He’d come through those gates a fool.
And now he didn’t want to leave.
Correction. He did want to leave; who the hell wanted to stay in prison? What he didn’t want to do was go back to the life he’d come from.
Prison changes people. It’s inevitable. It will change anyone who passes through, whether it be a year-long stint or a life sentence. Once you leave, if you leave, you won’t exit those gates the same person who’d been escorted through them.
Prison had been a painful wake-up call for Preacher. It had taken the man he’d been, beaten the holy hell out of him, flushed him down the shitter, and sputtered and spit him back out a ravaged and shameful shell.
But he’d persevered. Lived through the beatings, educated himself on prison politics, the self-serving guards and the prison gangs, both of which consisted of men who found inflicting pain on others, both mental and physical, an enjoyable pastime. For a time, Preacher had struggled just to get through a single day without worrying for himself and without some sort of altercation. As a result, he’d hardly slept for several seemingly unending months.
Eventually he’d found a niche for himself within a small group of like-minded men, allowing him to ride out his remaining sentence in whatever the prison equivalent of peace and quiet was. But the peace had come at a price; he was no longer the same man he’d been.
Yeah, prison had changed him.
But if anything, prison had made him a better man than he’d been. Breaking him had only served to make him stronger, harder, full of determination and self-preservation. It made him appreciate the smaller things, things he’d once taken for granted.
From his seat on the bottom bunk, his cellmate Mickey looked up at Preacher solemnly. Mickey was in his sixties, had been in prison since his thirties, but had been transferred here about twelve years back after killing a guard at his last place of residence. He looked a great deal older than he was, his long hair and beard nearly all white, his teeth rotted, and his face a mass of deep wrinkles and scars.
Oftentimes, when he would look too long at Mickey, Preacher would start to see himself, old and decrepit, knowing these cold stone walls would be the last thing he’d ever see.
“Don’t come back here,” Mickey said gravely, his voice hoarse and grating like a hundred miles of bad road. “I fuckin’ mean it, don’t you walk out those gates and hop right back into the life. You’re young, only twenty-four. You can have a life out there—a good woman, some kids, a job that ain’t gonna get you killed. Don’t fuck it up.”
Preacher just stared back at him.
Don’t fuck it up.
Don’t fuck it up.
This time it had been a deal gone bad. Preacher had been carrying enough cocaine on his person to get thrown away for life, but thankfully he’d stashed most of what he’d had before his arrest and ended up getting charged solely with possession. He might have been able to lighten his sentence even more if he’d agreed to rat out his club, but Preacher wasn’t a rat.
And so he’d ended up a casualty of his father’s secret war against society, a war Preacher was no longer sure he wanted to continue waging.
Yet he had nothing else to go back to but the life. His father had all the money, the resources, everything. He’d slap Preacher’s Silver Demons vest on his back, and in return, Preacher would be expected to resume service as vice president, utterly devoted to the club and to his father.
But it would never be the same. There was no returning to life as it once was. As happy as he was to be free, he knew now he wasn’t really free. He was simply trading one cage for another.
“Number eight-five-seven!”
Preacher recognized the deep, booming voice as belonging to Pat, one of the guards, and the clanking clatter of a nightstick being dragged across steel bars. All over the cell block, fellow inmates began to stir, some shouting curses, others whistling. Someone began to bark like a dog.
As Pat’s booted steps drew closer, Preacher’s stomach flip-flopped.
Mickey jumped to his feet and crossed the cell. He gripped Preacher’s shoulders and pulled him into an awkward hug that caught Preacher so off guard, he almost didn’t reciprocate.
“I don’t wanna see you again, Damon,” Mickey said. “I fuckin’ mean it.”
Sentimental old fool.
“Let’s go, Fox! You can fag it up on the outside from now on!”
Mickey pulled back, his tired old eyes full of cold, hard truths. “Get the fuck outta here,” he growled, shoving Preacher toward the waiting guard.
“You gonna behave?” Pat asked. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his hand.
Preacher nodded.
“Get a move on, then. That sunshine is callin’ your name.”
Reaching up, Preacher quickly tied back his long brown hair, shot Mickey one last look, and then dutifully turned around and put his hands behind his back.
As Preacher was led through his cell block, he caught the eyes of the men he’d been forced to live side by side with for two years. In the pairs of eyes that met his, he found a variety of emotions. Jealous sneers, genuine smiles and congratulatory nods, and knowing stares—stares that seared straight through him, making him feel like those men knew something he didn’t.
When they left the cell block and entered the bowels of the prison, Preacher released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“You gonna tell me now why they call you Preacher?” Pat asked. “You said you would on your last day, and it’s your last day.”
Preacher smiled faintly. “I don’t know when to shut my fuckin’ mouth. Got an opinion ’bout everything, always preachin’ ’bout this and that.”
Pat was silent for a moment. “Maybe that was true two years ago, but things sure have changed, huh?”
Preacher didn’t bother answering. Yeah, things had definitely changed. He’d lived the last two years being told when to sit, stand, eat, sleep, and take a shit. At first, he’d had quite a bit to say about it, but he’d since learned his place.
