Last Call

Isaac pushed himself up from the floor and noticed that his back was stiff. He'd been hitting the prison gym hard for several weeks before his breakout, trying to get himself into top condition. Still, his thirty-five-year-old body wasn't quite ready for that jump out of a second-story window at the Turner Guilford Knight Corrections Center and the scramble over the nine-foot perimeter fence. Things should have gotten easier after those hurdles, and he probably wouldn't have felt so sore now if the escape had gone according to plan. Deals of all sorts could be cut from inside prison walls, and Isaac had lined up the big items before making his break. A set of wheels with the keys in the glove compartment and a change of clothes in the trunk was supposed to be waiting for him in the parking lot at the 7-Eleven. His new pants were promised with two hundred bucks, small bills, in the pocket.

The car, of course, hadn't been there.

Maybe he'd been screwed by his contacts – which wasn't unheard of in prison commerce. Or maybe some punks just happened by, noticed the unlocked and unattended vehicle, and stole his wheels. Either way, he couldn't go back to his helpers. If it was a screw job, they couldn't be trusted. If something had gone wrong – well, too bad, so sad: it wasn't their fault. The deal was that Isaac would never make contact with them once he was on the outside. Nobody liked to be extorted twice.

With no wheels, he'd ended up ru

Thanks for nothing brotha'.

Isaac walked down the hall toward the bathroom. A sudden noise startled him, and he dove to the floor. It was the air conditioner clicking on. He rose and checked the thermostat on the wall. The owner had it set at eighty-five, just low enough to keep the humidity under control. The house was obviously being looked after even though it was empty. He was tempted to cool things down a few more degrees, but he decided to leave the setting alone. He used the toilet, and it flushed. He tried the sink. It didn't work, but that was quickly remedied by adjusting the shut-off valve. The city water to the house was still on, one of the many blessings that came with escaping from prison in a state where no one had to worry about pipes freezing. He took a long drink from the faucet and washed his face. It felt so good and made him want more. He could shower and even rinse out the clothes he'd stolen from the homeless guy who was passed out behind Theo's bar last night. He removed the coat, unbuttoned the shirt, and stripped down to the waist. His skin itched. The more he scratched, the more it itched. He checked himself in the mirror over the sink. His chest was covered with welts. He grabbed the shirt and took a closer look. It was infested. Bugs!

His scalp suddenly itched. He rubbed his head frantically with both hands. Tiny insects dropped from his hair and landed as little black dots on the white sink.

A string of hysterical and mostly nonsensical curse words followed, as he quickly kicked off his prison-issue Velcro shoes and ripped off the stolen pants. The socks and underwear were also from TGK, but they too were infested. He pitched all of it into the bathtub, turned on the showerhead, and jumped in. Hot water would have been nice, but that was asking way too much in a vacant house. The cold was more soothing to his insect bites anyway He rubbed, swatted, and scratched all through his shower, sending one nasty little black bug after another down the gurgling drain. Then he started on the shirt, but it was so threadbare that even mild rubbing risked tearing it to shreds. The pants were more durable, but once they were wet, they smelled like a sewer.

The Grove Lord needed new clothes.

He turned off the shower. Dripping wet and wearing only his prison briefs, he set out to search the house in hopes that something had been left: behind. He tried the linen closet in the hall. Empty. He checked the two smaller bedrooms. Nothing. The garage was accessible from the kitchen, but in there he found only a few basic supplies that the maid or the realtor needed to keep the house presentable for potential buyers. He was walking through the living room to the master bedroom when, through the bay window in the front of the house, he spotted an old man and his dog on the sidewalk. Isaac hit the deck.

He wasn't sure if the old man had noticed him or not. The owners had taken the draperies along with the furniture, leaving a clear view into the living room for passersby on the street. Instinct told him not to move a muscle, but Isaac couldn't stop himself from raising up his head just enough to peer over the windowsill. The old man was still standing on the sidewalk. Maybe he hadn't seen anything. His dog, however, was on high alert. The miniature white poodle was barking and bouncing up and down like a Ping-Pong ball, as if to shout, "Run for your life – there's a black man in the house!"

Isaac had to move. On his belly, keeping low, he slithered across the living room floor to the hallway, sprang to his feet, ran to the bathroom, and grabbed his clothes. Soaking wet, bugs or no bugs, they were all he had. He had to get dressed. But then what?

Think, Isaac. Think!

He could still hear that a

Not good. This was not good at all.

Isaac squeezed the excess water out of his underwear and checked one more time for bugs. Clean. The poodle continued to bark, louder and more aggressively. Isaac had to move fast, but a successful escape was not merely about speed. Once the cops with their dogs and helicopters were hot on his trail, it wouldn't matter if he was an Olympic sprinter. Hiding was the key to his success, and hiding took the courage to do whatever was necessary to keep some nosy neighbor from blowing your cover and sending you back to prison for life. Bottom line: maybe the old man had seen him, maybe he hadn't – Isaac couldn't take that risk.

He grabbed his gun. No silencer. The crack of gunshot in this neighborhood would be suicide.

A quick thought sent Isaac racing back to the garage. Earlier, he'd been searching only for replacement clothes, but there had to be something in that box of supplies that he could use now. He rummaged around and found a mop, a dustpan, and old rags. None of it was of any use to him. Except, maybe, the hammer.

A hammer!

Isaac gripped it tightly as he reentered the house and started toward the living room. From the dark hallway, with his back to the wall, he could see through the bay window. The little white fur ball was still barking, pulling the leash taut, practically dragging its so-called master toward the house. Isaac almost smiled to see that the old man was just about his size. No bugs in those clothes, he'd bet.

He tapped the head of the hammer into the palm of his hand, waiting and watching as the old man continued up the walkway.

This one's on you, Theo. Traitor.