Tides of Peril
TIDES OF
PERIL
by Rick Potter
Copyright © 2014 Rick Potter
All rights reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Author, except where permitted by law.
Rickstermsn@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Written for Kristina,
and dedicated to the memory
of my father
Cover design by: San Giovanni Valdarno
Part One
Chapter One
A mist of hushed whispers clouded the canteen of Florida's Correctional Facility for Women. A stabbing was about to occur. No one knew the identity of the victim, but they knew it would be Beatrice grasping the taped handle of the shiv.
Beatrice Johnson was butch, a stout bull of a woman who was convicted of slashing her girlfriend and a man to death with a box cutter after discovering them together. Her prison reputation for disregarding human life catapulted her to cellblock boss. Not only was she feared by other convicts, even guards were intimidated by her.
Beatrice rose from the company of her girls, and marched with stoic indignation down the aisle of lined tables. Convicts kept their heads downcast toward their food trays, tensing as she neared, then sighing with relief when she passed. Without glancing at the nearby guards, she stopped behind the victim of her fury and drove the sharpened end of a toothbrush into the woman's kidney, jackhammering quick jabs. The woman's eyes rolled back as her head slammed into her food tray. An outraged convict from the same table, leaped from her chair and attacked Beatrice. Her hands firm around Beatrice's throat, Beatrice sunk the shiv into her attacker's jugular. A volcano of blood erupted.
The alarm triggered. Before she was able to handoff the murder weapon to one of her passing girls, guards unleashed batons and blew whistles, forcing onlooking convicts to the side. It took seven guards to wrestle her to her knees, and fifty-thousand volts from a taser gun to calm her.
After restraining her in shackles, guards dragged Beatrice through the corridor of convicts who chanted her name with fists raised high overhead. She would spend thirty-days in solitary confinement, or Lock, as it was referred to in the prison.
Lock was a room even the toughest inmates feared. The size of a small apartment balcony, there was barely enough room to stretch. Located across the yard, the only light was from the small palm-sized window on the door that faced a cement wall just feet away. Thirty-days of darkness and silence drove inmates rabid; doing more harm than good when they were released.
After being knocked and nudged to the front by angry taunting convicts, petite Dorothea Silva stood in clear view of Beatrice. She had been warned by her veteran cellmate to avoid eye contact with other convicts. They were animals, and looking into their eyes was a sign of challenge. "And with your size, that's not something you want to tempt," her cellmate had told her.
Dorothea stared in awe as Beatrice was dragged by shackles in front of her. It took just a moment for her to glance up at Dorothea, but a bit longer for Dorothea to look away. It was too late. A challenge had been declared. "You're next, fish."
Dorothea Silva had grown up in a musty two room shanty located in a blighted area of a small Mexican village, each house worse than the next. Her room, shared with her little brother, consisted of a single-sized mattress on the floor, and a blanket hung by nails for a door. Her mother slept on a ragged sofa found discarded in a field, while her father, on the nights he decided to come home, passed out on a tattered armchair coddling a bottle of comfort.
Scrap plywood torn from another house took the place of a front door. She didn't know what her father did for money, but whatever he earned, they saw very little of it. Dorothea guessed it went toward women and booze, at least those were the words she heard in-between her mother's screams.
Dorothea and her little brother were inseparable. In most instances, she took better care of him than her mother. When he outgrew the mattress they shared, she surrendered it to him, while she slept in the corner on floorboards. Although it was colder and much harder, she never complained. It was easier to feel the vibration of her father's steps approaching their room in the middle of the night. In return, her little brother shared his birthday with her, she never knew the exact day or month of her own.
The squeak of plywood opening from twisted nails in the middle of the night warned their father was home. The foul stench of alcohol confirmed it. She would listen to his yelling, which always concluded with the sound of a painful slap. The cadence of footsteps approached her room, stifled the sound of her mother's sobs. Dorothea would pretend she was sleeping, or sit-up in the corner clasping her knees to her chest. Either way, when he came into their room, it usually meant only one thing.
His powerful grip would encompass her thin arm, compounding bruises from nights before. Fighting him became a needless utility that was only followed with beatings. Her brother, only a few years younger, but already the size of their father, tried protecting her, but that usually left him close to unconsciousness. She was fourteen.
Her frail uneducated mother, Andrea, was beaten down in body and spirit, and helpless against her father's drunken tantrums. When he wasn't home, she'd talk of someday all three of them fleeing the village to find a better life, but Dorothea should learn English first, then teach her little brother. "Opportunities are found for those who speak English," she'd tell her.
She did as her mother wished, but the timing to pack up and leave never seemed right. They waited and waited, until it was too late. Dorothea's mother was killed.
