Beast: Part Two (2 page)

I think I could hate him.

I think I could save him.

Stupid girl.
So dangerous…

I finish my lotion and am stepping into my bedroom to get dressed when my phone rings. I jump, and my poorly tucked towel falls right to the floor, leaving my body as naked as I feel.

I snatch the towel up, wrap it back around myself, and check the name on my phone: Holt.

I
let it ring one more time while I debate answering. Then I take a big breath. “Hi.”

“Annabelle
. I’m glad you answered.”

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause—not much of one, but a pause during which I can almost see his lips tuck down into a frown. “Annabelle, honey. I’m sorry. Really sorry about yesterday. Makes this old man feel a long ways away from proud. Know what I mean?”

I nod.

“I would tell you I did it for you, for you and Mom and Adrian, but that would be a lie, and I don’t lie to you. I’ve been greedy. Got caught up in the money and I—”

“Dad,
what
money?” I don’t understand what kind of business deal my dad could have with Cal Hammond.

Silence spreads across the line, and when my Dad speaks next, I can hear the dark tones of evasion in his voice. “Details aren’t important, dear. I did some things that were wrong, and I got what was coming to me.
The important thing… The thing I want you to know—that is, I’m not a victim. I don’t know what you said to him—I don’t even really remember how I ended up in the hall, and you shut up in the office with him. But I know one thing…” His voice cracks. “That’s not the way things should have been. I failed you.”

I shake my head. The ice around my heart begins to drip
a little. “Dad, you didn’t fail me. It sounds like you failed
you
. You almost got killed! How can he do that, anyway? You’re the warden.”

“You’re probably
scared to death,” he says, evading my question. “And—I’m going to be sexist here—I’ve thought on it, and it would be better if you never come back here. The men here… After you left…” More silence. Followed by a gruff: “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

“What are you talking about? What happened
after I left?” Is he referencing the riot Beast mentioned? How did Beast even know there was a riot? He mentioned it before we left Holt’s office yesterday.

“Prison politics are none of your concern. You’ve got other burdens.
And—well, that brings me to the one piece of good news I have for you, Annabelle, honey. I’ve got a way for you to focus on family.” A pause, during which I can tell he’s smiling. “I’ve found a job for you. Beast—er, Ricardo—he and I have made amends, and he had an idea that’s good. You’re going to be hired to organize a prison library. You’ll solicit donated books, and Ricky will finance e-reading devices. Those newfangled things—”

“I know
what an e-reader is, Dad.”

“
Good. So you’ll set it all up. I know it’s not in your chosen profession, but it’s something at least. I’ve got all the paperwork ready, and I’ve emailed it the application, which will get approved without hassle. There’s no nepotism concerns because you’re not my biological daughter. The pay’s not much, but it’s something. Fifteen dollars an hour.”

My heart beats hard.
He just said he thinks I shouldn’t go back to La Rosa. So…“I’m doing this from home? Not at the prison?”

“That’s
right,” he says proudly.

I
sink down onto the edge of my bed and try to get my breath.

“It wasn’t me,” he says. “It was Ricardo’s idea. And speaking of that,
he told me that you met before. Is that what happened, when he locked you in that room with him? He cut the cameras off. I don’t like that, but he said the two of you were just getting reacquainted.”

I feel a blast of heat between my legs.

My throat tightens. “Dad… I don’t like Ricardo all that much. Can we just not talk about him anymore?”

“I’m sorry again,” he says remorsefully. “I hope he didn’t treat you badly.”

My cheeks burn.
He fucked me like an animal—and I came.
I press my lips together. “No. He didn’t.”

“
I’m glad to hear that. Annabelle, I’ve gotta go now. I’m leaving for a business trip in two hours. Something urgent down in Honduras.”

“What?
Honduras?
”

“
Don’t worry about me. Only lasts ten days. Ricky has forgiven me and all is well. I love you, Annabelle.”

