Uncaged

CHAPTER 1

Jason Holden crouched in the center of the dark living room and waited. He listened for any sound, watched for the slightest movement. He measured the stillness and stared at the dust dancing between slivers of streetlight. His heart slammed against his rib cage and his nerves were on fire. He knew he’d gone too far this time. But, then again, that was the whole idea.

He finally stood up and glanced around. It was a two story, upper-middle class home in a planned community. Everything inside matched perfectly, nauseatingly so. The wallpaper was bright and floral. The shelves stuffed full of porcelain animals and wide, scented candles.

Breaking inside had been easy. The owners felt safe enough not to have a home alarm. That, or they’d simply forgot to set it. Either way, there’d been a window ajar and no lights on in the house.

Jason passed through the living room and caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He was quite handsome. Slender and well built, he’d lucked into his father’s physique and high cheekbones. He smirked at his outfit: Diesel jeans, a nice linen shirt, and brand new pair of Nike high dunks. Not exactly your typical house thief garb. He’d been on his way to a party when the impulse compelled him to pull over and do something stupid.

It was a compulsion that seemed to come from a part of his brain he had no control over. A deep, dark recess that apparently ruled his motor skills. By the time sensible rationale kicked in, he’d already climbed through the window. Once inside, he’d given serious thought to retreating, but the compulsion made a curtain call.

On a shelf next to the mirror was a line of picture frames. Jason picked one up and his face went cold and blank. The photo was nothing out of the ordinary, just a typical candid family shot. A husband, wife, and son all huddled together with their best smiles. But as Jason stared at it, the glass suddenly cracked and spider webbed. He opened his grip and there was smeared blood where his thumb had crushed the glass.

Jason set down the picture and kept moving. He slipped into the kitchen, spotted a wallet on the counter and rifled through the contents. He plucked out the driver’s license and held it near his face in the mirror. The boy in the picture looked vaguely like Jason, but at twenty-two, was five years older. Jason pocketed the license and tossed the wallet aside. He was about to check the fridge for beer, when—click, click.

He heard the unmistakable, universal sound of a shotgun round being chambered. He spun in time to see a heavyset man in boxer shorts as he made his way down the staircase. The man’s gut shook as he descended, barrel trained at Jason’s head.

Don’t-you-move, the man said.

As the last syllable dropped from the man’s lips, Jason did exactly that. He spun and bolted through the kitchen. The man jerked the gun, but stumbled down the last two steps. Jason rounded the corner and flew down a long, thin hallway into a tiny laundry room where he found the back door. He fumbled for the lock and slammed the door open with his shoulder. It smashed against the back wall as he bolted into the backyard, head on a swivel, and searched for an escape route. There was an acre of woods that met the edge of the backyard, but it was a solid hundred feet away.

As he sprinted for it, there was a blast like a thunderclap as buckshot sprayed a nearby swing set. A metal chip caught him just above the eye. It left only a small gash, but caused adrenaline to saturate his body. He made it to the woods and heard another round chambered a millisecond before a tree detonated beside his head. The shock alone yanked him off his feet. He twisted, rolled down a small embankment, and slammed against a rotting log.

As Jason sprung back to his feet, he saw the heavy man, still on his back stoop. He could tell by the way the man squinted that shadow had rendered him invisible. The man shucked the shotgun one more time in desperation and aimed the weapon randomly. Jason froze. His legs had ceased to work. He stood there for an agonizing three seconds before the man finally lowered his gun and stepped back inside. As the backdoor closed, Jason allowed himself a slow, calming exhale.

He then turned and casually disappeared into the belly of the woods.

* * *

Jason parked the Audi A6 in the front of a trash-strewn parking lot. His father would never have purchased a car this expensive for him. It belonged to his mother. Or rather, it used to. And he knew lately, whenever he asked to drive it, his father couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

He headed to the front door of the bar, ironically named The Palace. It was your typical college dive. Tallahassee was not only the state capital, but home to the Florida State Seminoles. And the Palace was a perennial student body favorite.

As Jason stepped to the front entrance, a disinterested bouncer glanced at the stolen license. The large man smirked at the discrepancy. But, before he could refuse entry, Jason slipped a twenty into his palm and the man nodded toward the door. Inside, Jason sat down at an empty table in the corner. He barely looked his own age, much less legal. So he decided to blend in for a moment.

