Read Online A Dangerous Affair by Jason Melby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jason Melby
Ads: Link
the turns, leaning just far enough to negotiate the bends in the road.
He had an hour to spare before the evening curfew started—an easy achievement despite the rain, if not for a faulty sensor that indicated an indefinite quarter tank of gas.
The engine sputtered and coughed, inhaling more air than fuel from the depleted reserve.
Lloyd drifted to a stop several miles from the nearest gas station. He tapped the hollow gas tank, confirming his own stupidity for not observing the odometer more closely.
Tired and drenched, he pushed the Triumph with his hip against the bike's frame to balance the center of gravity. A tractor trailer roared by with the air horn blasting. Cars followed in formation, but no one stopped.
Not even Sheriff Blanchart in his unmarked cruiser.
Chapter 12
Ronald Varden counted seven men inside the halfway house with the backup lights engaged. He carried a police radio in one hand and a lantern flashlight in the other. The loss of power he could live with, a missing convict he could not. After his stint as a Florida State Trooper, he'd worked as a correctional officer inside the county jail in Sharpes. He understood how temptation could make a man do crazy, unpredictable things. He'd survived his share of confrontations and earned the stitches in his head to prove it. On the scale of evolution, a convicted felon was no more a man behind bars than a wild animal, never to be trusted no matter how reformed or docile he appeared to credulous members of society.
Despite his own tarnished record hammered by unfounded accusations of unnecessary use of force, Varden doled out equal punishment to everyone who broke the rules. And despite the parole board assessments of the apathetic inmates who hid behind their rehabilitation guise, every convict was essentially the same. Unchanged. No better than he was before he entered the prison system.
He trusted no one but himself when it came to managing his own house of ex-convicts, who'd learned over time how to carefully manipulate a broken system for a chance at a new life. A chance they neither valued nor deserved.
The lights flickered, then came back on. A portable radio in the other room played rap music. Then as if on cue, Lloyd Sullivan entered the house dripping wet.
"You're late, Mr. Sullivan."
Parolees gathered around Varden to witness the inevitable confrontation.
Lloyd stood grim-faced. He left his wet boots on the outside matt. "I ran out of gas."
"Curfew started two hours ago."
"I had to push my bike to get here."
"The rules of this house are simple, Mr. Sullivan. I expect you to follow them like everyone else."
Varden quoted the house rules from memory. "Part two, section four, curfew restrictions. If at any time a parolee fails to notify the proper authority, that's me, of his whereabouts prior to his late arrival for evening head count, said parolee will receive one strike." He glared at Lloyd. "Is it starting to sink in now?"
"I get it."
"Keep it up, Mr. Sullivan. I'll have you back in lockup before the week is finished." Varden unclipped his PDA from his hip holster and dabbed the pointer at the screen. "You're making faster progress than I thought."
Lloyd wiped his face. "What do you mean?"
"You were speeding. That's a moving violation, Mr. Sullivan. That's strike two. One more and your time is done here."
"I wasn't speeding."
Varden pointed to Lloyd's ankle bracelet. "Technology is a beautiful thing. I know where you are and where you're going before you get there. I know how fast, how long, and how far. I can know where you eat breakfast every morning and how often you take a shit. I can practically read your mind." He shifted his attention to the other men. "Lights out in five. That goes for everyone."
* * *
Lloyd pushed his way through the line of convicts hanging on the words of condemnation. He hung up his wet leather jacket behind the door in his room and pulled his shirt over his head. A wall of
He had an hour to spare before the evening curfew started—an easy achievement despite the rain, if not for a faulty sensor that indicated an indefinite quarter tank of gas.
The engine sputtered and coughed, inhaling more air than fuel from the depleted reserve.
Lloyd drifted to a stop several miles from the nearest gas station. He tapped the hollow gas tank, confirming his own stupidity for not observing the odometer more closely.
Tired and drenched, he pushed the Triumph with his hip against the bike's frame to balance the center of gravity. A tractor trailer roared by with the air horn blasting. Cars followed in formation, but no one stopped.
Not even Sheriff Blanchart in his unmarked cruiser.
Chapter 12
Ronald Varden counted seven men inside the halfway house with the backup lights engaged. He carried a police radio in one hand and a lantern flashlight in the other. The loss of power he could live with, a missing convict he could not. After his stint as a Florida State Trooper, he'd worked as a correctional officer inside the county jail in Sharpes. He understood how temptation could make a man do crazy, unpredictable things. He'd survived his share of confrontations and earned the stitches in his head to prove it. On the scale of evolution, a convicted felon was no more a man behind bars than a wild animal, never to be trusted no matter how reformed or docile he appeared to credulous members of society.
Despite his own tarnished record hammered by unfounded accusations of unnecessary use of force, Varden doled out equal punishment to everyone who broke the rules. And despite the parole board assessments of the apathetic inmates who hid behind their rehabilitation guise, every convict was essentially the same. Unchanged. No better than he was before he entered the prison system.
He trusted no one but himself when it came to managing his own house of ex-convicts, who'd learned over time how to carefully manipulate a broken system for a chance at a new life. A chance they neither valued nor deserved.
The lights flickered, then came back on. A portable radio in the other room played rap music. Then as if on cue, Lloyd Sullivan entered the house dripping wet.
"You're late, Mr. Sullivan."
Parolees gathered around Varden to witness the inevitable confrontation.
Lloyd stood grim-faced. He left his wet boots on the outside matt. "I ran out of gas."
"Curfew started two hours ago."
"I had to push my bike to get here."
"The rules of this house are simple, Mr. Sullivan. I expect you to follow them like everyone else."
Varden quoted the house rules from memory. "Part two, section four, curfew restrictions. If at any time a parolee fails to notify the proper authority, that's me, of his whereabouts prior to his late arrival for evening head count, said parolee will receive one strike." He glared at Lloyd. "Is it starting to sink in now?"
"I get it."
"Keep it up, Mr. Sullivan. I'll have you back in lockup before the week is finished." Varden unclipped his PDA from his hip holster and dabbed the pointer at the screen. "You're making faster progress than I thought."
Lloyd wiped his face. "What do you mean?"
"You were speeding. That's a moving violation, Mr. Sullivan. That's strike two. One more and your time is done here."
"I wasn't speeding."
Varden pointed to Lloyd's ankle bracelet. "Technology is a beautiful thing. I know where you are and where you're going before you get there. I know how fast, how long, and how far. I can know where you eat breakfast every morning and how often you take a shit. I can practically read your mind." He shifted his attention to the other men. "Lights out in five. That goes for everyone."
* * *
Lloyd pushed his way through the line of convicts hanging on the words of condemnation. He hung up his wet leather jacket behind the door in his room and pulled his shirt over his head. A wall of
Similar Books
