Demitria Lunetta - In the End

I nod and follow him, but I can’t help looking back at Tank. Man or monster, he’s terrifying.

The next day, Jacks insists that I stay in the cell while he’s at work, even though I’ve proven I can take care of myself. He seems to be scared of something—but won’t tell me.

“But you saw me,” I cry, seething with frustration. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“Just trust me.” He glances at me, then away. “Please. I’ll try to get back soon.”

He slinks the gate shut. I kick the bars. I pace for a few minutes, waiting for him to leave the cellblock, then open the gate back up and call for Pam.

“Yeah?” she says, poking her head out. “Oh, hey there, Amy.”

“You want company today on your sewing rounds?”

“Sure I do. Just got to finish up a few things. I’ll come get you when I’m ready.”

I sit on the bed, and before I can again begin to feel the frustration take over, there is the sound of metal on metal at the door. . . . A knock? I look up to find the Warden staring at me through the bars. In his grasp is a handgun, the butt of which he used as a door knocker.

“Well, hello, little lady.”

“Um. Hi,” I say, confused. “Jacks isn’t here.”

“I know. Can I come in and have a little talk with ya?”

I stand, uncertain. The last time I opened the door to a man who wasn’t Jacks, I was attacked. And that man wasn’t brandishing a gun like it was a fashion accessory. The Warden catches me eyeing his gun and holsters it.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, Amy.” He takes a key out of his pocket. “Here’s my spare anyway.” He unlocks the door and lets himself in. “I just want to have a little talk about Jacks.”

“All right,” I say, backing away. Distrust is nagging at me, but I try to quiet it. He is Jacks’s uncle, after all. He was nothing but kind the first day we met. The Warden comes in and sits down on the chair, putting his cowboy-boot-clad feet on the table. I stifle my unease and sit on the bed, eyeing him warily.

“J. J. seems quite taken with you,” he says finally.

“J. J.?”

“Jackson Junior. He didn’t tell you? The man that everyone just calls Doc is my brother, his father.” He tells me the information as if it should be a shock, and if Pam hadn’t already outed him, it would be.

“Oh, yeah. Jacks told me,” I say. The Warden looks disappointed by this fact. His face drops slightly.

“Well, I just have his best interests in mind.” He kicks his feet off the table and sits up, adjusting his Stetson hat. “I wouldn’t want him to find out certain things about you. . . . Things that might hurt him in the end.”

“What things?” I ask carefully, studying his face. He stands suddenly and hovers over me.

“Now, Amy, you and I both know you ain’t what you seem.” His hand reaches up and grabs a strand of my short hair. He tugs on it. “I wouldn’t want you doing anything to hurt Jacks.”

“I wouldn’t,” I say, swallowing hard. The Warden is too close, and I have no idea what to do. I want to lash out, to fight, but what will happen then? And he isn’t actually hurting me, just being vaguely threatening. I decide to go against my impulse and do nothing. I stand still, though every nerve in my body screams to push him away.

“I will protect him,” he tells me.

“Like you protected Layla?” I ask. I don’t know why. It just slips out.

The Warden’s grasp on my hair tightens, pulling my head closer. “A girl can die really easily in here. Especially a sweet little thang like you. Watch your step. Do you understand?” He gives my hair another tug, and it feels as if he may pull the roots from my scalp.

“Yes,” I say, gasping.

“Yes, Warden,” he tells me.

“Yes, Warden,” I repeat.

“Amy.” He backs away, his anger gone, replaced with a teasing smile. “You’re practically family. Call me Johnny.”

I nod, uncertain of what has just happened but grateful he’s stepped away from me.

The Warden smiles. “See ya later, Amy.” He dips his hat and saunters out.

I lock the bike lock behind him and walk to the sink, putting cool water on my flushed face. My hands shake, and I clench them into fists. Did the Warden pay me a visit just to intimidate me? I think of everything Jacks has told me about him: his corruption, his greed for power. Was he just trying to get the upper hand? Or was he trying to insert himself between me and Jacks, make me rethink asking Jacks’s help? I sit on the bed, confused. And what does he really know about me? Was he bluffing or does he know about New Hope?

After a few moments Pam’s voice carries across the cell. “What was that about?”

I shrug, unable to answer.

“Are you shaken, honey? Do you still want to come along with me?”

“Oh, yes. Please. I need to get out of this room.”

“Well, come on then.”

I spring out of the cell and grab her basket of clothes.

“I’m making deliveries to the next cellblock over—Block C,” she explains as we walk down the stairs to the first floor.

“Did you hear the whole thing?” I ask Pam, and she gives me a nod. “What do you think the Warden came for?”

“Oh, you mean Johnny?” she asks with a half smirk that makes me feel better. “I think he just wanted to show you who’s the big boss. Maybe he thinks Jacks is getting too attached to you. Have you asked him to miss work or do anything the Warden might think of as going against him?”

“No . . . I . . .” I did ask him to help me find Ken. He told me at first he didn’t want to, but I pushed him. That can’t be it, can it?

We step out of Cellblock B and into the shantytown that was originally the exercise yard. I know Pam makes the trip all the time by herself, so I quiet my unease.

As we leave Cellblock B, a greasy-looking man stares at us, eyes narrowed. Pam flashes her tattooed arm at him. He backs away.

“That’s all you need to do?” I ask. Did that filthy man yesterday really think I was fair game just because I don’t have a tattoo?

“Yep. All you have to do is show off your tat. . . . It works, especially when your man’s well known for his skills with a rifle”—she eyes me—“or when you belong to the Warden’s nephew. You should show off your tat of Jacks’s name. . . . It would save you some time explaining to everyone. You do have a tattoo, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah.” I don’t meet her eyes as we walk the thirty or so feet to the entrance of Cellblock C. “Of course.”

“He must have done something special for his girl. Can I see it?” She asks me with a half smirk. She knows I’m lying. I stop and turn to her.

“Um . . . look, Pam, I don’t really have a tattoo. I . . . I’m afraid of needles. You should have seen how much trouble I had with the one on my wrist. I almost fainted,” I lie. “Jacks didn’t want to put me through the trauma. Maybe you could tell everyone you’ve seen it, though?”

She appraises me with a penetrating gaze, and for the first time I see how she must have been as an attorney. After a second the calculating look drops from her face, and she smiles kindly. “All right. I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you two, but you’re entitled to your safety. I’ll talk it up for you. I’ll just say it looks a lot like mine.”

“Thanks, Pam,” I say, relieved. Pam turns to enter Cellblock C, and I move to follow.

And then I see him outside, down a ways from where we are.

A slight man with dark hair.

I shuffle around Pam to get a better look. The man turns to glance to the side, then back, over his left shoulder. He has a large heart-shaped mole on his cheek. My mouth drops. Could it be? He looks like Kay, like the sketch Jacks had. He looks like . . . Ken.