Embry at Harrison’s Funeral Home on Tuesday at two p.m.

  So Tank was caught, seen snatching one girl, and convicted of murdering her and another, but he was smart enough to hide the bodies. How many other missing girls was he responsible for, ones that the cops didn’t know about? Tank isn’t just a dumb brute; he’s a serial killer.

  A bit of handwritten ink catches my eye. Lacking almost any moral fiber, can be used for a vast array of tasks. I fold up the papers with a shudder and shove them back under my pillow.

  In the After, even a serial killer can get a job.

  I pace the cell, anxious for Jacks to get back. Even though I know why I should stay here, I just can’t. I grab the drawing of the man I believe is Ken, pull out my key, and head toward the door.

  Just as I’m about to open the lock and let myself out, I hear a voice. I look up to find a petite, slim woman staring at me through the cell door. “Hey! Do you know when Jacks will be back?”

  “Soon, hopefully. He’s at work.”

  “Oh.” She reaches for a crossbar and leans against the cell door, revealing a tattoo running up her forearm that reads MAD MIKE’S in purple graffiti letters at least two inches high. “I wanted to talk to him about getting my man another tat, as a present.”

  I step closer. She’s in her early forties, at least, her shoulder-length hair a mixture of black and gray. “I can let him know you stopped by.”

  “Sure. Mike and I are right next door.” She motions with her head to the cell to the left. “I’m Pam.” She holds her hand through the cell bars, and I shake it gingerly. My hands aren’t massive, but hers feel like a child’s. “To be honest, I’ve been dying to find out about you. . . . Word got out pretty quickly that Jacks claimed a girl full of hellfire.”

  She grins at me.

  “Um, thanks.”

  “Jacks is a good man. You’ve got quite a catch there.”

  I laugh uncomfortably. The idea of me “belonging” to man is weird enough, but me “catching” one is just ridiculous. The only other guy I’ve ever had feelings for is Rice. Of course, with him, things were tricky. He lied to me, for one thing. Even if it was for my own protection.

  And then there was that kiss.

  “. . . Jacks,” Pam is saying.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I was just saying you’re lucky to have Jacks.”

  “And what makes him such a good protector?” I ask.

  “Well, the boy can fight like the devil. But really, he’s got the connections. Everyone knows Jacks. The Warden takes care of him. Doc takes care of him.” She laughs lightly.

  “Also people don’t want to mess with the only tattoo artist in all of Fort Black. If anyone got into it with Jacks, he’d have half of the population of Fort Black on them. Everyone here loves their tats.”

  “What they lack in common decency, they make up for with a love of tattoos,” I say, meaning for it to be a joke but sounding cold. Pam’s face drops. “Sorry,” I say, “Except for Jacks, people haven’t been exactly welcoming.”

  “It’s okay. It’s hard here. I heard you just found Fort Black. You were out there for so long, poor thing.” She backs away. “Just tell Jacks to find me. I’m going to deliver some sewing now, but I’ll be back soon.”

  “Hey, can I come with you?” I feel I’ll be safe with this woman. She seems like a veteran. Besides, if I befriend her, I can find out more about Fort Black.

  “Sure.” She nods. “I’d like that.”

  I grab my Guardian gun from under my pillow and place it in its holster, then check that my knives are in place—one on each thigh. I throw on one of Jacks’s T-shirts and a pair of his shorts. I’m sure I look strange, like I’m wearing black gloves and tights under my clothes, but I don’t care. I need all the protection I can get in this place.

  I unlock the cell door with the key Jacks gave me and step out into the hall. Pam walks to her cell and grabs a basket of clothing, locking her door with a giant padlock.

  “Is that how you make a living?” I ask locking my door and walking toward the stairs, past the other cells. “Sewing?”

  “Yeah, Mike is a guard. A Florae sniper, mainly, up on the wall. That gets us our accommodation. The sewing just brings in a bit extra.”

  “Was he a guard here Before?”

  “Nope, a convict. Armed robbery.” She tells me this casually. “I was his defense attorney.”

  “And you got together. . . . How?” I ask, trying not to sound shocked.

  She smiles. “Oh, he was always flirting with me. He swore up and down that he wasn’t guilty, told me I was beautiful and amazing and was sure to get him out. It didn’t go anywhere, of course. How could it? It was a different worl
d then, and I was his attorney, not to mention married. Plus I knew enough to be wary of cons. All of them are innocent, I reminded myself, and every one of them thinks any woman they see in here is beautiful and amazing. If they’re lucky enough to see any at all!” She laughs boisterously at her own joke, the lively sound bouncing through the cellblock.