Beer banners were draped along the length of the ceiling and big screen TV’s dominated three of the walls. There were a dozen, tall, chipped wood tables with matching stools. And tying the whole look together was a thick, ever-present film of stale beer on the floor, compliments of the young, sloppy clientele.

A worn waitress in a crop top shuffled over. Too busy to give him the once over, she barely looked up as he ordered two shots of whiskey and a beer. When she finally returned, Jason paid her with a large tip and slammed the two shots. He nearly spit the first one out, but held his breath and choked back the second. He chased it with the beer, which cut the burning in his throat.

He leaned back in his chair and paused to soak in the ambiance. Everything here seemed in slow, perpetual movement. Rich frat boys formed circles around pitchers of beer. Pretty girls roamed about in no discernible pattern, giggling, flirting. To his left, three stocky men slammed shots of whiskey and howled like wolves.

To his right, a handsome frat boy finally succeeded in getting two girls to kiss each other.

He watched them with contempt. They all seemed to be having such a deliriously carefree time. Jason gripped the chair as the familiar rage rose inside him. But as the alcohol took effect, the rage slowly subsided. He heard an old song he liked, Come Monday, by Jimmy Buffet, and it mellowed him further. He bobbed his head to the music and took another sip of beer. That was when he noticed the pretty brunette sitting at the bar. She’d looked his way, twice. The second time, she smiled, turned away, and practically dared him to come over.

I will take that dare, he thought. He then slammed the rest of his beer, crossed the room, and made his approach. Jason slid beside her and stared until she was forced to look up. He nodded at the stool next to her and said, You mind?

The girl nodded to another one, two stools away and said, Something wrong with that one?

Looks kinda rickety, he replied and sat down beside her. I’m Jason.

Dara.

Jason studied her as she took a sip of beer. She didn’t wear an ounce of makeup, but didn’t need it. She was ridiculously cute. A small, pert nose rested above two full lips and below big, brown eyes. She was clearly aware of how attractive she was, so Jason decided to go with a little false bravado. He leaned toward her and said, Dara, I’m not gonna lie to you. You play your cards right and you could walk out of here with my phone number.

Dara laughed into her beer, then coughed. When she finally caught her breath, she replied, Is that so? She leaned back, pressed her fist to her chest. Wow, talk about pressure.

Two more beers, Jason said to the bartender.

Sufficiently impressed by his gumption, Dara stared back. She finally said, Hold up. How old are you?

Before Jason could answer, a blond frat boy with a bad barbwire tattoo around his bicep stepped beside them. Jason glanced up, and cocked an incredulous eyebrow.

The frat boy returned the glance with an arrogant scowl. Little past your bedtime, isn’t it?

Jason leaned toward Dara. Friend of yours?

Ex-friend.

We need to talk, Dara, the frat boy said.

I don’t want to talk. Not to you anyway. Dara said and took another sip of beer.

Let’s go. Outside. Now.

The frat boy tried to palm her shoulder, but Jason smacked his hand away and said, No means no dude.

The frat boy jabbed a finger into Jason’s shoulder. Think it’s time for you to leave.

Truth be told, time is just an illusion.

That’s funny.

Jason exhaled. Don’t you have a pair of pants somewhere you should be filling with farts?

Dara’s laughter only escalated the tension. The frat boy shoved Jason hard against the bar. Comedy hour’s over, pretty boy.

Dara immediately got off her stool. She pushed the frat boy back, then turned to Jason, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you should take off. Just . . . please.

You’ll be okay? Jason said and straightened out his shirt.

She’ll be fine sweet tooth. Frat boy said over Dara’s shoulder.

Dara pushed the boy back again, then nodded to Jason. I’ll be fine. Thanks.

Jason forced a smile and turned for the door. He only made it a step when the frat boy taunted, That’s right. Time for you to go on home to your mom.

And just like that. Something about the word mom evaporated Jason’s smile, and in the blink of an eye he was on top of the frat boy. He drove him to the floor and unloaded a salvo of punches to his face. As the blood from the boy’s nose sprayed the floor, Jason reeled back. He looked at his hands, covered in crimson, and rolled off, horrified at what he’d done. He turned back to Dara, saw her sickened expression. He then did the only thing he could think of and ran out the door.

