Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

“All right. Tell Clayton I’m working on getting him the plane and the money.”

“The hostages will need food soon, and water.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” McDermott said. “And you’re doing the right thing by helping us, Marsh. I remember cons who do the right thing.” He paused. “And I particularly remember those who don’t.”

The assistant warden waited until Charlie reentered the library. Then he turned to the guard with the buzz cut.

“Find out where the SWAT team is and let’s get some more men up here.”

“Are you going to wait for Marsh to work on his buddy?”

“I’ll give him some time, but not much,” McDermott answered, his close-set eyes concentrating on the library door as his mind swept through various scenarios, all of which ended with Freddy Clayton’s bullet-riddled body being dragged out of the storeroom by his heels.

A RABID CONVICT holding three helpless women and a prison warden hostage is the answer to a twenty-four-hour news station’s prayers, but there was no television or radio in the library, so Freddy was unaware of the media circus that had sprung up around the prison. Charlie knew about the news coverage because McDermott had given in to requests to let a pool of reporters from the papers and television into the prison. The lights on the TV cameras would flash on whenever he stepped out of the library door to continue his dialogue with McDermott.

During the next two days, Charlie shuffled back and forth between the storeroom and the hall outside the library as Freddy’s patience dwindled to almost nothing. As it turned out, the assistant warden and Crazy Freddy had about the same tolerance for inaction. Charlie was constantly talking his friend out of cutting throats and McDermott out of sending in the troops. An arson expert had informed McDermott that the flammable qualities of the paint thinner would dissipate over time, upping the chances that the SWAT team could prevent major injuries if they acted fast enough. Charlie found out about this plan and squelched it by telling McDermott that Freddy kept dousing the hostages with more fluid whenever he grew bored.

The prison standoff came to a head on the third day. The close air in the storeroom stank of sweat, fear, and paint thinner. The hostages were exhausted, frightened, and depressed, and Freddy was at the end of his rope. He hadn’t slept for more than twenty minutes at a time since precipitating the hostage crisis and his nerves were completely frayed. Charlie watched him pace back and forth in front of the hostages, the shiv clutched in one hand and the lighter in the other. Freddy would tense every time a “thump-thump-thump” signaled a helicopter passing overhead and grow even more tense when there was silence, which he took as the lull before a SWAT team stormed the storeroom.

“This is it, this is it,” Freddy mumbled under his breath. His eyes were bloodshot and his jaw was clenched so hard that his skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones.

“Be cool, Freddy,” Charlie said, trying to sound confident through his exhaustion.

“The motherfuckers are stalling. The SWATs are coming any minute. I can smell them.”

“I don’t think so. I really believe they’re getting the money together.”

Freddy stopped pacing and stared at Charlie.

“Bullshit.”

Normally, Freddy yelled and ranted, but now his voice was calm and pitched low. His self-possession terrified Charlie.

“They’re not sending a plane. They’re playing you. It’s time to show those motherfuckers I mean business or they’ll lose respect for me. Once that happens it’s the SWATs for sure.”

“They’ll definitely send in the troops if you send out a body. You’ll be giving them no choice.”

Freddy’s shoulders sagged and Charlie knew that his friend had given up all hope of lying on the beach of a tropical island.

“I don’t give a fuck anymore. The SWATs come in, I’m a dead man. I go out there, I’m a dead man. You don’t think some accident is gonna happen to me somewhere down the line if I survive today? Sending a body out is my only chance.”

Freddy turned away from his friend and studied the hostages. Most of them were too tired and hungry to show emotion. Larry Merritt was the only one who had the courage to meet Freddy’s eyes. Freddy pointed at the guard.

“I’ll slit his throat and you’ll drag him out. Tell McDermott that a hostage dies every hour the plane and the money aren’t here.”

“No, Freddy. Don’t do this.”

“I gotta, bro. Ain’t no other way.”

“If you kill him you’re killing me, too. They’ll come in shooting and no convict is gonna walk out alive.”

“You can hide behind that,” Freddy said, pointing to a broken, three-legged office desk that canted sideways, one corner touching the floor. “Then you surrender. You’re smart. You can talk your way out. Me, I gotta act.”

Freddy started toward the guard. “Say good night, motherfucker.”

Freddy started his downward thrust and Charlie hurled himself between the prison guard and Freddy’s knife.

“What the fuck!” shouted Freddy as the shiv buried itself in Charlie’s shoulder blade. Charlie was sprawled across the startled guard. Freddy jerked the knife out of Charlie’s back and Charlie rolled sideways so he could see his cellmate.

“Shit,” he groaned. “You stabbed me, Freddy.”

“What the fuck were you doing?” asked his shocked friend.

“Saving your life.”

Charlie pulled himself into a sitting position and gathered his courage, still keeping his body between Freddy and Merritt. What he wanted to say was hard for a man to express.

“I love you, Freddy.”

“What?”

“Not like that. I’m not queer. I love you like a brother. Hell, we are brothers. We don’t have the same mother or father, but we’re more brothers than natural brothers. You hear what I’m saying?”

Freddy looked stunned. Outside of bitches in the throes of passion, who he knew were just after his dope or money, no one had ever told him they loved him.

Charlie reached over his back and felt blood leaking from the knife wound. He grimaced.

“You okay?” Freddy asked with genuine concern.

“No, man, I’m not okay. You fucking stabbed me. But I’d let you kill me if it would save your life. That’s why I couldn’t let you off the guard. If he died, you’d be a dead man for sure.”

“You’d die for me?” Freddy said, trying hard to get his mind around the fact that Charlie was willing to take a bullet for him.

“To save you, yeah. Hell, how many times have you rescued me? I can’t count them. It’s time for me to pay you back.”

“Oh, man, you don’t owe me shit. You’re my friend, Charlie, my only friend.”

Freddy’s eyes filled with tears, something that hadn’t happened since he’d built an iron shell around his feelings to shield himself from his father’s vicious abuse.

“Naw, Freddy, you got plenty of friends,” Charlie lied, embarrassed by Freddy’s unexpected and unprecedented display of emotion.

“You’re lying, bro, but I ain’t mad. I know you just want me to feel good, but I don’t. I know plenty of people fear me, but you’re the only one who cares. You protected me from my old man when he, well, when he done that shit.”

Charlie felt a spasm of pain and moaned. Freddy knelt next to him and looked at his shoulder. The back of the blue prison-issue shirt was turning red. Freddy helped Charlie take it off, then made a compress by folding the shirt and tying it in place over the wound with his own. As he helped Charlie to his feet, Freddy noticed an empty liter bottle of cola that had rolled against the wall. A wave of strong emotion swept through him as he realized what he had to do. Then he threw his arms around Charlie and hugged him.