  The loudness makes me uncomfortable. I glance back down the walkway and spot a figure lingering by my cell door. It’s not big enough to be Tank, but a surge of alarm runs through me. Could it be Ken? Maybe Kay was able to contact him and tell him I was here. I take a step back toward the cell, but Pam puts her hand on my arm to stop me.

  The figure approaches us, and I shrink at the man’s leer. He’s not Ken. He’s just another creepy man. He’s so dirty, I can’t tell the color of his skin. He brushes past us a little too closely. Pam steps aside, pushing me against the railing. My skin tingles as he sweeps by, my muscles tensed and ready. He doesn’t do anything but look, though, and is soon gone.

  Pam leans in. “Sometimes it’s better just to get out of their way,” she tells me. “Some men are just plain mean.” She takes in my apprehension and adds, “But not all. Not my Mike. Not Jacks. You’ll learn how it is here.” She resumes her walk and motions for me to follow.

  “You’ve been here the whole time,” I ask, catching up.

  “I was here when the infection broke out,” she says. “Meeting another client. The prison went on lockdown, and by the time the guards told me I could leave, the news was so grim. I couldn’t get ahold of my husband, so it was obvious that he—well. So I decided to stay.” She shifts her load onto her other hip.

  “When they let the prisoners out, Mike came and found me. He protected me from a lot of bad things that could have happened.” She looks at me, a soft expression on her face. “I love him for that.”

  “So . . . was he innocent?”

  She laughs. “Hell no. Even when I was his attorney, I knew he’d done it. I guess holding up a liquor store doesn’t automatically make you a bad person.”

  I smile. “I guess not.”

  I like how talkative Pam is being. I’m sure I can get a lot of information out of her if I just let her ramble on. She’s paused in her story. I see my opportunity to ask her what I really want to know.

  “Do you ever do sewing for a man named Ken?”

  “Ken Gibbons?” Pam asks. “Big Hispanic guy who goes by Yaya?”

  “Um, no . . . this Ken is Asian.”

  “There’s an Asian family who lives in the yard. Actually, I don’t know if they’re a family. There are five guys who share a tent. . . . They’re all Filipino, and they have complicated foreign names, but one might use Ken for short.”

  Ken isn’t Filipino, and I doubt he’d be living in a tent in the exercise yard.

  “I have a picture.” I yank the sketch out, holding it up.

  Pam looks for a moment then shakes her head. “You sure he’s alive?”

  “No,” I admit. “But if he is alive, I really need to find him.”

  “I can keep my eye out. But people die here like that.” She snaps her fingers. “I came close last year. Mike saved me.” We walk up the stairs toward the third floor as Pam continues. “Doc was telling some BS story about how the women needed an extra shot, a vitamin shot or something. I told Mike that I’d seen enough people perjure themselves to tell when something was fishy. Mike stood up for me when I refused, made sure Doc didn’t give me a hard time. I’m one of the few women who made it through.”

  “What do you mean? I thought the shot was an inoculation.”

  She looks me over. “Now, you don’t look like the kind of girl who believes everything you’re told. Did you let Doc give you a shot?”

  I shake my head, and she nods in approval. “It will be hard to stay away from Doc, Jacks being who he is and all, but you should try. I don’t trust him.”

  “You think Doc had something to do with the women dying?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Pam tells me, stopping on the stairs, “but there’s something off about him. Mike told me he makes the Scrappers give him almost all the drugs that they find. A lot of them have a second stash they keep hidden to bring in for the rest of us.”

  “Um . . . he is a doctor,” I say. “Doesn’t he need those drugs?”

  “Well . . .”She shuffles around, muttering. “I think he self-medicates.”

  I nod. Everyone has to deal with the After in their own way.

  “I see him sometimes,” Pam continues, “talking to himself like there’s someone else there.”

  “I’ve heard him do that too,” I admit. “When I first got here, I heard him rattling off about who needed flu shots, like he was talking to someone. But a lot of people talk to themselves. He didn’t seem sinister to me, just a little strange.” Although he did give me the creeps when I first met him. I try to fight off my paranoia. Doc doesn’t have to be evil—he could just be incompetent.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he loses it one day.”

  Pam pauses at the railing, looking down at the rows of cells. “There’s another thing,” she whispers. “My friend Anna, who used to live on the first floor, told me that after the birth of her child, he tried to convince her to leave Fort Black, go to some place up north. Some kind of colony.”

