the truck slam shut. For a moment fear gripped her: I’m trapped! But then she relaxed, forcing herself to take slow, even breaths. It was uncomfortable, coiled inside the crate like a marionette, but she could bear the position. The cold, on the other hand, was debilitating. Limb by limb, Grace felt her body start to go numb. Her head ached violently, as if she’d just sunk her teeth into an ice cube.
The engine rumbled to life. We’re moving. Soon, all Grace could hear was the beating of her own heart. She said a silent prayer:
Please God, don’t let them check all the boxes.
The thud was so loud, the driver heard it through his blaring Bruce Springsteen CD. One of the crates must have come loose.
‘What the fuck?’ Slamming on the brakes, he climbed out of the cab. Dumb-ass fucking dykes. How hard is it to stack a bunch of boxes? All they had to do was put ’em one on top of another.
Grace heard the rear door open. Rays from a flashlight seeped through the crack above her head, where Cora had left the lid loose. She held her breath
‘Goddamn it.’
Crates scraped noisily across the metal floor of the truck. The next thing Grace knew, her own box was moving. Oh God, no! He’ll see me. But the driver didn’t see her. Instead, pulling Grace’s crate forward, he noticed the loose lid and banged it shut with his fist. Then he lifted another box and piled it on top of Grace’s. The rear door slammed. Grace felt the lurch of the truck as it pulled away.
Cold beads of sweat broke out all over Grace’s body.
She had no air.
I’m going to suffocate.
Warden McIntosh stormed into the children’s center. All the kids had gone home. A lone inmate was clearing away the last of the toys.
‘You alone here?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m waiting for Sister Agnes to come back and lock up.’
‘There was a pickup scheduled for four P.M. today. Did that happen?’
‘I think so, sir. Cora Budds was in the storeroom.’
‘What about Grace Brookstein? Have you seen her in here this afternoon?’
‘No, sir. Cora tol’ me she’s in lockdown.’
Warden McIntosh relaxed. Lisa Halliday had gotten it wrong. Grapevine information was often unreliable at Bedford. Still, protocols had to be followed. He picked up the phone on Sister Agnes’s desk.
I’m going to die!
Grace was already hyperventilating. As she felt the truck stop, her hopes soared. They must be at the checkpoint. She tried to scream.
‘Help! Somebody help me!’
For weeks, she had dreaded this moment, terrified that the guards would discover her. Now she was terrified that they wouldn’t. Without air, she would die in this box long before the truck reached the depot
‘Help!’ She was yelling as loudly as she could, but her lungs didn’t seem to be working properly. The words came out soft and breathy, muffled by the crates above and to the side of her. The guards heard nothing.
‘What’s this lot, then?’
The driver handed over his paperwork. ‘Modeling clay. About two tons of the stuff.’
‘All right. Let’s take a look.’
The two guards began opening the first row of boxes.
Please! I’m here!
Grace knew in that moment that she didn’t want to die. Not yet. Not like this.
I have to find Lenny’s murderer first. I have to make them pay.
She started to feel dizzy. Aware she was beginning to lose consciousness, she called out again.
One of the guards stopped. ‘Did you hear anything?’
His companion shook his head. ‘Only my teeth chattering. It’s friggin’ cold out here, man. Come on, man, let’s get this over with.’ Pulling forward another crate, he dumped it on the ground, opened it, and checked inside. He did the same with another. Then another. As he was opening the fourth, the driver pleaded, ‘Come on, you guys, give me a break, wouldya? You know how long this shit took to load? I got a six-hour drive ahead a me and I’m freezing my ass off.’
The guards looked at each other. They could hear the distant ringing of a telephone, back inside their warm, comfortable surveillance tower.
‘Okay. You’re good to go.’ They signed the driver’s papers and handed them back to him. ‘Drive safe.’
Sixty seconds later, the truck was cruising out through the prison gates.
Grace Brookstein was still inside.
Grace awoke to the sound of the engine gaining speed. Relief overwhelmed her.
I can breathe! I’m alive.
One of the guards must have loosened the lid of her crate! Why didn’t they find me? It’s a miracle. Someone up there must be looking out for me. Maybe it’s Lenny, come back as my guardian angel?
For a few seconds she felt euphoric. I made it out of Bedford. I did it! But reality soon reasserted itself. She was a long way from being home free. Uncurling herself slowly and painfully like an arthritic jack-in-the-box, Grace pushed up the lid and climbed out of her cramped hiding place. The rear of the truck was freezing and pitch-dark. It took a minute for the circulation to return to her legs. As soon as she felt strong enough, she began to stumble forward, hands stretched out in front of her like a zombie, feeling for the truck’s rear door. After what felt like an eternity, her fingers stumbled upon a handle. It was stiff. She couldn’t move it. Just as she was wondering whether the driver had double-locked the doors from the outside so she wouldn’t be able to open them, the handle suddenly shifted.
It all happened in an instant. The rear door flew open with such force Grace was pulled along with it. Suddenly she was outside, clinging on for dear life, her shins banging agonizingly against the bumper as she dangled one-handed above the ground. They were on an empty, unlit road, moving at incredible speed. How fast? Fifty miles an hour? Sixty? Grace tried to calculate her chances of survival if she fell. Before she came up with an answer, the road forked into a hairpin turn. The driver swung a sharp left. Grace felt the door handle slip from her grasp, as if it someone had dipped it in butter. Next thing she knew, she was flying through the air like a rag doll, hurtling toward the trees. The last thing she heard was the thud of her own skull hitting the ground.
Then nothing.
