Devour, p.7
Devour, page 7
Walking to the kitchen, he was reminded of how he had spent the entire day hungry—unable to get satiated. Staring out through the broad expanse of glass of his living room, he considered tasty options.
Draining the last of the brandy, he changed into something less corporate, got in a different vehicle, and drove to a place outside of town. It was a large chain hotel with a bar and restaurant, a place where strangers came and went day after day without question or a worry in the world.
Within minutes, he was enjoying hearty appetizers in the restaurant before moving to the lounge. After another drink, another appetizer, and some people-watching, he began striking up friendly conversation. There was the weather—always about the fog. Then sports—whatever team depended upon the season. And finally the all important questions: What do you do for a living and what brings you here?
Dalton, aka Jim Nash—the most innocuous name he could think of—was either a dentist in town for an annual convention, a recently divorced husband traveling with pals for some male-bonding activities, or a fill-in-the-blank salesman who chose the ‘burbs in order to take his per diem and pad his playtime. He would even chuckle on cue.
He went with Dr. James Nash, Oral Surgeon—mentioning a convention he had seen on the cover of a local magazine in the lobby on his way in. After another couple of drinks, a few more tall tales, and an invitation to his room for a nightcap, it was beginning to be just what the doctor ordered.
Only thing is he did not have a room.
But he had a truck—just outside a room.
On the opposite side of the facility.
Where a parking lot light had evidently burned out.
And after a quick smoke break, he introduced his new friend to an older one: Ketamine.
Arriving home, he was up the stairs, in the house, and out of his mind in record time.
12
Good News
Dinner at The Caprice was exceptional, the ambiance unmatched. Their seats provided the perfect vista: the “Ellis Island of the West” gem, the San Francisco Bay, the downtown shimmering lights, and the historic Golden Gate. Michael and Kathryn had dinner the first night they moved into their new home in Tiburon—a time when they had so much life ahead of them—in this very spot. Now, some two decades later, they had come to yet another crossroads.
He knew he had to tell Kathryn about his feelings for Jasmine. He also knew—based on Kathryn’s distance in the past several months, along with her lengthy travel and unpredictable mood swings—the present may not provide the best timing. After all, his family trio had enjoyed quality time together, knowing it would not be long before it would only be two. Perhaps by then, life would take matters into its own hands.
“So, what’s next, Natalie,” Kathryn asked, sipping another glass of wine.
“Europe, first. We’ll start in Paris. Then after two months of traveling different country sides, seeing all sorts of cities, and enjoying the most amazing food ever,” she said, leaning forward with an enormous smile, “I’ll be starting Stanford!”
Michael and Kathryn looked at one another, smiled, and raised their hands for a high-five from her.
Holding back the slap, Michael said, “Wait. And how do we know that?”
Natalie buried that ever-present dimple into a cheek—her trademark expression for Really?—then dramatically removed an envelope from her bag with all the drama of an award show and loudly whispered, “My acceptance letter!”
“Oh my god, Nattie, that’s amazing,” Kathryn shrieked.
People at nearby tables were startled at first, but recognizing the occasion, broke out clapping. As the noise subsided, restaurant Manager Nathan Cross came over with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cheesecake with a candle in the other. Michael winked at him. Nathan returned the gesture and presented Natalie with the dessert and Michael with the champagne.
“Congrats, Miss Natalie. This is wonderful news,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
Natalie blushed, hiding her face with the letter, but only for a second.
“Let me see that,” Michael chuckled, reading the letter. Because of your exceptional grades, and endorsements from teachers and coaches, we believe your athletic abilities will benefit our teams. “Nattie, this is amazing,” he smiled, passing the letter to Kathryn as he stood to kiss Natalie. “We’re so proud of you.”
“Honey, your father’s right,” Kathryn said with tears. “This is just wonderful news.”
Natalie walked around the table and hugged her mother’s neck. They were both crying now, and Michael leaned back and watched, recalling how it was not that long ago Kathryn was picking Natalie up off the playground, rubbing a skinned knee, kissing a tear-stained cheek. She had been an exceptional mother up until the troublesome years of high school.
Michael recalled when puberty was in full bloom with changing hormones, the blossoming princess was being recognized for her stellar athletic abilities, and the two girls reached a divide that would not be repaired for some time. But now, looking at them arm in arm and knowing their paths were reaching another fork in the road, he felt their lives and relationship had reached a new level.
People come together and people grow apart.
Then sometimes they come together again.
Either way, times change, and so do people.
Nearly an hour passed when the restaurant had only one party of four and the Rogan family remaining. The bottle of champagne and another bottle of Pinot Noir sat empty as Kathryn and Michael sipped coffee and listened intently to all the plans their daughter had for the rest of the week as well as her upcoming trip to Europe. Before long, she would be heading south to Stanford, but for now both parents tucked that reality aside.
On the short drive home, Natalie quietly said, “This is one of the best nights of my life, guys. Thank you. And thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
Kathryn reached for her hand. “We are the blessed ones, Baby. Our greatest joy is seeing you bloom.”