  “What?” I grip the railing in surprise. New Hope?

  “Did she go?”

  Pam shakes her head. “She didn’t get the chance. The next week Anna and her child were both dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  “It’s okay,” Pam says, starting up the stairs again. “You learn to live with loss.” I pause before joining her, wondering. What is going on here? Is Doc working with Dr. Reynolds?

  I turn and quickly follow Pam through the door onto the third floor, where she stops at a darkened cell and softly calls in, “Sewing!”

  Inside are two sets of bunk beds with barely room to walk between them. A figure rests in each bed. A young man in one of the bottom bunks sits up.

  “Hey, Pam,” he calls, getting sleepily out of bed and shuffling to the door. Pam hands him a small, neatly folded pile of shirts. The young man takes them, staring at me. I wait, uncomfortably.

  Finally Pam speaks up. “So we agreed on a can of corn and two cans of peas . . .” she gently reminds him.

  “Right.” He goes to the foot of his bed and grabs a backpack. He puts the laundry inside and takes out the cans, returns to the doorway and hands them to Pam, who puts them in her basket. “Who’s your friend?” he asks, staring intently at my face. His eyes flit to my arm, covered with my synth-suit.

  “She belongs to Jacks.”

  “Oh,” he says, his face falling. Then a scared look comes over his face. “I—I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. I won’t tell him.” Without another glance in my direction, he heads back to his bed and flops down.

  When we’ve moved on, I ask, “Is he that scared of Jacks?”

  “Yes and no. He’s more scared of Jacks’s connections.” I’m starting to wonder if people will think I belong to Jacks, or to the Warden. “Poor kid,” Pam is saying. “There aren’t enough women to go around, and he’s one of the nice guys. He and his roommates are the ones who remove garbage from Fort Black and dump it outside.”

  “So there are four people living in that one room?” A cell seems hardly big enough for one person, much less four.

  She shakes her head. “Not four, twelve. They sleep in eight-hour shifts.”

  “And Jacks has his room all to himself, all the time?” I hadn’t realized how well off Jacks was due to his connection to the Warden.

  “Like I said, he’s a catch.” Pam winks at me.

  Our footsteps rattle on the iron-grid walkway. Our next stop is a cell down the hall, a man with two older boys. One sits in the corner, playing with a deck of cards. The other lays in bed, a wet washcloth across his eyes. I stay in the doorway while Pam steps inside.

 
“Do you know what it is?” Pam asks the man.

  The man shakes his head sadly. “Doc said it could be some new form of pink eye. He might not be able to see again.”

  Pam hands him a bundle of clothes. “On the house,” Pam tells him.

  The man steps over to her and hugs her. “Thanks, Pammy.”

  “They’ve had some hard times,” Pam tells me when we resume walking down the hall. “He was a prison pencil pusher. That man managed to leave Fort Black, get his boys, and make it back without a scratch on either of them. . . . His wife wasn’t so lucky.”

  We next stop at a cell with a red curtain covering the bars, blocking our view of inside. A handbell is attached to the door with a wire, and Pam rings it. A woman appears, sweeping the curtain aside dramatically. She wears a pink bathrobe and way too much eye shadow.

  “How’s business?” Pam asks her with a smile.

  “Slow.” The woman yawns. “It’ll pick up after first shift.”

  Pam hands her a bundle. On top is a lacy black bra. She takes her clothes and gives Pam a small package. “There’s Vicodin there, for your man’s back. I asked the Scrappers specifically to look out for more and make sure Doc doesn’t snatch it all up.”

  “Thanks.” Pam puts the medication in her basket. As we walk away, Pam tells me, “She’s always bringing me ripped clothes.”

  “So she’s a . . .”

  “Yep. She practices the oldest profession.”

  I shake my head at how Pam just tosses this off. “How can you be so comfortable here? It’s remarkable. You seem to be thriving, not stuck pining for your life as an attorney Before. Doesn’t it bother you to throw aside all your training and experience?”

  She shrugs. “I used to be a lawyer, and now I mend clothing for a prostitute. I know it sounds so weird. And I have lost a lot that I’m sad about. But here, well, at least I’m alive,” she tells me with a smile. “My grandma taught me to sew, and I always thought it was so pointless, since I could just buy anything new I needed. Now there isn’t a day that goes by I’m not grateful she took the time to teach—” She stops dead in her tracks, her face full of fear. “Let’s go around,” she tells me, wheeling around and heading back the way we came.