Jason blew past the bouncer in a daze, crossed the parking lot, and hopped into his car. He keyed the Audi’s ignition and the engine engaged. As he backed up, he clipped the car next to him but didn't stop. Instead, Jason threw his car into drive and sped for the exit. He launched into the street without looking and was immediately struck by an on-coming car. There was an enormous eruption of twisted metal and glass as the intruding vehicle pierced the side of his car and spun it like a top. As his mother’s Audi rolled to a stop against the curb, smoke enveloped the hood. Jason pulled his head back from the steering wheel and something warm and wet poured into his left eye. He tried to look up at the wreckage, but a fog enveloped his brain. He reached for the door, tried to exit the vehicle and make sense of what just happened. But as his hand touched the handle, he collapsed forward and his world suddenly went dark.

* * *

Governor Daniel Holden sat in a large office in the state appointed mansion. He leaned back in a plush leather chair and rubbed his face with both hands. He was a handsome man, the source of Jason’s blessed DNA. He was also a proud man, a man of the people, the local newspaper once said. Getting into this very chair had been an elongated struggle, but he’d done it the right way. The papers said that as well.

Once in office, he bent as little as possible to special interest groups and took hard fiscal lines to balance the state’s budget. But most of all, he was tough on crime. Overall crime had dipped ten percent in the last three years. Violent crimes had plummeted over twenty-two percent.

Those were the figures that initially sling-shot him to a double-digit lead in the upcoming reelection polls. But people possessed short memories and the headlines his son was making quickly made them wonder. The media, his party, and especially his constituents continued to hammer him with the same question: how could he run a whole state when he couldn’t even handle things at home?

He turned in his chair as a small, apologetic-looking man popped his shiny head inside the door. Your son’s here, sir.

Send him in, the Governor replied.

Yes, sir.

The Governor stared at the silver framed picture before him. A group shot of himself, Jason, and a pretty, middle-aged woman. The perfect family pose. It could have been the filler that came with the frame.

He rubbed a thin layer of dust away with his thumb and stared at Jason’s smile. He hadn’t seen much of it lately and he blamed himself. Since running for reelection, he’d spent little time with the boy. And after the death of his wife, even less.

He moved his gaze, stared more closely at his wife’s face. The olive skin, the dark, curly hair. He felt a wave of emotion that took a moment to settle before it passed. It wasn’t so much the finality of her death. He’d internalized and processed that fairly quickly. It was the sheer banality of the event that kept him locked in grief. She’d died in a fairly unremarkable traffic accident. The car simply slipped off the road and rolled down an embankment.

There was no one to blame, no one to be angry at. He often wondered if he subconsciously directed this blameless angst at Jason.

He had her eyes, and was a daily, painful reminder of the tragedy. The hard truth was, he hadn’t been there for his son when he needed him. Half the time, he was so involved in his own bile-black grief that he barely noticed when the boy was around. And he hated himself for it.

As Jason stepped inside, the Governor motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk. Sit down. As his son took a seat, he noticed a long, thin scab on the boy’s forehead, the only remaining trace of the accident. He felt the urge to hold Jason the way he had when he was a young boy. Instead, the Governor allowed his face to grow cold and hard. He had to take a hard stance, he thought. Enough was enough.

This . . . , the Governor said as he produced a piece of paper, . . . is your application to Harvard. He balled it up and threw it at Jason’s feet. He then repeated this act several more times. Stanford, Yale, Penn, Brown.

Jason stared at the paper balls on the floor and said, How am I gonna write on them all bunched up like that?

The Governor pounded his desk. The sound rocked the room. You think this is funny? He rose and rounded the desk.

Jason straightened in his seat and replied, No, I don’t.

You really want to piss your future away?

I—

This is killing me, in every possible way. Do you understand? He paused. The acting out, the drinking, the stunts at school. Now this? For God's sake, when I heard you were in, of all things, a car accident . . .

The gravity of the situation finally registered on Jason’s face and the Governor put a hand on his shoulder. It was as much affection as he was prepared to offer. He shook his head and said, I just don’t know how to help you anymore.

Dad, look—

Which is why I've arranged for you to talk to someone . . . a psychologist, he said.

Come on. I don’t need a shrink.

That’s not all. I’ve also enrolled you in . . . a special program.

