Brandon Massey - Dont Ever Tell

DONT
EVER TELL
DONT
EVER TELL

BRANDON MASSEY

PINNACLE BOOKS Kensington Publishing Corp. www.kensingtonbooks.com

To my wife

Prologue

On the morning of the day he would taste freedom again for the first time in four years, Dexter Bates lay on his bunk in the dimly lit cell, fingers interlaced behind his head, waiting for the arrival of the guards.

He did not tap his feet, hum a song, or count the cracks in the shadowed cement ceiling to pass the time. He was so still and silent that save for the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest, he might have been dead.

Incarceration taught a man many lessons, and chief among them was patience. You either learned how to befriend time, or the rambling passage of monotonous days eventually broke your spirit.

He had long ago vowed that he would not be broken. That he would use time to his advantage. The day ahead promised to reveal the value of his patient efforts.

Resting peacefully, he thought, as ever, about her. About her supple body, and how easily he bent it to his will. Her soft skin, and how it bruised beneath his fists. Her throaty voice, and how he urged it toward raw screams of terror....

Pleasant thoughts to dribble away the last grains of time he had left in this hellhole.
Soon, the metal cell door clanged open. Two correctional officers as tall and wide as NFL linemen entered the cell.
Lets go, Bates, Steele said, the lead guard. Sandy-haired, with a severe crew cut, he had a wide, boyish face that always appeared sunburned. He had a green parka with a fur-lined hood draped over his arm. Hurry up or youll miss your last ride outta here.
Dexter rose off the narrow cot. He was nudehe had stripped out of the prison jumpsuit before their arrival. He spread his long, muscular arms and legs.
All right, open that big-assed cum-catcher of yours, Jackson said. He was a stern-faced black man with a jagged scar on his chin that he tried to hide with a goatee. He clicked on a pen-sized flashlight.
Dexter opened wide. Jackson panned the flashlight beam inside his mouth, and checked his nostrils and ears, too.
Now bend over, Jackson said.
But we hardly know each other, Dexter said.
Dont test me this morning. I aint in the mood for your bullshit.
Dexter turned around and bent over from the waist. Jackson shone the light up his rectum.
Hes clear, Jackson said.
How about one last blow for the road, Jacky? Dexter grabbed his length and swung it toward Jackson. You know Im gonna miss that sweet tongue action you got.
Fuck you, Jackson said.
During Dexters first month in the joint, Jackson had tried to bully him. Word of Dexters background had spread quickly, and there were a number of guards and inmates who wanted a crack at him. A shot at glory.
Dexter had repeatedly slammed Jacksons face against a cinderblock wall, fracturing his jaw and scarring his chin. Although assaulting a guard would normally have resulted in a stint in the hole and additional time tacked onto his tenyear sentence, Jackson had never reported the incident. He had his pride.
Jackson searched Dexters jumpsuit and boots for weapons, found nothing, and then Dexter dressed, shrugging on the parka that Steele gave him. Jackson cuffed his hands in front of him and attached the ankle restraints.
The guards marched him down the cell block. None of the inmates taunted Dexter, as was typical when an inmate departed. There were a few softly uttered words of support Peace, brother, Take care of yourself, manbut mostly, a widespread silence that approached reverence.
These guys are really gonna miss you, Bates, Steele said.
They can always write me, Dexter said.
They took him to inmate processing, where the final transfer paperwork was completed. He was being sent to Centralia Correctional Center, another medium security prison, to serve out the balance of his sentence. He had put in for the transfer purportedly to take advantage of the inmate work programs offered at that facility, and it had taken almost two years for the approval to come through.
The administrator, a frizzy haired lady with a wart on her nose, expressed surprise that Dexter was not taking any personal items with him. Most transferring inmates left with boxes of belongings in tow, as if they were kids going away to summer camp. Dexter assured Wart Nose that he would get everything he needed once he was settled in his new home.
Paperwork complete, they walked Dexter outside to the boarding area, where an idling white van was parked, exhaust fumes billowing from the pipe. Illinois Department of Corrections was painted on the side in large black letters. Steel bars protected the frosted windows.
It was a cold, overcast December morning, a fresh layer of snow covering the flat countryside. An icy gust shrieked across the parking lot and sliced at Dexters face.
He wondered about the weather in Chicago, and felt a warm tingle in his chest.
Steele slid open the vans side door, and Dexter climbed in, air pluming from his lips. Two beefy correctional officers from Centralia waited inside, both sitting in the front seat. A wire mesh screen separated the front from the rear bench rows.
Sit your ass down so we can get moving, the guard in the passenger seat said. Its cold as fuck out here.
Steele lifted the heavy chain off the vehicles floor and clamped it to Dexters ankle restraints. He nodded at Dexter, his blue-eyed gaze communicating a subtle message, and then he slammed the door.
As in police vehicles, there were no interior door handles. Packed inside and bolted in place, a prisoner bound for another concrete home could only sit still and enjoy the ride.
Headed to our home in Centralia, eh? the driver asked. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Dexter. Just so you know brother man, whoever you were outside wont mean shit there, got it? Youll be everyones bitch, especially ours.
Spoken like a man whos always wanted to be a cop, Dexter said. Did you fail the exam? Or wash out of the academy?
What a piece of work, the passenger guard said, shaking his head. You must want deluxe commodations in the hole soon as you get there.
At the manned booth, a guard waved the van through the tall prison gates. Dexter looked out the window. The snowy plains surrounded them, so vast and featureless they nearly blended into the overcast horizon.
By design, many state correctional centers had been erected in barren wastelands, to make it almost impossible for an escaping inmate to progress far before recapture. Dexter had heard rumors of inmates who managed to get away being tracked down within three miles of the joint, upon which they were brought back, weeping like babies, to an increased sentence and a long stay in solitary.
The two-lane road was crusted with dirty slush and riddled with potholes. It wound through nothingness for close to five miles before it fed into a major artery, which eventually intersected the highway.
At that time of morning, there was no traffic, and there wouldnt be much at all, anyway. The road dead ended at the prison, a place most normal people preferred to avoid.
The guards switched on the radio to a country-western station. The singer crooned about seeing his lady again after being away for so long.
Dexter wasnt a fan of country western, but he could dig the songs message.
What time is it? Dexter asked.
You got somewhere to be, asshole? the driver said.
I want to make sure were on time. Ive got a hot date with my new warden.
Whatever. Its a quarter after nine, numb nuts.
Nodding to the music, Dexter dug his bound hands into the right front pocket of the parka.
A key was secreted inside, courtesy of his good man Steele. Correctional officers were even more receptive to bribes than cops, and that was saying something.
Im really feeling this song, Dexter said. Turn it up, will you, man?