But still, I’ll need help. Mike, definitely. There is really no one else. I need to call him, plant a few code words that will somehow communicate to him my need to get out. But phone calls aren’t permitted after lights-out. The big woman told me that, right after she said if I tried my foot-kicking-door routine again she’d put me in the straitjacket. I believed her. I’ll keep my stomping to myself. Any minute the lights will go out and my opportunity to call Mike will end. I stand at my door and pray for a guard. The lights above me flicker, then go out. There goes my phone call.

I stay in place, hunched beside the door, and think. Mike knows I am here. Mike knew about NascarGuy44. Mike knew what I said in my statement. Mike probably has a finger on every single thing happening right now in this building. Mike, his level of prep far more advanced than my own, has probably been working his sexy little fingers to the bone since the moment I was arrested. Mike is probably just waiting to push “LAUNCH.” I mentally cross my fingers and hope that I am right.

I step through the dark, my hands outstretched, eyes not yet adjusted to the change. Move cautiously, my hands patting at air, then walls, then surfaces. Running over anything and everything in search of one thing: a sharp edge. I am almost finished with the room, my chest tightening, worry peaking, when I find it, the underside of the left front foot of my bed, the corner of it sharp and unfinished. Jackpot. I lie on my back and shimmy under the bed, supporting the front end with my legs, both knees brought to my chest, feet lifting up the dinky metal frame. I dig the sharp metal point into my right index finger, then birdie finger, then ring finger, each prick hard and painful enough to draw blood. Then I do the thumb and pinkie, holding my bloody hand away when I finish. I scoot right, using my undamaged hand to support the frame, my feet moving, my body rolling out of the way as I drop the bed down, the sound loud against the finished concrete floor. Too loud. I pause, on my belly on the dirty floor, and wait a breath, then crawl to my feet, moving to the wall and raising my hand, softly dragging my first red finger over the white paint.

In the dark shadows, my letters slowly appear. Halfway through the third word, I run out of ink, squeezing of the pads not bringing any fresh blood to the surface. I roll back underneath the bed. Repeat the equation, subbing out my left hand for my right, a new series of pained hisses whistling through my teeth. Back on my feet, I complete the project. Then, I stand before the bloody wall and wait.

Almost an hour later, I hear the slide of my door, a face cutting into the bright white of the opening. Rounds. There is a moment of pause, then the light in my room bursts on, too bright, too white, too perfect. “What the fuck?” a woman utters. Oh. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor. Too bad. I’d hoped to spare her of this. She swings open my door and stands in the opening, feet spread, her eyes wide, darting from me, to the wall, to me. “You got some issues, you know that?”

My feet stay in place, twin roots into cement. The side of my face itches, probably due to the lines of blood, the sticky liquid drying into place. I must look mad, standing next to the words, their formation messy and crooked, the letters as large as I could make them. I lick my lips and taste copper. “You should probably file a report,” I say softly.

She stays still, her head tilting. “We don’t have a nurse here, if this is some big plan to get medical attention.”

A drop of blood drips from my left index finger and hits the floor with a quiet smack. I wonder if she heard it. “No.” I shake my head in case she didn’t hear the quiet word. “I don’t need a nurse.”

Her eyebrows raise and show a hint of pink eye shadow. “Oh… kay.” She steps back, shutting the door and locking it, her mouth moving to the open window. “You know you’re going to be cleaning that up, right? So don’t start smearing shit next.”

Shit. I look down at my bloody and shredded fingertips. Shit would have been easier. Messier, but easier. I shrug and step back to my bed, pushing the edge of it until it was moved back into place. Then I sit on its edge and lean forward, my elbows on my knees, my fists underneath my chin. “Okay, Mike,” I whisper. “Do your thing.”

Before me, in all its bloody glory, my message dried.

GET ME OUT

CHAPTER 76

Present

MIKE’S FINGERS FLY, a blur of dexterity, the computer screens before him changing in rapid succession. He is sidetracked, shifting through a guard’s financials, when a new file uploads to the Tulsa Pod 23’s database. Fifteen minutes later, when he shifts back, he sees the report, double-clicking on it as he reaches for a fresh soda. The door to his mini fridge stays open, his act forgotten when he sees the name on the top of the form. Deanna Madden. He skims the report quickly, the short text making the job easy.

Female was seen standing beside the cell’s back wall, facing forward. I turned on the light and saw graffiti painted on the wall in the inmate’s own blood, the words “Get me out.” The inmate does not need medical assistance and has not been questioned at this time. Incident will be reported to shift supervisor Markus Kumna. Inmate has had a number of issues while held, and her arraignment is scheduled for 14:00 tomorrow. ~ Dimarka Trible, 23:36 p.m.

Adrenaline surges. A message for him. And he is ahead of the game. This will be child’s play. He wanted the go-ahead, and here it is. Clicking on windows, he minimizes all but the two he needs, Kavut Security’s internal interface and Ned Millstone. Hunching forward, the strain in his back burning red, he goes to work.

Ned Millstone was born to Frank and Beth Millstone in 1971. He graduated from high school in 1989, attended a technical college in Ohio for two semesters, then dropped out. He worked in the restaurant business for seven years, then enrolled in the police academy, after which he was placed into corrections. Ned Millstone is now an eight-year employee of the city and a four-year frequenter of the Sapphire Rose Gentleman’s Club. He has a twenty-three-year-old girlfriend who, five months ago, was a patient of the Hillcrest Medical Center’s maternity ward. His new baby is something his wife, Barbara Millstone, born Barbara French, sole heir to the French’s electronics conglomerate, knows nothing about. Barbara is, according to her father’s medical records, within months of inheriting a billion-dollar empire. A hundred pieces falling perfectly into place to make it one helluva bad time for his love child to come to the attention of his wife. Mike digs the last piece of the puzzle out, Ned Millstone’s cell phone number. Then he leans back in his chair and types in the number, dialing via Skype, on a line that can serve an unlimited number of purposes and still never be traced.

“This is Ned.” The voice sounds out of breath and irritated.

“Ned.” Mike smiles. “You don’t know me, but for the next few hours, we are going to be very good friends.”