Clara had barely spoken to Mark since her visit to the jail four months ago. After paying the rebirthing fee, he made it clear to her that he wanted no part of the feud anymore.
She despised him for his weakness.
In fact, she was sure her entire family was composed of cowards. They only wanted to live off the family fortune, without recognizing the burden that was anchored to the wealth.
Why was she going to see Watkins again? Mark had asked the question repeatedly, but she couldn’t produce an answer. Jumbled emotions and disconnected thoughts filled her mind, blocking out logic and reason. She knew what she wanted to do, but not why. Something she couldn’t explain, intuition she guessed guided her, and this time she’d be prepared. The warden had tried to convince her, but she didn’t listen. Now, she would make sure to correct her mistake.
The three hour drive from their home in Lincoln to the prison gave her time to think about Mark’s parting words to her,
“What is it that makes you act like this? I mean, where’s the switch in your brain that says you have to be psychotic? No one cares anymore what happens to him, except you, and the few crazies that still camp out in front of the prison. Not even the media covers it anymore. He’s rebirthed and back in prison--it’s over, nothing else happened, it’s boring, there’s no story anymore. No one finds it entertaining to watch him rot in a cell day after day, except you. Let it go.”
Immediately after Watkins’ third rebirth, Clara began feeling remorse over her decision. During the next several weeks, it shot past the point of being a feeling, and blossomed into a full on obsession.
She had to go back to the prison.
Watkins had to die.
Months of anguish, combined with little research, led to her plan. She thought about paying a guard or another prisoner to kill him, but found it was harder than it sounded. Plus, since she was an amateur, she would probably get caught before the job was done. All the plans that went through her mind ended with her getting caught, but with her popularity and money, jail time wasn’t going to happen. Not for Clara Gannett. Getting the job done was her biggest concern.
She was convinced her plan would work. Wiggling her right foot, she could feel the Kevlar knife tucked into the custom pouch sewn in her boot. Last time at the prison, she refused the whole body scanner, and was so difficult during the pat down that the female guard barely touched her. It would work again. No one would suspect she wanted to kill him, especially with a knife.
When the limo turned down the final county highway before the prison entrance, Clara took the time to quell her nerves and notice the scenery. Fall had crept into the Nebraska countryside, dulling the vibrant greens into dirt browns and pale yellows. Gone also, was the sea of tall corn, whose absence lent a vast bleakness to the landscape. This was a different place than she remembered during the warm summer day of her last trip.
Once again, as they drew closer, the massive concrete prison buildings jutted from the prairie earth. However, this time they seemed to more closely match the landscape.
Masses of people were gathered in front of the prison, not hundreds as before, but thousands. With the crowd covered in a multi-colored sea of winter coats and blankets it had the appearance of an outdoor rock concert. However, orderly rows of sleeping tents had sprung up, with several large trucks in the center, giving the impression of a small army. This time, the rabble didn’t carry signs and mill about aimlessly. Four months had not only grown their numbers, but seemed to also instill them with a purpose, as if they were following a plan.
Clara felt a wave of fear. Where were the prison guards, or the police? This was beyond anything she expected. The media reports showed only a few die-hard Watkins groupies still in front of the prison. In fact, the regional media station had reported that they were wrapping up the reports for lack of interest. Now that Watkins had been rebirthed without incident, it was no longer deemed newsworthy.
Certainly, they had to know the reports were wrong. Someone had to be keeping an eye on the situation. This mass of rabble couldn’t be left unsupervised on government property. Who was in charge?
She convinced herself it was safe, that all she needed was her nerve to control the situation.
“Henry, pull up as close to the front door as you can and wait here until I send for you.” Clara instructed, full well expecting she would be arrested for Watkins’ murder.
Several hundred of the crowd followed the car as Henry slowly rolled it up to the front walk. She watched as they purposely followed. Fear tugged at her, beckoning not to leave the car. Clara tried to wet her lips, but her trembling body had sucked all the moisture inward. Her dry tongue served only to smear her lipstick.
