CHAPTER TEN
Thum! Thum! Thum!
Elijah Cox opened his eyes. He sat cross-legged on the bunk of his cell.
No mattress cushioned his skin from the concrete below.
No pillow comforted his head at night. Water came from a hole in the wall, no protruding faucet from which he could conceivably fashion a weapon.
Waste fell through a similar hole and was flushed automatically.
Again, no protruding handle or bowl he could use to create a tool with which to escape.
Light came from recessed fluorescents encased in polycarbonate-covered housings within the ceiling twelve feet above the bare concrete floor.
This was true imprisonment of the body. Fortunately, the spirit was not so easily contained.
Thum! Thum! Thum! Over the intercom, the guard said, “Cox, I’m not gonna fucking play games with you. I can see you through the screen. Get off your ass and assume the position.”
Ah yes. The camera. Elijah still didn’t know where that was.
Thum! Thum! Thum! “Cox, I swear, I will gas this cell right now and put you in the medical ward with a fucking needle taped to your arm.”
Cox unfolded himself slowly and got to his feet. He walked to the wall and put his hands against it, splaying his fingers. He spread his feet, the soles bare and calloused.
“Thank you,” the guard called. “Why is that always so damned hard?”
A soft whirring noise sounded, the tray extending outward. A second, two, three, then another whirring sound as the tray extended inward. “My terms,” Cox said.
He didn’t raise his voice. The microphone hidden somewhere along with the camera would pick it up.
The guard’s sigh came clearly over the intercom. The tray whirred. Two seconds, then it whirred again. “There,” the guard said. “Yesterday’s paper. You can have today’s tomorrow at breakfast. Warden needs to finish his damned crosswords.”
Cox pushed away from the wall and walked toward the tray.
The meal was robust, meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, steamed broccoli, and a bowl of chocolate pudding for dessert.
When Cox was interred in his new accommodations, he asked to be fed a simple diet of grains and lentils.
When the warden refused, Cox refused to eat. Or drink.
For the first twenty-four hours, they ignored this. During the second forty-eight hours, they argued with him. For twelve hours after that, they bargained, and when he finally collapsed and seized from lack of water, they took him to the medical ward.
When he was well enough to return to his cell, the warden visited and explained that his diet had been set by the Department of Justice.
When Cox expressed doubt that a Cabinet-level administration would care what a specific prisoner ate, even one such as himself, the warden insisted that his hands were tied.
He was required to prove that Cox was being treated well.
Apparently, he didn’t see the hypocrisy in that statement.
So, Cox had made a deal. He wanted news. He was denied any time outside of his cell save for an hour in a deep pit watched by a dozen very heavily armed guards. No television, no visitors aside from law enforcement, no interaction with anything or anyone from the outside world.
So, he asked for the newspaper. It could be after the staff was finished so long as it was turned over to him in its entirety.
The warden had agreed to these terms provided Cox ate every one of his meals.
The word he actually used was enjoyed, but Cox wouldn’t enjoy the frivolity of a nice meal.
His body was a temple of God, and if he was expected to profane that temple, it would only be to allow himself to serve God in another capacity.
Cox picked up the newspaper, shuffled through it, made sure it was all present.
“It’s all there,” the guard said irritably. “Come on, man, just eat the damned food.”
Cox suppressed a smile. Judging by the voice, this was Tyler, one of the younger correctional officers.
Tyler had a bit of a thing with one of the inmates in the women’s ward.
She could usually find time to slip away to the showers around dinner time.
If Tyler was fast enough, he could enjoy some time alone with her.
Cox knew this because he’d overheard two guards talking while he was taking his exercise. They knew he was there, but they didn’t believe it mattered. That was their mistake. The age-old saying held true today. Knowledge was power.
Cox satisfied himself that the paper was all there and began to eat. Slowly. Deliberately. Carefully chewing each bite before swallowing. Every four bites, he would take a sip of water from the soft latex bottle provided with the meal, soft because hard plastic could be sharpened into a weapon.
Tyler moaned, “Come on, man, just… Shit.”
Cox showed no reaction. Poor Tyler would have to find release some other way tonight.
He left the paper folded on the floor next to him while he ate. He would read it when Tyler was gone and he could have some semblance of privacy.
Not real privacy, though. There was that camera, hidden, unseen, watching everything he did.
His left eye twitched, a show of frustration. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. This necessitated a pause in his meal, which Tyler greeted with another moan and a frustrated curse.
He got himself under control, finished his meal, got to his feet, and headed to the opposite wall, assuming the same position he had at the arrival of his meal.
“Thanks a lot, asshole,” Tyler mumbled, retrieving the tray. His footsteps thudded down the hall as he left, irritated that the possibility of a tryst with his favorite prisoner was no longer.
Cox retrieved his paper and read. As he read, a smile spread across his face.
Good. His disciple was performing excellently. She had slain a murderer who escaped justice. She would be encouraged by this and slay others.
He said a prayer for her. Not for salvation. Her soul was most certainly damned, though not for the reason she believed. But a prayer of thanks that God had brought her to him and shown him how to use her to perform His will.
As He had with Abraham, God had provided Himself a lamb.
Cox finished the article. Then, as he always did with his newspapers, he folded this one tightly and dropped it down the hole. A soft whoosh told him it had been sucked away.
He resumed his cross-legged position on top of his bed, closed his eyes, and prayed.