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Chapter 1
The hatchet was misbehaving again.
Sometimes it was a hatchet and sometimes it was the handle to the butter churn and sometimes it was busy being something else like that old six-shooter Edwin used to scare the coyotes away from the chicken pen with.
Effy Shulkey held the thing in her hand and tried to pin it down—gave it her best scowl, trying now to make it behave and stay what it was but it paid her no mind. The thing was fuzzy, fluid and in flux, and Effy shook her head and made a little clucking sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
She was starting to get irritated.
It wasn’t so much that it kept changing. What really got her goat was that she couldn’t remember why she wanted the doggone thing in the first place.
She’d awakened that morning with a nagging at the back of her mind. Something she had to do. Now, what was it? She’d needed the hatchet for something—something important she couldn’t quite get, and she’d gone to ask Edwin if maybe he knew but couldn’t find him and then remembered he was at work at the sawmill and wouldn’t be home until dinner.
That was it.
Effy smiled and nodded to herself.
Dinner.
She needed to fix dinner for Edwin. Lordy, he’d have a conniption if he got home and dinner wasn’t waiting.
That was what she needed the hatchet for.
Effy went to the back door, unlocked the lock and stepped out into the cool, wet morning. She stood on the porch and looked around. The hilly countryside stretched away in gentle undulations. A squall had blown through during the night and wispy fog still hung on in the little valleys. The damp air was playing havoc with her arthritic old joints and she shivered and hugged herself and rubbed her aching knuckles. She rolled her shoulders and cocked her hip and twisted her neck, getting her bones all lined up just right so that now they didn’t hurt so much and she smiled and thought back to the first time she’d seen this land. She’d been a young widow, her husband the victim of the great influenza epidemic of 1930, and Effy had gone straight from the funeral to the Providence train station, getting off the Pullman car five days later in Seattle—about as far as she could get, she figured, from the memory of her first love. She was just eighteen.
Effy had never been what you would call a raging beauty, but she had a certain something men found attractive and it wasn’t long before she met and married Edwin Shulkey. They had moved from Seattle to the country, 30 miles northeast and a half-days’ drive by Model A, and homesteaded. Three hundred and sixty acres for him and three hundred and sixty acres for her. Then later, when the children came, another seven hundred and twenty acres were added to the Shulkey farm.
Effy stood on the porch and took it all in. The rolling green pastures and farther off, stands of evergreens. Up in the mountains to the east, she could see where a rainsquall was sweeping the western flanks of the Cascades. Effy smiled and made the little clucking sound again.
The rain.
Lordy, how it rained.
She’d been put off at first by the dampness. Dampness? Lordy, it was downright wet. She’d never seen so much rain. Storms that would last days, weeks, even it seemed, and when it wasn’t absolutely pouring, well, then it was drizzling: a steady shower that fell eight months out of the year. The locals called it an Oregon Mist.
Missed Oregon and hit Washington.
Effy had nearly gone crazy that first winter and secretly planned to return to Providence should it ever again be dry enough to travel.
But, eventually spring arrived, then summer and when the dry spell did come, Effy put off leaving because it was so . . . well, so doggone nice. The land turned from gray and moldy to emerald green and pure; the air became like scentless perfume. She’d decided to wait until July, then August, then September to leave, but by then, the first baby was on its way and of course she was planted.
Rooted like one of those saplings over there next to the barn.
Rooted in the wild.
Effy had come to love the farm, but not right away. It took time. After all, she was a city girl, used to the hustle and bustle and it took her years to get her bearings, to make peace with this wild place. The nearest neighbor was three miles away. The little town of Blewett was the closest civilization and that took two hours in the Ford, even when the roads weren’t mudded out. But there was a lot of good. Lordy, there was a lot of good in this land.
