soundproofed cells.
Aaron looked out of the window at the thin patch of sky, his mind turning in the silence. The facility’s location in Colorado gave Mitchell the ability to estimate where his cell was located within the complex due to the light from the rising sun to the east. The lighter edges of cumulus clouds drifting right to left across the blue told Mitchell that he was looking south, as the prevailing winds in the state were from the west. Moreover, ranges of hills to the east of the facility had a tendency to cause warm updrafts of air to disperse clouds during the late morning, further informing Aaron of his location. The final evidence however was a pair of red-tailed hawks he had observed flying back and forth across the sky above the prison. Carrying prey and twigs only one way and not the other, he knew that they were nesting somewhere nearby, and by good fortune he had been able to ascertain that their swooping climbs away toward the south east were aimed at the roof of one of the six watch towers surrounding the facility. A simple mental picture of the facility, combined with all of the evidence, yielded a cell on the southernmost tip of the prison.
Aaron straightened his posture, forced himself not to slouch in defeat as he washed in the tiny sink and relieved himself in the latrine before taking a shower. There was little rush as the strictly coordinated routine of normal prisons was not a feature in a maximum security unit – he would not normally be allowed out of his cell until after lunch, and then only for an hour of strictly supervised exercise. He wouldn’t be making that appointment, as he would be long gone by then.
Mitchell had already memorized his location within the state of Colorado, and of the nearby towns he would be required to traverse in order to reach his desired refuge. From Florence he would travel to Penrose, and from there further north through Beaver Creek state park until he could reach the slopes of Cheyenne Mountain, just south of Colorado Springs. It was an irony not lost upon Mitchell that the main route through the state park was named the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Highway.
Aaron dressed and waited patiently for the guards to hand-serve a breakfast of powdered eggs and sauce through a shutter on his cell’s steel door. Then, Aaron sat cross-legged on his bed and waited in absolute silence as he calmed his mind and emptied his body of the silent rage that burned within. His time would come in just a few hours, when he was due to meet with his counsellor.
The silence of minutes turned to hours, Aaron motionless on the bed and in a deep state of meditation. His heartbeat slowed gradually until his mind went into a state of deep relaxation, all sense of time vanished as he explored the deepest neural tracts of his memory, relived moments from his past both distant and recent with complete lucidity. Some haunted him, his long dead parents talking to him it seemed from beyond the grave, but their presence also comforted him and immunized against the confines of the cell surrounding his physical body. Other memories stoked the flame of anger inside him, especially those of Victor Wilms and the voices of Majestic Twelve, they who had used him for thirty years and then abandoned him to die here alone and forgotten.
His rage seemed to ring like a claxon in his mind, and then he realized that the sound was that of his cell door opening. Aaron drifted from the comforting realm of his dreams back to full consciousness and slowly got to his feet. There were no words, only the opening of a small shutter in the steel door at waist height. Aaron walked across to the shutter, turned his back to it and placed his hands behind his back.
The gloved hands of a correctional officer closed a set of cuffs around his thick wrists, and then Aaron stepped forward as the steel door was unlocked and then opened before him to reveal two burly officers.
‘Keep your back turned,’ one of them
Aaron looked out of the window at the thin patch of sky, his mind turning in the silence. The facility’s location in Colorado gave Mitchell the ability to estimate where his cell was located within the complex due to the light from the rising sun to the east. The lighter edges of cumulus clouds drifting right to left across the blue told Mitchell that he was looking south, as the prevailing winds in the state were from the west. Moreover, ranges of hills to the east of the facility had a tendency to cause warm updrafts of air to disperse clouds during the late morning, further informing Aaron of his location. The final evidence however was a pair of red-tailed hawks he had observed flying back and forth across the sky above the prison. Carrying prey and twigs only one way and not the other, he knew that they were nesting somewhere nearby, and by good fortune he had been able to ascertain that their swooping climbs away toward the south east were aimed at the roof of one of the six watch towers surrounding the facility. A simple mental picture of the facility, combined with all of the evidence, yielded a cell on the southernmost tip of the prison.
Aaron straightened his posture, forced himself not to slouch in defeat as he washed in the tiny sink and relieved himself in the latrine before taking a shower. There was little rush as the strictly coordinated routine of normal prisons was not a feature in a maximum security unit – he would not normally be allowed out of his cell until after lunch, and then only for an hour of strictly supervised exercise. He wouldn’t be making that appointment, as he would be long gone by then.
Mitchell had already memorized his location within the state of Colorado, and of the nearby towns he would be required to traverse in order to reach his desired refuge. From Florence he would travel to Penrose, and from there further north through Beaver Creek state park until he could reach the slopes of Cheyenne Mountain, just south of Colorado Springs. It was an irony not lost upon Mitchell that the main route through the state park was named the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Highway.
Aaron dressed and waited patiently for the guards to hand-serve a breakfast of powdered eggs and sauce through a shutter on his cell’s steel door. Then, Aaron sat cross-legged on his bed and waited in absolute silence as he calmed his mind and emptied his body of the silent rage that burned within. His time would come in just a few hours, when he was due to meet with his counsellor.
The silence of minutes turned to hours, Aaron motionless on the bed and in a deep state of meditation. His heartbeat slowed gradually until his mind went into a state of deep relaxation, all sense of time vanished as he explored the deepest neural tracts of his memory, relived moments from his past both distant and recent with complete lucidity. Some haunted him, his long dead parents talking to him it seemed from beyond the grave, but their presence also comforted him and immunized against the confines of the cell surrounding his physical body. Other memories stoked the flame of anger inside him, especially those of Victor Wilms and the voices of Majestic Twelve, they who had used him for thirty years and then abandoned him to die here alone and forgotten.
His rage seemed to ring like a claxon in his mind, and then he realized that the sound was that of his cell door opening. Aaron drifted from the comforting realm of his dreams back to full consciousness and slowly got to his feet. There were no words, only the opening of a small shutter in the steel door at waist height. Aaron walked across to the shutter, turned his back to it and placed his hands behind his back.
The gloved hands of a correctional officer closed a set of cuffs around his thick wrists, and then Aaron stepped forward as the steel door was unlocked and then opened before him to reveal two burly officers.
‘Keep your back turned,’ one of them
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