After being processed into the prison system on her first day, Dorothea was introduced to her cellmate, Marta. Dorothea was a reminder of herself thirty years earlier, petite and naive with an innocent demeanor. Although appearing to be fragile, Dorothea possessed a toughness about her, but Marta made it clear she was in no position to invite confrontation with other seasoned convicts. "They're like wolves," Marta had told her. "They travel and fight in packs."
Marta invented a mental illness so other convicts would think she was crazy and leave her alone. She'd amble through the cellblocks and yard speaking to the people in her head, making her the butt of jokes when she passed by them. That was how she earned her nickname, Voices.
After Beatrice had threatened Dorothea, Marta told her, "If she says you're next, you damn well better believe it. We gotta get you out of here."
Marta had already served thirty-years of her fifty-year sentence for a crime she swore she didn't commit. Like most prisoners, she pleaded innocent to her intentional manslaughter charge.
Over the years, she had earned the trust of guards and the warden by exhibiting model behavior. During the following week, she helped Dorothea compose an escape plan. Yard time was spent educating Dorothea on the vulnerable weak spots, while in their cell at night, they discussed the best dates and times for escape.
Marta would recommend her the yard duty position of mowing the lawn. This would give her the opportunity to be a safe distance away from convicts and guards. Located at the end of the side building, out of sight from the tower guards, a portion of the fence had rusted and unraveled through the years. Marta would distract the guards by creating a diversion, allowing Dorothea to burrow under the fence and make a run for freedom.
"Are you sure you won't come with me?" Dorothea asked.
"But you could be next."
"If all goes as planned, that problem won't exist."
Chapter Two
Sam Peterson's handsome boyish looks were invalidated by his obtrusive centerpiece, a name his mother coined for his nose when he was young schoolboy. She had told him he'd grow into it, while his father had assured him it would attract girls and make men envy. Neither were right. Instead, it promoted years of jokes and ridicule. Together with his passive demeanor and shorter than normal stature, Sam was a prime target for even novice bullies. The one occasion during grade school when he defended his honor, he was awarded a trip to the emergency room with a broken centerpiece.
When he was sixteen, Sam grew tired of being picked on. He decided to bulk up and enroll in an after school self-defense class. He learned various martial art and boxing techniques, most centering on moves which scored the highest points for organized competitions which he never took part in. The enjoyment of hitting another person evaded him. He couldn't understand how hurting another could be construed as having fun.
Months of working out and mauling the heavy bag, the opportunity arose to test his newfound strength. Feeling confident, he attempted to push a car which had jackknifed on a steep incline during a snowstorm. Sam braced himself against the car, but when it slid back on the icy cement, his arm pinned against a tree, fracturing his arm. After six months of tolerating a cast, his desire for fitness had faded.
The lunch bell sounded when the clock struck twelve. Students in the eleventh grade Geography class rose from their desks and darted for the door. "Have a good Spring Break," he said.
As usual, no one responded.
He strolled through his classroom picking up dropped notes and trash, preparing for the afternoon classes. Posted to walls were maps of continents and major cities from around the world, and satellite photos of the worlds oceans and seas. He was proud of his classroom, and wished his students had been more interested in the subject.
When he had finished tidying his classroom, he parked in his usual spot at the end of the table in the teachers lounge, nibbling on his peanut butter and honey sandwich, while listening to his colleagues share plans for summer vacation. It was always the same this time of year.
Most teachers were leaving town to visit friends or family, while others had reserved hotels in Atlantic City, or the Big Apple. Some had arranged camping trips near the Chesapeake Bay. "I prefer camping in the comfort of a four or five star hotel," a pretentious teacher blurted.
"Hear, hear," several agreed.
The more they spoke, the more his dislike of his colleagues grew, but maybe it was just envy. 'A vacation would be nice, but Maddie would never agree,' he thought.
She perceived vacations as an impractical way to spend money. "Vacations are temporary," she'd tell him.
The last vacation they took was visiting her mother just before Jake was born, but he didn't perceive that as a real vacation. That was ten-years ago.
Seated behind him was boisterous Thad Brewster. At age ten, Brewster's large frame of baby fat earned him the status of school bully. His reputation followed him through high school, as his punches increased with strength. Sam continued being his number one target, evidenced by a shattered centerpiece.
Soon after that incident, Sam realized vocabulary was more powerful than brawn. He began using words like, "Low self-esteem" and, "Narcissistic". Brewster soon developed a confused sense of respect for Sam, and left him alone in search of other prey.
"Hey, Peterson, what are you guys doing this summer?" bellowed Brewster, in his familiar condescending tone.
Sam answered without the respect of looking up. "Probably nothing, just stay home and relax with the family."
"That sounds adventurous. You must be the only geography teacher that's never been anywhere," Brewster blurted, followed by laughter from everyone.
