Outcasts

Chapter 1 - Brushup

Light from the window in the large paneled office slanted in on a painting-in-progress, a master's hand touching a brush to canvas, the subject a stern-looking man in a suit and tie sitting in a leather chair.

The artist, Victor Sykes, was putting the finishing touches on the image of hefty, close-cropped Walter Renchler, warden of the Franklin Correctional Facility, a medium security prison in far upstate New York.

Sykes, a convicted art forger – late forties, ruffled good looks, green-gray eyes that had seen their fair share of creative rip-offs – dabbed with his brush and stepped back. Tilted his head and studied the painting.

"I think that's it," he said. "See what you think."

Renchler pushed himself up from the chair, came over and stood with Sykes in front of the canvas. After a moment he nodded with satisfaction at the Old Master treatment Sykes had given him.

"I like it," Renchler said. "And thank you again for staying these extra days."

"Would you like me to sign it?"

Another nod. "With your name, please."

Sykes did the honors and then packed up his paint box. Took a last look at the portrait, turned and went out to the reception area where he slipped the paint box into a duffle bag propped on a chair.

Renchler's assistant, a large woman named Margaret, who'd been on staff here since anyone could remember, got up from her desk to come over and give Sykes a hug.

"We're going to miss you," she said.

Sykes smiled and kissed Margaret's cheek. "Call if you're coming down to the big city, the warden will have my number. We'll sneak off to where no one can find us."

"Done," she said, and squeezed his arm as he left the room with Renchler, duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

The two men walked toward the end of a long corridor, Renchler giving Sykes a sidelong look. "Have you thought any more about what you're going to do?"

Sykes shrugged. "All I know is paint and canvas, warden."

"You're a talented man. I hope you put it to better use than what got you in here."

They stopped at a steel security door that a uniformed guard pulled open. He held the door with one hand and shook Sykes's hand with the other.

"Good luck, man."

Sykes smiled and thanked him and followed Renchler out the door.

The guard watched their backs as he swung the door slowly closed, could hear Renchler saying, "The shuttle will take you to the bus. From there you're on your own."

The guard made sure the door was securely locked, checked around him to see that no one else was nearby. He took out his cell phone and speed dialed a number. Waited for the connection, then said in a low voice, "He'll be on the mid-day bus from here."

~~~~~~

It was after midnight when the Greyhound pulled into New York's Port Authority Terminal. It had rained on and off all the way down from the Adirondack village that served the prison, a storm blowing sharply down from Canada. Sykes's only luggage was the carry-on duffle, so he avoided the baggage offload hassle and walked straight from the arrival gate to the escalator that went up to the lobby.

He didn't pay particular attention to the hard-looking man standing over by the departures and arrivals board talking on his phone. But the man was paying attention to him.