Hey, guys,

 

Just a few words to let everyone know that I'm still here. I have two new books nearing completion. Not absolutely sure of titles yet but I believe that one will be titled In Hell. I'll do another post just as soon as I figure them out. Both are adrenaline rush, heart-stopping thrillers. I'm so busy writing I just don't have time to post on a regular basis, so what I've decided to do is post chapters one through three of In Hell on my blog. If any of you read it and would like to offer feedback, please do so. I'd really appreciate it. And if you decide you'd like to read a few more chapters, that's okay too. I'll add them.

Thanks again, and be sure to check out my website. http://www.markedwardhall.com or email me at mark@markedwardhall.com

My two books, The Lost Village and The Holocaust Opera are available worldwide. You will find links to booksellers on my site or just go to Amazon.com. 

 

IN HELL

A novel by Mark Edward Hall

 

Copyright 2006 by Mark Edward Hall   

 

 

“We are come

Where I have told thee we shall see the souls

To misery doomed.”

 

—Dante Alighieri

 

 

 

PART ONE

GOING NUTS

 

ONE

ILLUSIONS

 

1

 

The car was a ghost in the fog, crossing the center line and drifting silently into the breakdown lane. It briefly stayed on course before lurching back across both lanes toward the guardrails at the center of the highway.

The two joggers jumped the guardrails and waited—jogging in place—as a southbound vehicle sped past, yellow fog lights smoldering through the morning gloom like the eyes of a sullen predator.

Hand in hand the pair sprinted across the lanes, laughing, flushed, happy; quick excited breaths.

There was a sudden and fleeting sense of flight, like birds taking wing into a starry night. Motes of confetti exploded like constellations of colors, fading to black, then to oblivion.

Two dead and broken bodies slammed against guardrails, bouncing and tumbling like articulated marionettes as the murderous car sped toward an approaching dawn.

 

 

2

 

The dream awakened him and he lay in the darkness of his cell listening to the wind howling outside the prison walls. His pulse drummed in his ears as his breath ebbed and flowed in rhythmic bursts, causing a small pinprick of pain to blossom in each of his lungs. He wondered if he had cried out in his sleep.

In the dream he had been on the run from a group of men with guns and dogs. That part of the dream seemed real enough; more like a memory than a dream. The rest of it, well, he could never be sure. He remembered it was late March and he could see his breath puffing from his mouth in white clouds. The moon above him was a cold, white winter moon, so unlike the bloated yellow moon of summer.

He remembered sprinting through the forest like an animal, agile and fleet footed, picking up the scent of a game trail and following its convolutions. And he remembered the thick, coppery taste of blood in his mouth and the agony of the empty hunger that raged at the center of his being.

He’d come to an interstate but had hesitated, wondering if he dared cross the four lanes of traffic. Ground fog lay in thick patches across the highway and visibility was nearly non existent. The closeness of the baying hounds and the sharp commands of angry men had decided him. He jumped the guardrail but hesitated still, understanding how man’s cruel inventions can so easily confuse the brains of animals. Animals are wired differently. Man relies on logic, animals; instinct. But why was he thinking these thoughts? Animals weren’t supposed to rationalize in this way. Somewhere in the deepest part of his brain he understood that he was neither man nor animal but something in between, some sort of reluctant hybrid, and that his intelligence was the only thing he had that might save him on this night.

He stood waiting and watching, listening to the baying hounds as they quickly closed the gap, sounding like hysterical children chasing after an elusive butterfly.

That’s when he’d seen the terrible thing . . . the blur of motion, the sullen yellow lights that were like eyes, burning and implacable. And he remembered the sound of the impact, so terrible, so senseless. But what exactly had he seen? What exactly did he know? Worse still, what had happened to cause him to be chased by men and dogs? The answer was the same each time he asked the question: he could not be sure. The more he tried to make sense of his life before prison the more the mystery deepened. Four years had passed and he understood very little about the events that had landed him here, and even less about the demons that had haunted him before and since.