When I hang up, I’m more confused than ever. I
slip into my powder blue robe and walk into the hallway. I can hear Adrian and Holly through the door to Adrian’s room, talking about Cinderella’s hair. I booked Holly every day this week, all day, because I didn’t know when the car might come for me, and I thought I had the money.

Tears fill my eyes, then spill down my cheeks—because I’m stupid. So stupid. Why do I want him? He’s right. I don’t know him.
Not at all. And what I know—what I know of him recently—is terrible.

He treated me with no regard. No care. And I’m so pathetic, I actually got off.
Because you’re obsessed with him. Because your life is so empty.

I s
tep back into my room and try to let my feelings ebb. I should be happy I don’t have to go back to the prison. Obviously, he was just threatening me. Toying with me. Maybe that’s why I feel so foolish. So…used.

He wasn’t going to
kill Holt. There’s no way. Despite how Holt sounded on the phone with all his ‘Beast has forgiven me’ babblings, it doesn’t make sense that a prisoner would hold any sway over a warden.

I guess I’m the sucker here.

I walk into my room and shut the door. Sit down on my bed and put my head in my hands. I ask myself what on earth is wrong with me. When did I get so lonely? So desperate?

I tell myself I’m glad
his proposal turned out to be some perverse bluff.

T
hat’s the moment that the doorbell rings.

CHAPTER 2

Beast

I lean against the wall, in the low-ceilinged basement hallway where eleven cells are devoted to solitary confinement.

The knuckles of my hand—the one that holds the phone—still drip blood. Franklin Maloney: a
woman killer and one of the highest ranking Black Guerrillas here. He’s the one who started the riot over Annabelle. He’s the one who’ll get daily beatings until he can’t disrespect her anymore. Then the guards will spread the word that he’s been cowed into submission by me, and I can let him back into the general population.

“Is Holt still in the dark?” asks the voice on the other end
of the line. “Does he know the plans you have for her?”

“Yes, and no, of course he doesn’t. My proclivities are none of his
damn business.”

“She’s his daughter,” he says.

“She’s my plaything. Now quit prying.”

“Who do you think is in charge here?” he asks me.

“In this way, I am. Moving on.”

He chuckles. “How are things going on the Juarez Cartel? Any new intel? Progress on the accounts?”

“Still haven’t gotten into the Swiss one. The second one, rather.
First one’s still like I told you last time.”

“Keep trying.”

“Planning on it,” I say.

“And the riot?”
he asks.

“I’ve got Maloney nearly
subdued.”

Again, his
lazy chuckle. “The mighty Beast. I assume your cover is still intact?”

I s
nicker. “What do you think, dumbass?”

“You always were a compelling actor
.”

“Guilty as charged. Till next time.” I
toss my prepaid phone onto the brick floor, stomp it until it’s unequivocally broken, toss the pieces in a garbage can, and walk back upstairs.

Along the way, I stop and
shoot the shit with a few of the guards. Give an update on when my next deposits will hit their accounts, and listen to their wish lists. The money keeps them compliant, and doing them occasional, pseudo-political favors here makes them feel as if we’re friends.

I
use one of the guards’ codes to gain entry to a few personnel passageways that will shorten my walk, and point myself toward the middle of the hexagonal prison. Toward the kitchen, where I wash my hands, and then to the back segment of the main building, toward the unfinished add-on that will, some months from now, become the prison’s library, thanks to a generous donation from the Hammond Trust.

I enter the guard’s pass code into another keypad and the door clicks open.
I step into the wide, tall space—shaped like a beehive, with windows punched into the conical ceilings. It’s all just plywood now. Plywood reinforced with steel on the exterior, and triple-paned bullet-proof windows that turn the sun’s light slightly amber.

I look around the room, where built-in shelves, benches, and even window seats are already taking shape. The grant
from my family’s foundation pays for the books and any non-prison workforce, but the interior construction is being done by us, almost exclusively.

Near the back of the geodesic building, there’s a little computer lab, partitioned off from the rest of the space. Already, men are constructing desks. Inside a drawer on one of them, I keep my tools. Things to spice up the conjugal visits I schedule once or twice a month, when my needs grow too great to manage.