Now the sun peaked out from a gang of silver-gray clouds and Effy put her hand up to block the glare. A column of sunlight raced across the fields, illuminating the land in sharp relief and the sight of it gave her an unexpected little thrill. She smiled and put her hands together in a way that was like praying, then the clouds closed up again and the light was gone, but the feeling of lightness down deep in Effy wasn’t, and she smiled again.
Effy closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of grass, dew and— She opened her eyes. There was something else in the air now, a smell unconnected with the farm. What was it? It wasn’t a country smell at all, not a farm smell. No, it was a city kind of smell, the smell of people packed in close—a motor-machine smell. Effy took her glasses off and wiped them with the hem of her dress. Something wasn’t right. She squinted and tried to figure out what it was. Then she saw it. Over where the barn had been just a moment before there was a house. Its shape was indefinite, the edges blurring in with the grass and the sky. Effy concentrated and the house became clearer. It was big, twice the size of the Shulkey farmhouse and painted some kind of crazy blue with green trim. A couple of automobiles were parked in front. Shiny and strange-looking and painted (like the houses) in bright rainbow colors. Since when did Henry Ford make automobiles any color but black? Now another house came into being next to it, then another and another until the whole Shulkey farm was filled with them. Effy gasped and put her hand to her chest. A sea of brightly-colored houses spread out as far as she could see. What was going on? Those places had not been there last evening when she’d done the milking. It got her mad. Someone had come in during the night and put up all these doggone buildings. She had half a mind to go over, knock on one of those doors and— Effy suddenly felt weak, her knees started to buckle and she leaned heavily against the porch rail. She closed her eyes and rubbed her lids. The world had sure as heck gone crazy lately. Things changing from one thing to another. Houses sprouting up like mushrooms after a rain . . . She’d take it up with Edwin when he got home.
Edwin. Lordy, she remembered why she’d come outside.
She had to get Edwin’s dinner ready.
Effy opened her eyes. The houses had disappeared and the farm was back the way it was supposed to be. The milk cow grazed contentedly under a tree. Tony, the plow horse, was over in the corral, nodding lazily and huffing great plumes of steam through his nostrils.
Effy watched the dozen or so chickens as they pecked and scratched at the ground near the porch and she wished she’d brought some feed from the larder, it’d make them easier to catch.
Oh well, she’d caught her share of fryers. She guessed she’d make do.
Effy stood up straight and started down the rickety steps. She hid the hatchet behind her back. "Here chic-chic-chic," she said, making the clucking sound again, "chic-chic-chic-chic . . . "
Chapter 2
The Washington State Penitentiary at Blewett sits on a high patch of ground surrounded by twelve hundred acres of rolling green pasture. Most of the land is in private hands. A portion though, around sixty acres, is a dairy farm that belongs to the Washington State Department of Corrections. It’s where you get to go if you’re an inmate and considered low-risk and non-violent.
It’s where Booney Dugan had spent the last ten years of his life.
Every day since the age of 18.
The dairy farm was hard work—twelve hours and more each day—but it had kept Booney away from the hard-core, hard-on types of the general prison population which meant he had less of an opportunity to get in trouble. That had been just fine with Booney. He’d worked hard and minded his own business and learned much and now considered himself a reformed man.
Completely changed.
Nothing like the wild hot-head he’d been when they sent him away all those years ago. Nothing like those other cons who do their time then come away pissed off at the world.
No, not Booney Dugan. Booney had taken advantage of the opportunities afforded him in prison. The discipline, the vocational training and hard work. The empty hours after work was done, Booney filled with books, and as a result, he’d gained an education of sorts. No, he did not think the last ten years had been wasted.
He held no grudge.
All he wanted now was to have a normal life.
And that normal life, by God, would start in—he checked his watch—exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes. Booney stood next to his bunk in the empty dormitory and looked around the cavernous room. Rows of bunks ran up each wall, there were tin lockers between each bed. The floor was unpainted concrete. Booney smiled and shook his head. Man, this was one place he definitely wouldn’t miss.