“Park it over there,” Pat said as they turned into the booking room. Leading Preacher to a far corner of the room, he removed his handcuffs and pointed to a rundown wooden bench.
Taking a seat, Preacher glanced around the room, rubbing his wrists. It was the same room he’d been brought into two years ago, the beige-colored walls lined with dark gray file cabinets, the same three guards manning separate desks, their heads bowed as they looked over various paperwork.
It was the same room where all his belongings had been taken away, where he’d been stripped and searched, put into a stiff gray jumpsuit, and shuffled off to his cell block. The same room where’d he’d become a nameless, faceless nobody, the equivalent of a maggot, just one among thousands forced to live off the garbage they were thrown into.
“Fox!” Pat called. The guard was gesturing toward a chair beside a desk and the bored-looking guard seated behind it. “We need your John Hancock. Get’cher ass over here.”
When all his release forms were signed, dated, and sealed away, when his belongings—a pair of ratty old jeans, a white T-shirt, a leather jacket, a pair of riding boots, a wallet, and a small gold chain—were returned to him, when he was dressed and ready to walk out the door marked EXIT in big bright bold lettering, he paused.
“Problem?” Pat asked.
Still staring at the exit sign, Preacher shook his head. Was there a problem? He didn’t know.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? You’re maxed out, Fox. Free. You got your ride waiting on you. It’s a new beginning, a fresh start. Get your ass going and stay the hell outta trouble.”
A free man. According to the law and the state of New York, he was indeed a free man. But in reality, he wasn’t free at all. He belonged to the Silver Demons body and soul, for better or worse. And if he stayed on this path, this wasn’t going to be the last time he went to prison.
Pat slapped him on the back and shoved him forward, and then Preache
r was moving, one foot in front of the other, through the exit door and down the long corridor. Another guard, standing at his post near a set of double doors at the end of the hall, nodded at him. Then Preacher was through the doors and stepping out into the warm sunlight…
He was free.
Chapter 2
Her gaze flickered from the old man behind the wheel to the world outside the window, a blur of bright greens, blues, and grays. The rickety old truck smelled like stale cigars and feet, thanks to the many cigar stubs overflowing in the ashtray and the well-worn work boots lying on the truck’s floor.
Turning back to the man, who’d muttered somewhere around fifteen miles ago that his name was Dave, she clutched her pocket knife a little tighter. He seemed kind—kind enough—and he was hardly in peak physical condition, but you could never be too careful. She’d learned the hard way exactly what sort of evil could lie simmering inside a well-dressed man with a kind smile.
Dave, in his torn denim coveralls, could hardly be considered well-dressed, and he hadn’t smiled at all, not once. In fact, every so often when the radio station would break from the steady stream of country music, Dave would glance her way, his body hunched over the steering wheel, his thin lips pressed in a firm, disapproving line. Having lived like this for some time now—on her own, on the road—this was nothing new. She was well versed in the judgment of strangers. More than likely he guessed she was rebelling against her parents, or society, or something else equally frivolous. But whatever it was he was guessing, she didn’t see any malice lurking in his faded blue eyes. Still, she’d strategically placed her large canvas army pack between them while keeping her knife clutched tightly at her side, ready to strike if need be. Nobody got to take from her anymore… at least not without a fight.
Her careful stare meandered back to the window. Large, cultivated farms, looming barns, and the occasional tractor hard at work were all there was to see. In fact, this was exactly what most of America looked like when you watched it fly by from the highway.
Eventually a mile marker came into view, boasting in big white lettering that they were now four miles from the New York border. A rush of excited air escaped her. This was the closest she’d ever been. Briefly closing her eyes, she envisioned all those crowded sidewalks, could almost hear the constant rumble of traffic and the unending blare of car horns.
Her goal was New York City, and maybe she could have made it there much sooner if she hadn’t had an entire country to traverse, coupled with the daily worries of food and shelter and bad weather. Not that time mattered in her world; she didn’t live by a clock anymore, and no one was waiting on her.
And New York City, from what she’d gleaned from television and books and word of mouth, was the ideal place to disappear. It was a city teeming with people—enough people to panhandle from and pickpocket without having to worry about going to sleep hungry ever again. It was somewhere she could live in plain sight while still hiding. It was somewhere she could become someone new—anyone she wanted to be. She could start over, maybe have a real life again. In New York City, the possibilities would be endless.
The radio clicked off abruptly and her daydreams evaporated. Finding the old man watching her, the fingers curled around her blade twitched.
“This is as far as I go,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the truck stop seated on the approaching horizon. As they drew closer, she leaned forward in her seat and looked around, noting with disappointment that it was a smaller truck stop with only a handful of rigs in the lot.
Dave pulled to a stop a short ways away from the diner and turned to face her. He said nothing. Grasping the door handle, she pushed the heavy slab open and slid across the seat, dragging her bag with her.
“Girl,” he called out, and she paused. “Get yourself a hot meal.” He tossed a handful of dollar bills across the bench seat, sending them fluttering in all directions. Lunging for the money, she caught the bills before any could be lost to the breeze. Wadding them into a ball, she shoved them quickly into her jeans pocket.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her eyes to his, resenting the pity she found there.