Sam abhorred Brewster's attempts of demoralizing him. The physical treatment once inflicted, had been replaced with verbal innuendo. His lack of retort made Brewster bored, so Brewster's attention was turned back toward the others.
Sam swirled his brown locks and continued to eavesdrop. "What are you guys doing this year?" a teacher asked, Brewster.
"We're going sailing again this year. The kids loved it last year, and it's the perfect therapy for Doris and I." then added, with a wink, "If you know what I mean."
Sam liked the word, "therapy," and considered what Brewster was saying. His daze muted the bell for class. "Come on, Peterson, that's the warning bell," Brewster said, flicking Sam's ear as he passed.
Sam twitched from his thoughts, then placed his unfinished sandwich back in the paper sack. He followed Brewster and a rookie teacher named, Buddy, toward the door. When Buddy started teaching at the school, he latched onto Brewster, following him around like a faithful puppy. Brewster took an instant liking to him. They were close in stature and shared the same demeaning sense of humor. They became instant friends.
"I can't believe Maddie's his wife," Buddy whispered. "What does she see in that guy?"
"Who nose?" Brewster answered, rubbing his nose with a grin.
###
Sam tapped the steering wheel of their mini-van they purchased just before Jake was born, wondering what excuse she'd use today for being late. He understood being the Principal's assistant required additional responsibilities, but her bag of excuses were running low.
He suspected some of those responsibilities included flirting with the Principal after school, but restrained himself from bringing it up. He knew today she'd use, "It's the last day of school" excuse. The car door opened. "Sorry I'm late. Last day of the year, you know."
He nodded and smirked.
For most guys, Maddie's good looks, slender frame and sex appeal would have been the main attraction, but for Sam it was her ability to dominate and manipulate a conversation that captured his attention when they first met in college. She reminded him of his mother, independent and opinionated.
Sam was the perfect guy for her. Not only was he forgiving and patient, but he accepted her dominant demeanor, something no other guy tolerated. She warned him right from the beginning she was a control freak, a gene she attributed to her father. She was perfect for him.
Maddie's resentment for her father came at an early age and for a good reason. He had made it clear she wasn't the boy he had hoped for. He was an overbearing man who believed men were superior to women, but she set out to prove him wrong. When other girls were primping themselves for homecomings and proms, Maddie was busy donning Levis and suspenders to accompany her father on fishing and hunting expeditions.
To make her father proud, she excelled in all sports, often competing with boys and beating them. Still, her father refused to acknowledge her accomplishments. Despite his dismay, Maddie enjoyed spending time with him.
Her father was a journalist for the local paper, with dreams of becoming a famed novelist. When he wasn't writing for the paper, or hunting and fishing, he spent endless hours in his study, standing and tapping away on his Corona typewriter, emulating his inspiration, Ernest Hemingway. Her and her mother's framed photos on bookshelves were eclipsed by pictures of his inspiration, and family portraits hanging from the wall were replaced with deer heads with massive antlers, and marlins he had reeled in on fishing boats in the Atlantic. But still, no matter how long and hard he worked, he still remained unpublished.
While on hunting excursions with her father, Maddie had the eye of a sniper, but took great pains to miss the deer she aimed for. She didn't believe in killing a defenseless animal staring you in the eye, that had nothing to do with skill. To her, true hunting was stalking an animal of equal, or more strength and experiencing the fear of it killing you.
Her mother was passive and obedient, fearing she'd become her father's number four ex-wife. Maddie swore she'd never be l
ike her.
As if her sports abilities and reputation as a tomboy weren't enough to repel boys, she had also developed an argumentative style of communication, which acquired her the title of, Bitch.
Her disguised beauty wouldn't be noticed until she entered college, when she began sprucing herself up and started dating. She was a head-turner, but her dates eventually dismissed her due to her overbearing attitude.
She and Sam met in the college cafeteria. She admired his centerpiece, and his demeanor reminded her of her mother. She was convinced he was a gentleman with a solemn temperament, unlike other obnoxious guys. Her control over him was apparent, but had not yet been proven. She tested him by asking permission to have dinner with a classmate. He only said, "Be careful."
Months later, after discovering her pregnancy, Maddie and her classmate married, but it wouldn't last. Arguments turned into drinking which led to physical abuse. It was over before it began, and they divorced soon after Emily was born. That's when Sam re-entered the picture. He took care of Emily between classes so Maddie could study and graduate. He had won her admiration and gratitude, and six-months later they married.
But, the years with Sam took their toll. She yearned for more. She wanted stimulation and excitement. She wanted someone to thrill her, to control her, to take her breath away. Something Sam couldn't provide.
On their way home from school, Maddie gazed out the window, while Sam thought about Brewster's sailing vacation. His routine stop to help out a beggar with a few bucks annoyed her more than usual. "Always the knight in shining armor," she said, under her breath.