Regardless, she would go, it was in her breeding, she had no choice.
Before opening the door, Clara felt compelled to lean back into the comfort of wealth she had been born into. She wanted to enjoy it one last time before imprisonment. The leather seat she had taken for granted thousands of times before, today, felt as comfortable as a womb. She didn’t want to leave, but every fiber in her body told her to go. Something she couldn’t control drove her to open that door--and go kill Watkins.
By now, the crowd that followed her car had assembled shoulder to shoulder on either side of the walkway leading to the front door. They formed a human corridor from the entrance to the limo.
Clara closed the door and gasped as she fully realized the enormity of the crowd surrounding her. There had to be over a hundred people lined up on either side of the cement walkway. Every unwashed one of them stood facing each other, with heads turned, silently watching her. She imagined them as an honor guard from an insane asylum. Most asylums are noisy, but in this case, the only sound was the smooth humming of the Bentley’s engine.
The lack of noise from a crowd this size was unusual. So Clara turned to look back over the Bentley, toward the tent city.
Thousands of eyes stared silently back at her. Not a word, not a movement in the crowd, not from one of them. As if they were hypnotized, and she was the center of their attention.
Unusual, had just transformed into bizarre. What the hell was going on?
Why were they doing this? Did they know what she was up to? Clara felt they were expecting something to happen, but what?
A normal person would have gotten back in the car and left. But, Clara had long ago passed normal, as if it were a road sign flying past her car window without time to read the words. She was driven, she carried the family torch, and no one, not even an army of psychos were going to stop her.
Bring it on.
Elbows weren’t necessary this time to reach the front door. The honor guard of commoners stood firm as she walked through their ranks. Heads turned to face her as she passed. Every one of them smiled.
They made her skin crawl, yet she didn’t feel threatened.
She couldn’t get in the door fast enough.
Upon entering, the guard whisked her away to the Warden’s office without stopping. Clara wanted to ask what was going on, but he walked her through security so fast she didn’t have time to react.
Suddenly, she was in the doorway of the Warden’s office. No metal detector, no search--there wasn’t even a guard at the security station.
It couldn’t be this easy.
“Hello Clara, I heard you were coming. I’m not surprised you came back, even though I warned you not to.”
Clara immediately recognized the booming voice and turned to see Warden Smith step out from the shadows of the office. She noticed he was wearing his official uniform usually reserved for formal occasions.
“Hello Rich, I didn’t expect you to take the time to see me again.”
“You need to call me Warden from now on Clara. I’m in charge of security, and you need to address me formally.”
“Security? You’re in charge of the whole prison, aren’t you?”
“Silly woman, it’s about more than just this place. This is only the beginning.”
“What?”
Clara opened her mouth, about to ask what the hell was going on, when the sound of boots stomping on the cement floors interrupted her. Six heavily armed guards, marching three by three, dressed in full riot gear came around a distant corner, aggressively headed her way. They moved with a purpose, closing the distance rapidly, stopping suddenly little more than an arm’s length away.
Feeling threatened, but not wanting to show fear, Clara got her back up and stood her ground in the center of the hallway. Like a defiant poodle in front of a truck.
Suddenly, someone began clapping. The source moved from between the six guards and stepped face to face with her. He was a handsome, rugged looking young man in a green prison jump suit with a flat top hair cut and steel blue eyes.
Clara had no idea who he was or why he was out of his cage, much less being protected by guards. Why were the guards helping him and why did the Warden allow it?
Then she looked into his eyes and it struck her like a meteor from the heavens, this was Watkins!
“Hello Princess,” He said, “I’ve been waiting to see you again. I knew you wouldn’t back down, not even to my riot squad. God, I love your spirit.”
Clara stepped backward into the office, just as the Warden pushed a chair into position. She fell into the seat, and stared wide-eyed at the young rogue with a broad grin standing in front of her.
“What are you doing out?” Clara demanded in her authoritarian tone. “Warden, what’s going on here?”