He walked to the window and looked out. It was nearly 9:30, but the morning was still dark. Clouds hung low, almost touching the ground in places, a steady drizzle fell. Booney could see a couple of inmates over near the dairy barn. They were pitching hay off the back of a flatbed pickup, the Chevy ton-and-a-half it looked like. One of the men paused, stood up straight and rubbed his back, then brushed a mop of wet hair away from his forehead. The guy looked miserable, out there busting his hump in the goddamn rain, and Booney gave a little laugh, thinking, shit man, that was me yesterday.
"What’s so funny, Dugan?"
Booney took his time answering. He’d heard Speedball coming up behind him, but had paid him no mind. Hell, he’d be out of here in an hour and a half, why should he go on kissing the guy’s ass? Booney turned around. "Hey, Speedball, how you doing?" he said, smiling.
The guard gave him a look. "Tech Spec Speedball, to you, mister," he said.
Booney stood looking at the guard. They were about the same height, a little over six feet, but that was where the similarity ended. Where Booney was slim and fit, Speedball was slouched and flabby. His guard uniform shirt hung loosely on his stooped shoulders, the cloth getting tight around his big belly. The two men were standing with bunks on either side, Speedball there between Booney and the isle, blocking his way, a scowl on his face, making a thing out of it. He was eyeball to eyeball with Booney now, tensed, daring Booney to cross him.
Booney sighed, why cause trouble on your last day, he thought. "Excuse me, sir, I meant to say, how are you doing, Technical Specialist Speedball?"
Speedball let a thin smile play across his lips. "That’s better." He stepped back and Booney walked out into the isle and headed toward his bunk. Speedball was right behind. Booney reached his bunk, stopped at the foot, turned around. "You’re really going to make me go through this. On my last day?" Booney said.
"Attention!" Speedball said.
Booney sighed and stood up straight, his arms tight at his sides.
"Well," Speedball said, "say it."
"Do I have to?’
"Unless you want me to put you on report."
"Christ," Booney said. He looked off then back "Ready for inspection, Tech Spec Speedball, sir," Booney said in a bored tone of voice.
Speedball had his hands clasped behind his back and he paced a few times in front of Booney. Booney had changed into his civilian clothes right after chow at a 6:00. He was wearing the same things he’d been arrested in ten years ago: black jeans, a black rayon shirt and black leather jacket with chrome-plated zippers and three chrome-plated stars on the shoulder epaulets. Speedball looked Booney up and down and shook his head. "Pride of the fucking prison," Speedball said, sounding disgusted, "you dress like a fucking faggot."
Booney looked straight ahead. Hell, anything was better than those goddamn jail overalls, he liked being in civvies, even if they were a decade out of style. "These are the only street clothes I have, Tech Spec Speedball, sir."
Speedball didn’t answer, just gave a little snort then sauntered over to Booney’s bunk and glanced at the neatly folded piles of clothing lying there on the mattress. He had a clipboard with a list of state-owned property Booney had to turn in before he could be released, and Speedball took a ball point pen from his shirt pocket and checked off the items, one by one. There were two pair of orange overalls, WSCI for Washington State Correctional Institution, stenciled in white on the backs, three white t-shirts, three pair of white boxer shorts, a dark green nylon jacket, WSCI also in white on the back. Speedball looked up from the list. "You’re missing a pair of boxers," Speedball said.
Booney kept looking straight ahead. "No, sir, Tech Spec Speedball, sir. I was issued three skivvies in May. They’re all there." He nodded toward the bunk.
"What’re you wearing right now?"
Booney paused. Shit, what was this guy up to? Speedball had always been a ballbuster, not like most of the other guards who just saw it as a job. No, Speedball got off on being a hardass, you could tell. He was and old guy, forty at least, retired army, and he ran the barracks like boot camp. Egging guys on, always trying to prove how tough he was.
You had to watch the man or he would get you in deep shit.
"Uh, I’m sorry Tech Spec Speedball, what did you ask me?"