I tuck the little cedar box under my arm and walk back into the main room—empty at this hour, while most of the men are doing rec.

I
stand at a pile of plywood balanced on a desk and start measuring off sheets for various projects. In between measuring and leaving penciled notches on the boards, I watch the little steel door out in front of me.

*

Annabelle

The man ringing my doorbell looks a little like a young Bill Cosby.

He’s wearing a
deep blue, canvas jacket over a brown guard’s uniform he’s paired with black boots, and when I answer the door, he surprises me by looking not at my bust, but right into my eyes, and holding out his hand.

“Clinton,” he says, perhaps a little cheerfully.

I shake his hand, then take a half step back. “May I help you?”

“You’re Annabelle?”

I nod.

“I’m here to get you
.”

I
think I know where he means to take me, but still, I’m having a little trouble believing it. “Where will we go?” I try—just to hear his answer.

One eyebrow quirks. “La Rosa. Beast told me you knew the score.”

Knew the score?
I frown. “I’m not so sure I do.”

“You’re helping with the library? That right?”

Huh. I thought that was only from a distance.

“He wants to show you the layout I think. Talk planning.” The man smirks. “Probably fuck that tight ass.”

I gape at him.

“Sorry, ma’am. I got a prison mouth.”

“Yeah. I guess you do.” I look him over again, then say, “Hold on, please. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I close the door in his face and stand on the interior side of it with my hand over my chest. I can’t really go with him
! The insane girl buried several layers behind the usual, rational, boring Annabelle tries to argue
yes, you can
, but when I sift through my memories for something comforting to cling to—a thought that will make me feel like I can do this—absolutely nothing comes to mind. It’s true: I don’t know Cal/Ricardo/Beast. I don’t even know his name. And what I know of him is scary.
Admit it, Annabelle. You don’t know what he’ll do to you.

He wouldn’
t hurt you.

He could, though.

Not physically.

Is that all that matters?

I don’t know!

I walk down the narrow, faux hardwood hallway. I stop outside Mom’s room and listen to the gentle puff and pull of her oxygen machine. I
could step inside, sit down, read a book to her. If I’m very lucky—or very unlucky, depending on my tolerance for pain—she might open her eyes and train her gaze in the general direction of my face.

I could go into Adrian’s bedroom and help her braid a baby doll’s hair. Tell Holly she can
take off early.

I linger outside Ad’s door for a few minutes, listening to her postulate on the mysteries of
how her doll will learn to walk with fabric feet.

My heart is beating so hard, I feel ill.

How will I feel if I don’t go? What will happen to Holt if I don’t go? Was he lying when he told me they’d worked things out? I shut my eyes. I can still see Hal—
Beast’s
fist swinging in between the door frame and the half-shut closet door. Can still see little drops of Holt’s blood flying through the air.

I
f I go with the man at my front door, I won’t be dumb about it. I can’t harbor any illusions about why this is happening. He doesn’t remember me. He isn’t obsessed with me—
the way you are with him
. He’s an opportunistic…predator.

If I go, I will probably regret it.

If I don’t…?

I take a few steps in the direction of the front door, then turn and look back down the hallway.

I feel the turning of wheels inside my head, and it’s decided by some deep, executive part of me: I’m going. I know I’ll regret it, but I’m going anyway. 

Because I want to know what happens.

Because, despite the abject stupidity of it, I want to feel his body over mine again.

Not ‘want to’.

Need
to.

I
walk quickly back down the hallway and say goodbye to Holly. I kiss Adrian and check in with Mom’s nurse. Mom is sleeping: very normal. Then I pull a black sweater over the white tank top I’m wearing with jeans and boots, and step out onto the walkway.

Clinton is still there, looking totally neutral, as if I didn’t just make him wait ten minutes while I wandered around my house trying not to pass out from the stress of my decision.