 

3

 

But despite everything that had happened, Danny Wolf felt no anger, no need for revenge. He had damped his feelings down many years ago—turning instead to the humor he found in the subtlest of ironies. But now as he lay motionless in his bunk surrounded by three cold stone walls and a cage door he had to admit that his hope was for some sort of salvation, not from his sins—that, after all, would require some sort of divine intervention, and he had no patience for believers—but from the empty and relentless hunger that had plagued him for so long.

Throwing his feet over the side of his bunk he sat with his sweat-soaked head in his hands. Another day was beginning at Warren, another in a long procession of them that ran together as one all encompassing blur. After all this time he should have been used to the tedious rhythm of prison life. Not so. As each day passed the drudgery only became more difficult to endure. The waiting was the worst part of it by far; he’d had to learn to wait in line for food, to shower and to shit, to get his turn at volleyball in the prison yard. Most of all he’d had to wait the years away longing for the day when he could step out through the gates of this dark and angry place to a life without the hunger. There was no end to the longing, no relief in the boredom of his nothing life inside the walls of Warren State Prison.

Yet on this day there was one small glimmer of hope. Although Wolf’s sentence wouldn’t conclude for another year, he’d been told that a certain doctor who frequented the prison and worked with inmates on a quid-pro-quo basis had taken an interest in his case and would like to have a meeting with him and the warden. He entertained no illusions about his chances for an early parole; he’d been there before, of course. He loathed the process, the fake smiles; the files bulging with discipline reports, the psychiatric evaluations, the warden’s condescending gaze, the room filled with innuendo and dashed hopes.

Wolf had no reason to believe this would be anything other than another attempt at getting to the bottom of his ‘condition’. Others had tried and failed. The word in and around the prison was that Danny Wolf was a hopeless case; a dangerous man with something terrible inside him eating him away.

Although he had no clear memory of the incidents that caused these rumors, he’d been told that at times he turned into a crazed animal, howling out in rage and shaking the bars of his cell like a lunatic. The incidents, coupled with his sullen attitude and steely gazes were cause enough to be left mostly alone by both staff and inmates. Early on he’d been put in a private cell. Although he’d never actually hurt anyone, the staff feared that it was only a matter of time. He came to enjoy the solitude. Wolf knew there could be far worse penance in state penitentiary than being left to his own devices.

On this morning, however, he would go along and play the game. Perhaps the distraction would ease the boredom, maybe even get him out of the day’s work detail.  

Yesterday he’d been told to make himself presentable by nine in the morning, that the warden wanted to see him, and that tardiness would not be tolerated. So he hauled his ass out of bed and went about the business of making his appearance as presentable as possible considering the conditions under which he lived.

 

TWO

JARVIS

 

“Had another bad night, huh?” the guard, a man named Jarvis, casually asked as he led Wolf along the convoluted rout to the warden’s office. Jarvis was a decent and reasonable guy and had taken a liking to Wolf. Wolf knew it was partly because Jarvis was an aspiring musician with a part-time band and had found a kindred soul in Wolf. Years ago Wolf, a singer/songwriter had had a reasonable amount of success with his music in and around the Portland, Maine area; had actually become somewhat of a local legend. Then, just as his music career seemed to be taking off, he’d quit in favor of investment banking, a profession in which he’d earned a degree. Jarvis could not understand how someone with Wolf’s talent and promise could just quit when he was so close. Wolf had explained that marriage and the need to earn a decent living had been his motivations. He’d also told Jarvis it was the worse mistake of his life.

“Another bad night?” Wolf said showing Jarvis a frown of puzzlement.

Jarvis smiled crookedly. “That’s my boy, Danny, always answering a question with a question?”

“Just didn’t know what you meant, that’s all.”

“You don’t remember anything?”

Wolf stopped walking, staring at Jarvis.

“The night guard said you had another one of your . . . spells.”

Wolf gave his head a rueful shake. “Na,” he said. “The usual shit.”

“The usual shit?” Jarvis said. “I don’t think so.”

“It was a dream,” Wolf insisted. “That’s all it was. I have bad dreams all the time.”

“You sure that’s what it is, Danny boy?”

The pair resumed their casual walk along the prison corridor. “Christ, I don’t know,” Wolf said. “I never remember what happens after I wake up. Only what people tell me. And I don’t believe the assholes in here.”