She had enough pride left that being forced to rely on the pity of strangers still stung. At the same time, she realized that without that pity, she wouldn’t have survived nearly as long as she had. It was a double-edged sword, this life.
Dave opened his mouth, then closed it. His ancient eyes scanned the parking lot behind her. He appeared to want to say something else. She’d come across this type before—the individual who thought a few kind words or a good stern talking-to would send her back in the right direction, back to her home where all good girls belonged. If only they knew what home had been like for her.
Rubbing a hand over his bald head, Dave clicked his tongue once, then gestured at the door. She slammed it shut and quickly stepped back, watching as the truck rumbled slowly back toward the highway.
Alone now, she glanced up at the sky, more gray than blue, and inhaled deeply, tasting the thickening moisture in the air. The mild summer day was quickly growing dark and humid, which meant only one thing—rain was headed her way.
Readjusting her heavy pack, she turned in a circle, taking in her new surroundings. As far as truck stops went, it was disappointingly small and sparse. This one offered no bathhouse, no general store, nothing save a small diner and a refueling station.
There were other truck stops, bigger and always busy, running like small cities, so lucrative that most had their own set of working girls and a constant presence of panhandlers and thieves. But there were no hookers here, and there was no one begging for money. Only two men could be seen seated inside the diner, as well as an older woman standing behind the counter. Near the fuel island, a young man puttered around with a box of tools. The few rigs scattered around the lot were still and quiet. Farther back beyond the truck stop, was a tree line.
She sighed heavily, absentmindedly twisting the ring on her index finger—a small band of silver with a tiny butterfly in the center. No people meant no money to be made, and no money to be made meant that this place was a waste of her time.
Heading for the side of the building, she eyed the garbage bins as she passed them, the sickly smell of spoiled meat tingeing the breeze. She was hungry—she was always hungry or tired or both—but she wasn’t that hungry. She’d been that desperate before, but not today. Today she had some stale chips in her pack and a few dollars in her pocket.
Approaching the trees, she headed into what looked to be a fairly dense forest. It was considerably cooler beneath the heavy canopy of towering oak trees, the humidity of the open air not quite as thick. The ground was soft beneath her worn sneakers, thick with weeds and the rotted remnants of fall saplings.
She paused beside a dried up creek bed and set her bag down. Settling herself on the edge, her legs dangling among the weeds below, she began rummaging through her belongings—everything she owned in this world. She pulled a flannel shirt free, a men’s size large that she’d come across draped over the back of a bench at a bus station. Rolling it into a ball, she set it aside. The rest of her clothing, all filthy and in need of a good washing, was wrapped tightly inside her coat. Everything else wasn’t much at all. A few cans of tuna fish she’d swiped from a market a couple of days ago, a half-eaten bag of chips, an old army canteen three-quarters of the way filled with water, a ragged coin purse filled with loose change, mostly dirty pennies, and a tattered composition notebook, a stub of a pencil shoved between its pages.
She flipped open her notebook, briefly skimming the hand-drawn faces of the people she’d met in her travels. An elderly woman in Oregon who’d given her fresh vegetables from her garden. A young couple, newly married, who’d offered her a ride through Utah. The good-natured truck driver who’d picked her up on the side of the highway in Kentucky.
A small photograph fluttered free from between the pages and she quickly straightened, snatching it before it could blow away. Gazi
ng down at the picture, she rubbed the pad of her thumb over its smooth surface. Her father had been such a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes, and a smile nearly a mile wide.
She gave herself a moment longer than usual to lose herself inside what few happy memories she had before carefully tucking her photograph away.
Leaning forward, elbow on her thigh, chin in her hand, she closed her eyes and pictured Dave.
Opening her eyes, she pressed the dull tip of her pencil to a fresh page and began to draw.
• • •
She emerged from the forest as the last bit of light was slowly leaching from a violent-looking sky. Even with the late hour the air was still uncomfortably thick, made worse by the heavy flannel she wore. Not that she would take it off. The more skin she showed at a place like this, the higher her chances were of being mistaken for a working girl. Buttoning her shirt all the way to her chin, she rounded the corner of the diner.
More trucks had appeared in her absence, rigs of various sizes and colors. She paused, chewing on her bottom lip, debating whether or not to check out the rigs. Certain truck cabs were surprisingly easier to break into than most cars. A quick flick of her blade inside the rubber gasket surrounding the little window located in the passenger side door and she was in.
Most truckers were careless, leaving their belongings strewn across their seats and dashboards. Sometimes there was money to be found, mostly change, and there was almost always food. An occasional piece of jewelry or pewter belt buckle. It was never worth much at a pawn shop, but five dollars for a watch was better than nothing. When she was feeling bold, she’d steal a CB radio to resell at the next truck stop.
A raindrop splashed against the top of her head. Glancing up, another splattered on her cheek. A web of lightning shimmered above her, followed by a rolling clatter of thunder. Her decision made for her, she headed for the diner.