The Warden responded, “Knock off the act, we’re all in on it, you can let down your guard now.”
“No, she’s not acting,” responded Watkins, “It hasn’t taken hold yet, and she’s still on her own. I can feel that I haven’t gotten all the way through to her.”
Watkins walked around the chair with a confused, wide-eyed Clara following his every move.
Then he stopped and said, “Wow, you’re the strongest one yet, Princess. No one’s ever resisted this long. You’re one hell of a woman Clara. I have to have you. Now, come over here to me.”
Clara remained statue-like in the chair, appearing deadlocked with herself, fighting the command.
After a moment of silence, Watkins took up the steps between them. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders, touching the bare skin of her neck with his forefingers, then looked down into her eyes and spoke softly,
“You will never leave my side again and you will always desire me. Now tell me you understand and agree.”
His touch produced an electric sensation within her, warming her innards and replacing prior confusion with certainty. After a moment of hesitation, Clara stood and leaned gently into Watkins, embracing him with a long passionate kiss.
When it was over Watkins smiled at her and said, “You’ll still need that knife in your boot, Princess, but not for me.”
Clara flushed red and fumbled for an answer.
Watkins said, “No need to explain. I made you do it. It was necessary to get you back here. Someone as strong willed as you can’t be controlled from a distance. I knew the only way to get you back here was to rely on your hatred. So, the last time you were here I planted the idea that you needed to kill me. You don’t still feel that way, do you, Princess?”
“No, but I don’t understand why.”
“Knowing you, Princess, you’d never stop trying to find out, so I’ll explain it now and you won’t need to wonder. You made me this way. You paid them to do it, and I thank you for that. I’m going to repay the favor by never letting you out of my reach.”
Clara opened her mouth to speak, but Watkins raised his open hand and she stopped.
She obeyed.
He continued, “You put up a fortune for me Princess. I’m yours, bought and paid for. But you don’t get me without having skin in the game. You paid for me, but in return, I own you now.”
“How did you do this?” Clara asked.
“The rest of you really don’t have a clue what you’ve done, do you? The rebirthing process regenerates tissue in the body, but its exact effects aren’t clearly understood. You people using this on us prisoners is like giving a gun to a ten year old. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but as far as I can tell, what happened to me comes down to biological variation. Everybody else went insane after the first or second rebirth, because it negatively affected their brain tissue, but it had a positive effect on me. It’s like when a disease hits, some people are immune and some not. In this case, I’m immune. In fact, each time I go through the procedure, it makes me stronger—I can use more and more of my brain tissue. After the second rebirth, I could sense other people around me with my eyes closed. Now, after the third time, I can feel the people around me as if they were my own limbs. Not their thoughts, I’m not a mind reader, but what they feel--I can see what they see and feel what they feel, especially the pain and the pleasure. With each of my thoughts they do what I want, like a limb of my own body. The weak willed ones are easiest to control, even from a long distance. But for the strong ones, like you Clara, I need them close to me. The stronger they are, the closer they have to be for me to control them. I found that my power over people is like broadcasting a radio signal and those with the weakest minds have the best reception. Thank God for stupid people.”
Clara turned to face the Warden and said, “Why didn’t you tell me about this the last time I was here?”
Watkins interrupted and said, “Warden, are we ready outside yet?”
“Almost sir, I’ll go out and personally see to it.” replied the Warden.
With a beaming smile Watkins, said, “Good. Then I’m going to let you kids get to know each other better while I take care of a few loose ends.” With that, Watkins walked back into the midst of his riot squad and marched away.
Clara continued waiting for an answer from the Warden and said, “Well?”
“I tried to tell you the last time you were here, but I was only guessing. I know better now. You did the right thing by pushing for his rebirth again.”
“I know. I feel like I’ve always loved him. Like the hatred I felt before was just a misguided emotion. Instead of hatred, it was love, but it took him to unveil it to me. At thirty-eight I just met the man of my dreams.”