“They’re more than dreams, Danny,” Jarvis said. “I’ve seen you, man, and I wouldn’t lie. It’s freaky. Sometimes you act like an . . . animal.”

“It only happens when I sleep,” Wolf said. “And I can’t explain why.”

“You’ve got something all locked up inside you,” said Jarvis. “It’s trying to get out but for some reason you won’t let it.”

Wolf shaped a grim smile. “Maybe because I suspect it’ll be the end of me if I do.”

“We’ve all got baggage, Danny boy. Some got small baggage, some big. Then there’s you.” Jarvis returned Wolf’s grim expression. “But I guess it’ll soon be someone else’s problem.”

Wolf gave Jarvis a sidelong glance. “Why do you say that?”

“Word is, they’re gonna spring you.”

 “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“Well I’ve got this funny little feeling this time it might be the real deal,” said Jarvis. “There’s rumors around prison.”

“How come I haven’t heard them?”

“You don’t talk to people.”

“More like they don’t talk to me.”

“Same difference.”

When they reached the warden’s door, Jarvis held out his hand. Wolf took it. “Good knowing you, Danny,” Jarvis said. “Maybe we can get together sometime on the outside.”

“I’d like that,” Wolf replied and meant it. “But I still think you’re being overly optimistic?”

“I told you, man, I got this feeling.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“We’ll see, won’t we? So, here you go. Break a leg, ole buddy. And, Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch your attitude, okay? The warden’s an asshole. Everybody knows it. If you have any illusions about getting out of this hellhole, humor him.” Jarvis tipped his hat, turned and walked away.

 

THREE

The Warden and the Shrink

 

 

Wolf rapped lightly on the door. It opened.

“Come in, Wolf,” said the man behind the desk who was flashing a fake smile. His name was Starkey and Wolf wasn’t the only inmate in Warren who’d dreamed of taking him apart. “Sit down, Wolf. Do you remember Dr. Shoemaker?”

Wolf glanced across at the second man in the room. The suit was tailored, the fingernails manicured. He looked to be middle-age, solid but of medium build with a full head of wavy blonde hair. His blue eyes were kind but filled with an inquiry that seemed more than just casual.  “Yes,” Wolf said. “I believe I do. So, what’s this all about?”

“Dr. Shoemaker is a psychiatrist,” the warden explained, his fake smile holding fast. “He has done some fine work here at the prison, and for reasons that are beyond me he has taken an interest in your case.”

“Oh?” Wolf said.

“How much have you told Mr. Wolf?” asked the psychiatrist.”

“I’ve told him nothing,” Starkey replied, “only because I do not wish to get his hopes up.” He looked over at Wolf. “The doctor here thinks he has a solution to all our problems.”

“Oh, I see,” said Wolf. “What problems are those?”

“Your little . . . psychotic episodes.”

“They’re not psychotic episodes,” Wolf said. “They’re dreams.”

The warden gave a bland smile. The kind someone makes when they have indigestion. “That’s not what your discipline reports say.”

“They happen when I sleep. I don’t know why. I’ve never hurt anyone—”

“True, but I figure it’s only because you’ve been locked up in your cell.”

Wolf’s temper flared. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said. “It’s some kind of sickness, that’s all—”

“Oh, I see,” said Starkey. “You get sick once a month and go crazy, sort of like a woman having her period. Is that right?”

Wolf jumped to his feet. “Don’t forget why I’m in here,” he said, staring accusingly down at the warden. “It’s not for a violent crime—”

The warden’s eyes shone with dull hate. “None that could be proved,” he said. “Although violent crimes did occur in Portland during the time you lived there; some are still unsolved.”

“You’re full of shit,” Wolf said, taking an angry step toward the warden.

“Sit down, Wolf,” Starkey said, “or I’ll have you hauled out of here in irons.”

Shoemaker held his hand up silencing the banter. “Please,” he said. “If I may?” Starkey’s hate-filled eyes shifted from Wolf to Shoemaker.

Wolf backed up and sat down stiffly. “I never hurt anybody,” he said again.”