CHAPTER 2

Rix did his best to smooth out his hair. He used the reflection of the lone metal toilet bolted to the back of his prison cell. His full name was Karl Rix, but from day one in this place, he’d just been Rix. A little over six feet tall, he was pale, sinewy, and muscular. A series of well-earned lines crisscrossed a tough, plain face. And his thick, normally wavy hair had been shorn close for the big event.

He buttoned his prison issued jumpsuit and exhaled loudly. He closed his eyes and attempted to muster up hope for the day’s proceedings. This would be his first parole hearing, and he knew the men and women who ruled on these matters preferred to err on the side of caution.

Ten years ago, when Rix got here, they would have had nothing to worry about. He was no hardened criminal. He was a twenty-year-old kid, scared to death. He didn’t belong here. Sure, he was guilty. He’d fed off the thrill of stealing cars and had built up quite a record. But in his mind, there was a solid rationale. The world owed him.

His father took off when he was six, but before skipping town, the man imparted one simple lesson. He made Rix stand on their fireplace mantel. The father held out his arms and told his boy to jump. When Rix did, his father moved his arms away like a bullfighter. Rix crashed, face first onto the floor, stunned, hurt, his bottom teeth protruding from his lip. As Rix looked up at his father, the message was clear—don't trust anyone. Ever.

By the time Rix was ten, his mother was a full-time junkie and part-time prostitute. He bounced from foster home to foster home before deciding he was old enough to take care of himself. At seventeen, he was living almost exclusively on the streets, stealing, hustling. Just enough to get by until he was of legal age. He would join the military and, with a little luck, come out the other side with a leg up and a chance for a real life.

But the proverbial fork in the road emerged when an irregular heartbeat disqualified him from joining the Marines. Just like that, his master plan was derailed. And so the old rationale kicked in. The world owed him.

Rix, a voice bellowed from behind the steel door. Hands.

Rix backed up to the door, put his hands through the slot, and allowed them to be cuffed. With a loud buzz and hiss, the door slid open.

He turned, exited his cell, and walked off to meet his fate.

* * *

As Rix stepped into the small, plain room, three dour faces greeted him. The members of the parole committee were irritable and impatient. There was a bald man with an unimpressive gray suit. Beside him, a heavy set African American woman with an ill-fitting dress. And at the end of the table, sat a thin, prematurely grey-haired man completely fixated on a broken pen. The cheap metal table was lined with open manila folders. Each one had his picture clipped to the top.

Rix stared at the black woman, the only one of the three he recognized. He knew practically everything about her. Her name was Tevena Taylor, and she was infamous around these parts. She was the one person you did not want on your parole board. She was single, lived alone, and reportedly a functioning alcoholic. Her father was a cop who abused her, physically, emotionally, and sexually. He was supposed to be one of the good guys, which cemented in Tevena’s mind that there simply were no good guys. Period. In this room, she relished the control she wielded. Something Tevena had gone without her entire childhood. As a result, she projected her father’s face onto every criminal whose parole she denied.

She looked up at Rix and her face went blank. The lack of windows and washed out light made her face seem sallow. Her lips turned down and her eyes went half-mast as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

Rix blinked hard. Let’s get this over with, he thought. He knew they wouldn’t approve his parole. He was a living testament to how broken the system was. He came here a young man who boosted cars to subsist. And he walked through the door today a convicted murderer.

The hard truth was, there was no grace period when you entered prison. There was no righteous path to be found. And there was certainly no time to get acclimated, at least not for him. For Rix, the violence started immediately. On his very first night, his overweight Latino cellmate tried to choke him when he refused a laundry list of sexual favors.

Truth be told, he’d thought about giving in. Maybe he could do it, compartmentalize it, and somehow try and get through the next three years. The problem was, that would only be the beginning. He knew once word spread, there’d be a line of convicts ten cells deep waiting for their turn. There were only two paths in here. Dominate or be dominated. Exploit or be exploited. Hurt or be hurt.

So he feigned getting on his knees that night. And when the Latino dropped his pants, he received an uppercut between the legs. As the fat man doubled over in pain, Rix delivered a kick to the outer portion of his leg that bent it sidewise. The ligaments popped like champagne corks. Rix should have stopped there, but fear made him crazed. As the Latino dropped, Rix grabbed his head by the hair and slammed it backwards onto