Speedball came around the end of the bunk and got up into Booney’s face. "Clean the shit out of your ears, boy, I asked what you were wearing right now."
"You mean skivvy-wise, sir?"
Speedball stepped in even closer. Booney pulled back a little, getting tense now, not sure what the guard was up to. "You going free-ball? Letting that big dick swing, huh?" Speedball said. His voice had changed timbre, there was something else going on in Speedball’s mind now. Speedball’s face was almost touching Booney’s, and he held it there a few beats, then let his mouth brush Booney’s cheek. He took a deep breath, breathing in Booney’s scent—it seemed like a lover’s sigh. He gave out a little moan. "I’ve been watching you, you know that boy?" Speedball said.
Booney closed his eyes, then opened them, he swallowed hard. Oh shit, he thought, here we go. "Watching me, Tech Spec Speedball, sir?"
"You’ve got a nice tight ass, you know that?" Speedball said and reached down and grabbed Booney’s testicles.
Booney hit Speedball’s hand away and stepped quickly to one side. "Hey," he said, "knock that shit off."
Speedball came at Booney—fast for a fat guy—forcing him along the space between his bunk and the one next to it. Booney backed up until he had his spine up against the locker now, no place to go. He put his hands out. "Hey Speedball," Booney said, trying to sound calm, "just cool it okay, I won’t say anything to anyone—"
Speedball paused a moment, then charged Booney and mashed him hard against the locker door. Speedball had a good fifty or sixty pounds on Booney and the big guard brought his full weight to bear against him, crushing his chest it felt like, Christ, Booney was thinking, the guy was fat, heavier even than he looked and with all that blubber up against him, Booney could barely breathe. Speedball had one arm around Booney’s neck, the other hand was down in Booney’s crotch, exploring, fumbling around with Booney’s belt now, trying to get it undone.
Booney struggled to get his arms free, but they were pinned at his sides by Speedball’s bulk. Booney arched his spine and pushed off from the locker, giving it his all and backing Speedball up a little, but Speedball was not to be denied. He gave out a loud grunt and body-slammed Booney back against the tin door. Speedball’s hands were busy again and he was trying to unbutton Booney’s shirt with his teeth now, slobbering and moaning, the man breathing hard and making little raspy sounds down deep in his chest. Booney tried to throw Speedball off twice more, but each time the big guard held on. In close like this, Booney soon realized, Speedball held all the cards. Now Speedball had Booney’s pants undone, was pulling them down, and Booney steadied his back against the locker, quieted himself. "Speedball," Booney said, "hey, Speedball?" Booney made his voice friendly-sounding.
Speedball was pulling down Booney’s shorts now, running his hand up and down Booney’s inner thigh. He let his hand slide up to Booney’s scrotum. He cradled Booney’s testicles in his hand and gave a soft sigh. He wasn’t even paying attention to what Booney was saying.
Booney took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and in the most provocative voice he could muster, "Hey, Speedball—hey, baby . . ." Christ he nearly choked on the words, "let’s do this right."
Speedball stopped what he was doing. His face was still buried in Booney’s chest "Huh?" he mumbled between gasps.
"Give me a kiss," Booney said.
Speedball brought his face up, even with Booney’s now, a crazy look there in his eyes. Booney had his neck craned back and as soon as Speedball looked up, Booney brought his head forward as hard as he could, ramming his forehead into Speedball’s face. There was a sickening crunch as Speedball’s nose splayed out flat. A geyser of blood spattered on the guard’s shirt.
"Jesus Chri—" Speedball said as Booney head-butted him again, this time knocking the big man back a few paces. His hands went up to his face. "Oh, god," Speedball moaned, backing away now, "look what you did . . ."
Booney’s arms were free now and he took a second to pull up his pants, then charged Speedball. He hit him hard in the stomach with his fist, and when Speedball doubled over, Booney caught him with an uppercut to the chin that whipped Speedball upright and nearly over backwards.
