Out of Sight

"Cute but seedy," Adele said, "has real long hair."

But none on his body. Foley remembered the guy in the yard always working on his tan. Glenn Michaels. The guy stole expensive cars on special order and delivered them all over, even Mexico. Acted hip and told stories about women coming on to him, even movie stars, but none Foley or Buddy had ever heard of. They called him Studs.

"You met him?"

"Buddy thought I should, just in case."

"In case of what?"

"I don't know, ask him. Glenn said he thought you were real cool."

"He did, huh. Tell Buddy I see this guy wearing sunglasses I'll step on 'em. I might not even take 'em off him first."

"You're still weird," Adele said.

"A quarter to six the latest. But don't call him on your phone."

"You tell me that every time," Adele said.

"Will you be careful, please? And don't get shot?"

Five-twenty, Foley found a child molester they called the Elf alone in the chapel with the lights off: a skinny white kid sitting round-shouldered by the windows, a stack of pamphlets in the pew with him. Foley turned the lights on and the kid hunched around to look at him, no doubt afraid he was about to get beat up again, the fate of guys with short eyes among a population that felt superior.

"You're gonna ruin your eyes," Foley said, "trying to read that inspirational shit in the dark. Leave, okay? I need to speak to my Redeemer in private."

Once the Elf was out the door Foley turned the lights off and went along the row of windows pulling old brown-stained shades down halfway, keeping it just light enough in here to see the shapes of the pews. He walked around to the other side of the chapel now and stepped through an opening to the wing they were adding on, the structure framed in and smelling of new wood, big open spaces where windows would be hung.

He looked around at the mess of scrap lumber the prison carpenters, not giving a shit, had wasted. A piece of two-by four caught his eye.

Foley had thought of using pipe for what he'd have to do-there was enough of it around-but he liked the way this piece of scrap wood was split and tapered to a thin end, like a baseball bat.

He picked it up, took a swing and imagined a screaming line drive sailing out to the athletic field where half the population-he could see them through the window openings five six hundred cons slouched around with nothing to do, not enough jobs here to keep them busy. It was going dark now, the sky showing a few last streaks of red, and there it was, the whistle: everybody back to the dorms for evening count. It would take a half hour, then another fifteen minutes to do a recount before they'd know for sure six inmates were missing. By the time they got out the dogs, Chino and his boys would be running through sugar cane.

Strung-out lines of inmates were coming from the athletic field now, passing through a gate to the prison compound.

Foley watched them thinking, You're on the clock now, boy.

In the chapel again he placed his baseball bat in one of the pews, on the seat, and took off his denim jacket to lay over it.

Chino would be down there in the muck telling his boys to be patient, making sure it was dark before they came out.

Foley turned, hearing the chapel door open. He watched the Pup come in and glance around before closing the door. No weapon on him, just his radio and flashlight, the peak of his cap down on his eyes, the man anxious. His hand went to the light switch on the wall by the door and Foley said, "Leave it off."

The Pup looked at him and Foley put his finger to his lips. It was happening now and he took his time.

"They're right underneath you, Pup. They dug a tunnel."

Now the guard was unhooking the radio from his belt.

Foley said, "Wait. Not just yet."

Two AREN LEFT WEST Palm at five, drove into the sunset past miles and miles of cane and had her headlights on by the time she turned into the parking area and sat facing the prison. Her high beams showed a strip of grass, a sidewalk, another strip of grass, the fence strung with sound detectors and razor wire, dark figures in white T-shirts inside the fence, brick dorms that looked like barracks, picnic tables and a few gazebos used on visiting days.

Lights were coming on, spots mounted high that showed the compound with its walks and lawns; at night it didn't look all that bad. She lit a cigarette and dialed a number on her car phone.

"Hi. Karen Sisco again. Did Ray ever get back?… I tried, yeah. He calls in, tell him I won't be able to meet him until about seven.

Okay?"

She watched prisoners massing at the gate from the athletic field, straggling through and then spreading out, moving toward their dorms in the spotlight beams. She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Dad? Karen. Will you do me a big favor?"

"Do I have to get up? I just made myself a drink."

"I'm out at Glades. I'm supposed to meet Ray Nicolet at six and I can't get hold of him."

"Which one is that, the fed, the aTF. guy?"