Michael turned to Kathryn and said, “That’s a lovely thing to say, Kathryn.”
“And it’s true.”
From the back seat, Natalie watched her parents—her heart battling with her mind—as she felt joy and sorrow simultaneously. What she knew put her in an awkward place, but it was nothing different from over half of the families in her school. And while she did not live in a world of illusion, she knew everything would work out somehow.
At home, it was another glass of wine for Kathryn and a champagne each for Michael and Natalie. With such a special time, nobody wanted it to end and Michael wanted to capture every minute he could.
It was after 2 a.m. when the house finally got quiet. Natalie was tucked in, Michael was propped up in bed scanning his email, and Kathryn was going through her beauty regime. A cool breeze blew in through open windows.
“I don’t think today could have been any sweeter, do you?” Kathryn asked quietly from across the room.
“No way, no how,” Michael yawned.
Turning off his bedside lamp, he shut down his phone and slid under the covers. “I loved watching you two enjoy yourselves. It’s as though time was suspended.”
“That’s sweet, hon.” Turning back to the mirror, she looked at herself while putting things away. “I look tired.”
He let out a sleepy chuckle. “Babe, it’s after 2, and we’ve been up since, what, 6? We all look tired.”
Crossing the room, she laid her robe across the foot of the bed, turned off the light, and slid into bed, offering a good night kiss before laying her head on his chest.
“You’re right. Plus…” she yawned. “We’ve all been going a hundred miles an hour.”
“True.”
The only sounds they heard were the bubbling fountain in the front yard just outside their window and the occasional foghorn in the distance.
“When is Nat’s flight on Saturday?” Kathryn asked.
“Around Noon.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“Same time as my flight...but on Sunday.”
He stiffened. “What?”
“That’s right. I forgot to update you,” she sighed.
“I’ll say. I’d have remembered that,” he said, trying not to make it an issue. Taking a deep breath, he added, “But that’s good news, right? I mean, everything’s a go which has to make you feel good.”
“Right.”
“Just gonna be tough…not having either of my girls around,” he whispered. “And for two months, no less.”
After a long pause, she said, “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
He was lying there for what felt like an eternity before he said, “Any particular meaning behind that?”
Nothing.
In the next couple of seconds, her heavy breathing told him she was fast asleep. Lying still, Michael deliberated, his mind scurrying with random thoughts. Did she suspect anything? Should I have brought it up with all that’s going on? Another long, deep breath. Maybe better to just let things settle for now.
Just then, she rolled off his chest and onto her side.
He whispered, “Babe?”
No answer. As his mind shifted into that space just before sleep, he told himself, I’ll face that. Tomorrow.
13
Attitude Adjustment
The next morning, Dalton arrived to work with a whole new attitude. In fact, he appeared happier than Baxter had ever seen him.
Carrying an oversized box of doughnuts, Dalton ignored his flash of crushing headaches that began as soon as he woke up. Walking from the Administration office to the Officers wing, he stopped to invite his staff to join him for an early morning snack. It was something he had not done the entire time he had worked there.
They looked at one another like he was insane.
Who doesn’t like doughnuts and coffee, they said in a variety of ways—no doubt thrown off by his sudden and mysterious whiplash of attitude. They slurped Pete’s coffee and pounded doughnuts from Donut Alley in nearby Larkspur, and while he did not see their expressions, Dalton was certain they were wondering what the hell was up.
“I know I can be a tyrant from time to time. And while that’s sometimes true, I’m also a nice guy. I like all the same things you guys do: sports, video games, porn, hunting and fishing, and all that shit. And food. Hell, any sort and lots of it. I know I don’t look like it, but that’s because I work out every day. After all, if you’re gonna play, you gotta pay, right?”
They watched and listened, and even nodded in agreement, but none of them believed any of the horseshit he was shoveling. Why? Because they had seen him in action. They had watched as he humiliated everyone around him. Yet, he never once apologized or showed an ounce of mercy. As far as they were concerned, he was the meanest son-of-a-bitch any of them had ever seen. So, while they enjoyed the treats, they knew this moment would blow over soon enough and Major Dick Dalton would return to the obnoxious asshole they had come to know.
After the caffeine and sugar were depleted, and the innocuous conversation had faded, everyone returned to their stations. Baxter cleaned and tidied the office while Dalton excused himself down the hall. Baxter was not sure, but as he passed the restroom on his way to the kitchenette, he could have sworn he heard Dalton puking. By the time Baxter returned from the dumpster outside, both men were making their way to the AC.
The guard on duty at the front desk was standing at attention before Dalton’s hand reached the door. That had not always been the case because the Officer everyone referred to as Slack had the incessant habit of moving a half-beat behind—a trait that did not bode well in this part of the prison. However, given Slack stood six-foot-nine, weighing over 300 pounds, very few, if any, gave him trouble with being a bit behind the eight ball. Furthermore, no one had ever given him an ounce of trouble in the 19 years he had worked at Quentin. That is, until Dalton arrived.