He walks a half a step in front of me as we traverse the railed, cement walkway, moving toward the stairwell that will take us from my family’s third-floor unit to the parking lot.

“How is it,” I as
k as we walk down the stairs, “that you’re coming to get me on Beast’s orders, when you’re an employee and he’s a prisoner?”

He laughs affably. “That’s a good question
,” he says.

“How did he get that way? Where he has so much authority?”

Clinton shrugs. “It happened gradually. He’s good with managing people. He throws in some perks, too.”

“You mean he pays you off? He pays off all the guards to let him do what
ever he wants?”

Clinton nods, a
lighthearted bob of his head. “To do what he asks. It’s not bad for any of us.”

“
But this is a federal prison! There should be…rules.”

He gives me a look that says
yeah, right, honey. Keep on dreaming
. “Crazier shit goes on in the prison every day. There’re always gangs, always somebody in charge. Gang leaders running the streets on the outside from behind their bars. That’s just the way things are. Rules—they don’t matter at La Rosa.”

I
nod, although I really don’t understand what he’s describing, and we start walking through the parking lot. “How long did it take him to become the Beast?”

He laughs as
we approach a black Ford Explorer with a state tag. “He ain’t ‘the Beast.’” He opens my door for me. “Just Beast. And it didn’t take him long. After he killed Rupert Warren, it was fast.”

He
walks around to the driver’s seat as my gaze swoops over the car’s interior. I zero in on a red cigarette lighter in one of the cup holders, and a La Rosa staff badge on the dash.

“Buckle up,” he tells me in his Southern drawl.

I do, and he backs out.

“Rupert Warren? I
’ve never heard that name.” If Ricardo killed someone in prison, wouldn’t it make the news?

“Well he got beat the shit up by your Beast, broken nose. Went to his head and killed him.”
He turns onto the street that will lead us to the highway that will lead us to La Rosa.

“Went to his head?”
I frown.

“Nose right up into the brain,” he says as h
e steers us toward the desert.

I
nod slowly. “Oh.”

“He’s made the best of himself
, Beast. Don’t let him fool you. He’s not like some of them others.”

Geez. I pick at my jeans. I’m not sure I
want to imagine what the others must be like.

“He’s not a moral man, but he understands morality. He’s off the compass, you know?” I nod a little bit, even though I don’t. “He’s not
on
the moral compass, but he knows there is one. That’s a good thing.

Hmm. That makes a bit more sense.

“So he really runs the…gangs or whatever?”

Clinton’s eyes
meet mine. “Or whatever. Prison’s gotten better since he got here. He got the men in line. Put some structure into place.”

“My Dad—Holt—he didn’t do that?”

He scoffs. “Holt’s the worst warden we’ve had in years. Doesn’t know his left foot from a hole in the ground.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mean’s he’s an idiot. No offense, ma’am.”

“None taken?” I rub the bridge of my nose. “Holt doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

He shakes his head. “He’s gone.”

“Where?”
I ask. I want to see if he tells me the same thing Holt did.

“Family vacation. Shouldn’t you know that?”

I chew my lip. “Guess it’s his new wife. Bea. I’m not a big fan of her.” Maybe that’s why he said he was going out of the country for business. Because he didn’t want to tell me he went on a family vacation with Bea and her 17-year-old son, Luke.

I picture that for a few minutes while we drive in silence.
Short, round, fair-skinned, red-haired Holt, holding hands with tall, blonde Bea, while sulky Luke stands behind them, throwing rocks overboard. In my imagining, they’re on a cruise ship. No puffs from the oxygen machine in the background—that’s for sure. I scold myself for being bitter and look at the road.

After a while, Clinton turns the radio up: some station playing a lot of old-school Brittney Spears. “
Kinda music that makes you feel upbeat,” he explains, and I almost laugh.

We’re nearing the prison now. He
presses the brakes, tugs his jacket off and tosses it in the back seat. He clips his badge onto his shirt and touches the plastic tag hanging from the rear view mirror, as if he needs the physical confirmation that it’s there.