Now Booney had room to move and he made for the door at the end of the row of bunks, but Speedball had regained his senses and came after Booney hard, catching him and knocking him to his stomach on the concrete floor. "You little bitch," he said, "I’ll fuck you so hard it’ll come out your mouth." Speedball sat astride Booney’s ass, pulling at his pants, trying to get them down.
Booney reached around and got a handful of Speedball’s hair, yanked as hard as he could, and pulled Speedball off balance. He got the guard in a necklock and banged his head hard against the cement a few times until Speedball stopped struggling. Booney let go, wiggled out from under the fat guard and pulling himself free, stood upright. He backed away, watching Speedball, Jesus, there was a lot of blood, Booney hoped he wasn’t dead.
Christ, what do I do now?
Booney looked around. The dorm was still empty. He looked back at Speedball and ran the options over in his head. He didn’t dare make a report. They’d never take his word over a guard’s. They’d charge him with assault and god-knows-what-else—stick him up there in the general population.
Those guys would make this morning’s events look like a day at the beach.
No, there was only one way out of this mess. Booney checked his watch. He was due to report to the custody office to begin his release procedure in fifteen minutes. It would take another ten or fifteen minutes to do the paperwork, then another ten minutes to be escorted through all the security to the front gate. Once outside, he’d be free. Sure, they’d come after him sooner or later, but he could lay low, maybe if he stayed out of sight the whole thing would blow over.
The main thing was to get his freedom. He’d been waiting ten years, he’d be dammned if he was going to hang around this place a second longer than he had to.
Booney ran his hand over his mouth.
But what if Speedball was dead? A murder rap was something else entirely. He took a step toward Speedball, thinking to check his pulse, then realizing he didn’t want to know. What difference would it make? If the guy was dead, well, that was all the more reason to get the hell out of there. Any way he looked at it, his best chance was to stay cool, act like nothing had happened and hope things didn’t pop for at least another—Booney checked his watch again—thirty minutes, forty if he was lucky. The farm was minimum security, no one would be checking the barracks until at least eleven when the crew came in for lunch . . . Hell, he just might make it. He grabbed Speedball by his heels and dragged him over to a bunk, then stuffed him underneath, stepped into the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. There was blood on his shirt, and he zipped his leather jacket up to hide it. He wet down a towel, went back out and wiped up the blood from where Speedball had lain, then returned to the bathroom, rinsed out the towel and hid it behind a commode. He washed his hands, ran his hand through his hair and headed for the door.
Booney was halfway across the barracks when he realized he’d forgotten something. Shit. He needed that check list. Booney hurried back to his bunk, searched around and found Speedball’s clipboard. Booney would have to prove he’d returned all his state issued clothes before they’d let him leave the farm. He grabbed the check list and marked off all the articles, checking each box with Speedball’s pen. There was a place at the bottom where Speedball was supposed to sign.
It was blank.
Damn.
Well, Booney thought, compared to assault and battery on a guard—murder maybe—what was a little forgery? Booney sat on the bunk, and holding the check list against his knee, got ready to sign. Then it dawned on him that he didn’t know the guard’s proper name. He’d always gone by Speedball, the nickname he never tired of telling people he’d picked up in Operation Desert Storm. "Cause I could drive one a them Humvees faster than any other spec five in the army," he’d tell anyone who would stand still long enough to engage him in conversation. Booney tried to think if he’d ever heard Speedball’s real name.
Nope, Speedball was all he’d ever known the man by.
Booney got up and went over to where Speedball lay beneath the bunk. It didn’t look like he’d moved. Booney reached down and pulled out Speedball’s wallet, rummaged around and found his driver’s license. There, next to the seal of the State of Washington, was Speedball’s sour face. His name printed beneath. Booney read it out loud. "Percival Lamore Fishbeck." Damn, Booney thought, no wonder he went by Speedball.
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