It was a rainy Monday morning. Nobody was in a good mood. It was the weekend the 49ers—aka Niners—had been playing their rival Seattle Seahawks. Any man who had a heart beating in his chest rooted for the Niners—especially Slack, aka Gregory Jansen, born and raised in San Francisco. His father played defensive tackle for them back in the day, and Slack had always dreamed of following in his father’s footsteps. Sadly, he had neither the talent nor the smarts. That particular weekend, they lost. And they lost big. Even worse? They were favored to win. And with that loss, Slack got hammered. Not your standard kind of hammered, but the blackout kind.
Needless to say, when the first shift arrived at 0700, he was not in good shape. Long story short, he was more than one beat behind. And that was the day Dalton decided—of all days—to arrive at 0630 and ahead of the shift change, just to make sure everything was running smoothly. After all, he had something to prove as the new guy.
Slack showed up not only “green around the gills” and with a headache that registered 7.5 on the Richter scale but also with an arrival time of 0730. That meant the outgoing team had to wait alongside the incoming team.
Dalton was standing there waiting.
Showing up 30 minutes late, Slack apologized profusely—doing everything he could to make things right—but Dalton was not having any part of it. He did at first—which was part of the ruse. Baxter recalled the conversation, especially since one of his teammates repeatedly replayed the recorded incident on his smartphone.
“Have fun last night?” Dalton asked.
“Yes, Sir,” Slack slurred. “Epic.”
“Epic, huh? But your Niners lost, isn’t that right, Officer Slack?”
“Uh, yes, Sir. Correct.”
Dalton took a step closer.
“So, while you were enjoying yourself—rather profoundly—I’ll assume you must have been gravely disappointed in your team when they lost.”
“Yes, Sir. Uh, gravely,” he smirked.
Frowning, Dalton said, “What’s funny, Slack? Did I say something amusing?”
He straightened up. “No, Sir. Just…well, I like your, uh, vocabulary. It’s impressive.”
Dalton’s frown softened. “Well, thank you, Slack. That’s very kind of you. And while I would like to say I share the same admiration of your vocabulary, frankly, it’s not the case.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Allow me to cut to the chase, Slack, especially given I’m the new tool on the block and we have so much work to do in order to get this shit-hole running smoothly—especially when it’s guarded by such incompetent Neanderthals such as yourself. Uh, sorry, you do know what that word means, yes?”
Slack frowned, and with flared nostrils grunted, “Yes, Sir. Very much so.”
Dalton took another step closer. So close in fact, Slack was getting a nose full of Dalton’s breath reeking of liver and onions from breakfast an hour earlier. Dalton had also ingested a copious amount of coffee. The resulting aroma was so intense Slack’s face shifted several hues, his cheeks puffed for a second, and tears filled his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Slack, did I say something to offend you? Startle you? Upset you?”
Holding back what must have been a potentially disastrous urge to hurl, he said, “No, Sir. Everything is perfectly fine.”
Dalton took in a deep breath and exhaled directly in Slack’s face as he barked, “Then why in the hell are you fucking late, you half-witted NEANDERTHAL?”
“It’s…uh…I was…um, running behind…because of traffic, but also be—”
“Do not tell me it’s TRAFFIC when everyone here has to suffer the SAME traffic! Instead, just be a man and tell me you were too fucking HUNGOVER to be the responsible OFFICER we all hoped you to be.
Before Slack could answer, and he tried, Dalton reared back and delivered a bone-crushing blow to the Officer’s solar plexus. Luckily, and simultaneously, Dalton quickly stepped aside to avoid what was coming down the pipe. Slack bent over and spewed an enormous amount of semi-digested wings, beer, and who-knows-what-else all over the desk and floor and the entire front of Baxter’s trousers. He looked down, took a hard swallow, and eyeballed Slack with genuine disdain. Between the impact of the punch, and the odor and volume of the pungent vomit, nearly the entire room—minus Dalton—was “this close” to losing their own breakfasts.
Dalton stepped up to Slack, looked him in the eye, and said, “Let’s not make that mistake again shall we Mr. Gregory Jansen?”
And with that, he gently stepped over the pool of puke and left the room.
Slack was never late again, nor did he ever miss one day of work.
Approaching the group of men, Dalton gave a nod. “Morning, Slack.”
Standing at attention, thirty pounds lighter, and with bright eyes and a rosy complexion, Jansen said, “Good morning, Warden Dalton, Sir. Very nice to see you. Everything is in order.” Handing over a clipboard, he added, “Officer Dell will assist you with your morning appointment.”
He punctuated the sentence with a crisp salute.
Dalton returned the gesture, perused the clipboard, raised an eyebrow to Dell, and tossed a chin toward the direction they were going.
“At ease, Officer Jansen. Excellent work. Carry on.”
Walking away, he leaned close to Baxter and whispered, “Turned out to be one of our brightest stars. See that he gets an extra week of vacation this year.”
From there, Dalton and Baxter made their way through the prison, checking on all of the inmates who called San Quentin home.
14
Deep Secrets
Running late and without their traditional breakfast behind them, Michael and Natalie were nearly to Sausalito when his phone rang. The screen read: San Quentin. Natalie saw it before Michael could swipe the screen rather dramatically.