“Mr. Wolf,” Shoemaker said. “I am aware of why you are here at Warren. It was for the embezzlement of a rather large sum of money. As far as I know you’ve never been convicted of a violent crime.”

“That’s right, I haven’t.”

“But the fact is, you have shown a propensity for violence while here at Warren. Your discipline reports reflect that.”

Wolf remained silent.

“Your case has only recently come to my attention,” the psychiatrist went on. “You see, I have a practice in Portland. One of my friends, another Portland psychiatrist, a Dr. Thomas Hardwick, brought your case to my attention. He said I might want to take a look at your file.”

Wolf was staring in bewilderment at the doctor.

“You’ve heard of Hardwick, right?”

Wolf thought about it for a moment before shaking his head.

“I believe he testified at your trial, Mr. Wolf.”

Suddenly Wolf did remember. Hardwick had been there for the prosecution. There was no real relevance to his testimony; it was only vaguely general, relating to state of mind and other like issues. He’d had no real evidence pro or con in the Wolf embezzlement trial.

“The point is,” Shoemaker went on, “Hardwick was intrigued by your case and he encouraged me to look at your file.”

“I don’t know the man,” Wolf said. “And as far as I know he knows nothing about me.”

“Irrelevant,” said the warden.

“If he’s so intrigued,” Wolf said, “why isn’t he here instead of you?”

The doctor glanced uneasily at the warden. “Time issues,” he said. “Hardwick is a busy man and there are many demands on him. The point is, he’s the one that brought you to my attention, Mr. Wolf. That’s all. I became intrigued so I went back and reviewed the events leading up to your arrest, the trial transcripts and your subsequent sentencing, as well as your record while here at Warren.” The doctor paused.

Wolf said nothing.

“Now, I have talked to the correctional board here at Warren and to the judge who sentenced you, and together they have agreed to release you from prison early provided you agree to certain conditions.”

“Oh, I get it,” Wolf said. “You want to dissect me, find out what makes me tick.”

“Wolf,” said the warden, giving the inmate a warning look.

“Okay,” Wolf said. “What conditions?”

“You’ll get a job,” said the warden. “And there will be a curfew, provided the job doesn’t interfere with that one aspect. But you will be monitored nevertheless. You’ll see a parole officer on a regular basis, and you’ll see the shrink, ah, I mean Dr. Shoemaker once a week.” Starkey shot the psychiatrist a petulant little smile.

“Let’s see,” said Shoemaker, ignoring the warden and leafing through a file. “You’re no longer married. Is that correct, Mr. Wolf?”

Wolf shook his head, wondering where this was leading. It was his story, his ball and chain. As far as he was concerned that part of his life was over. Since the trial he had never spoken a word about Susan or of the events leading to their divorce. And no fellow prisoner had ever wrung the story out of him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“In our sessions we will be going back over the events that led to your crimes and your punishment,” said Shoemaker. “And according to trial transcripts your marriage was relevant.”

Wolf frowned. “I was framed,” he said, knowing it was a lame and overused defense. He wasn’t believed at the trial, and of course he wouldn’t be believed now, maybe never. Just the same, the knowledge of his innocence and its subsequent denials were the only things in his life left that had any meaning. Everything else, including his dignity, had been stolen from him.  

Starkey smirked and said, “Every man inside this prison was framed.”

Wolf glared at the warden for a moment before turning back to the doctor. “How often will I be required to see you?” he asked.

“Once a week for a year,” Starkey answered.

Wolf didn’t offer the warden the courtesy of another glance. “Is that it?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on the psychiatrist.

“Pardon?” said Shoemaker.

“I mean, will there be any other limitations?”

“I don’t think so,” said the doctor, looking uncertainly at the warden. “As far as I know you can have a normal life, but you will be monitored.”

“After six months you’ll be reevaluated,” added the warden. “That’s all I can tell you. Bear in mind that when you are through with the psychiatric counseling you’ll still have two years of probation left to serve. If you screw up even once you’re back here and your ass is mine. Understood?”

“When can I get out?”

The warden shaped a tedious smile. “The arrangements are being made as we speak,” he said. “I think by tomorrow morning—barring any unforeseen obstacles—you’ll be a reasonably free man.”