Read Online If Tomorrow Comes by Sidney Sheldon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sidney Sheldon
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the victims were always silent afterward. Or dead.
Warden Brannigan said gently, “With good behavior, you might be released in twelve or—”
“No!” It was a cry of black despair, of desperation. Tracy felt the walls of the office closing in on her. She was on her feet, screaming. The guard came hurrying in and grabbed Tracy’s arms.
“Easy,” Warden Brannigan commanded him.
He sat there, helpless, and watched as Tracy was led away.
She was taken down a series of corridors past cells filled with inmates of every description. They were black and white and brown and yellow. They stared at Tracy as she passed and called out to her in a dozen accents. Their cries made no sense to Tracy.
“Fish night…”
“French mate…”
“Fresh mite…”
“Flesh meet…”
It was not until Tracy reached her cell block that she realized what the women were chanting: “Fresh meat.”
6
There were sixty women in Cell Block C, four to a cell. Faces peered out from behind bars as Tracy was marched down the long, smelly corridor, and the expressions varied from indifference to lust to hatred. She was walking underwater in some strange, unknown land, an alien in a slowly unfolding dream. Her throat was raw from the screaming inside her trapped body. The summons to the warden’s office had been her last faint hope. Now there was nothing. Nothing except the mind-numbing prospect of being caged in this purgatory for the next fifteen years.
The matron opened a cell door. “Inside!”
Tracy blinked and looked around. In the cell were three women, silently watching her.
“Move,” the matron ordered.
Tracy hesitated, then stepped into the cell. She heard the door slam behind her.
She was home.
The cramped cell barely held four bunks, a little table with a cracked mirror over it, four small lockers, and a seatless toilet in the far corner.
Her cell mates were staring at her. The Puerto Rican womanbroke the silence. “Looks like we got ourselves a new cellie.” Her voice was deep and throaty. She would have been beautiful if it had not been for a livid knife scar that ran from her temple to her throat. She appeared to be no older than fourteen, until you looked into her eyes.
A squat, middle-aged Mexican woman said, “¡Que suerte verte! Nice to see you. What they got you in for, querida?”
Tracy was too paralyzed to answer.
The third woman was black. She was almost six feet tall, with narrow, watchful eyes and a cold, hard mask of a face. Her head was shaved and her skull shone blue-black in the dim light. “Tha’s your bunk over in the corner.”
Tracy walked over to the bunk. The mattress was filthy, stained with the excreta of God only knew how many previous occupants. She could not bring herself to touch it. Involuntarily, she voiced her revulsion. “I—I can’t sleep on this mattress.”
The fat Mexican woman grinned. “You don’ have to, honey. Hay tiempo. You can sleep on mine.”
Tracy suddenly became aware of the undercurrents in the cell, and they hit her with a physical force. The three women were watching her, staring, making her feel naked. Fresh meat. She was suddenly terrified. I’m wrong , Tracy thought Oh, please let me be wrong.
She found her voice. “Who—who do I see about getting a clean mattress?”
“God,” the black woman grunted. “But he ain’t been around here lately.”
Tracy turned to look at the mattress again. Several large black roaches were crawling across it. I can’t stay in this place , Tracy thought. I’ll go insane.
As though reading her mind, the black woman told her, “You go with the flow, baby.”
Tracy heard the warden’s voice: The best advice I can give you is to try to do easy time…
The black woman continued. “I’m Ernestine Littlechap.” She nodded toward the woman with the long scar. “Tha’s Lola. She’s from Puerto Rico, and fatso here is Paulita, from Mexico. Who are you?”
“I’m—I’m Tracy Whitney.” She had almost
Warden Brannigan said gently, “With good behavior, you might be released in twelve or—”
“No!” It was a cry of black despair, of desperation. Tracy felt the walls of the office closing in on her. She was on her feet, screaming. The guard came hurrying in and grabbed Tracy’s arms.
“Easy,” Warden Brannigan commanded him.
He sat there, helpless, and watched as Tracy was led away.
She was taken down a series of corridors past cells filled with inmates of every description. They were black and white and brown and yellow. They stared at Tracy as she passed and called out to her in a dozen accents. Their cries made no sense to Tracy.
“Fish night…”
“French mate…”
“Fresh mite…”
“Flesh meet…”
It was not until Tracy reached her cell block that she realized what the women were chanting: “Fresh meat.”
6
There were sixty women in Cell Block C, four to a cell. Faces peered out from behind bars as Tracy was marched down the long, smelly corridor, and the expressions varied from indifference to lust to hatred. She was walking underwater in some strange, unknown land, an alien in a slowly unfolding dream. Her throat was raw from the screaming inside her trapped body. The summons to the warden’s office had been her last faint hope. Now there was nothing. Nothing except the mind-numbing prospect of being caged in this purgatory for the next fifteen years.
The matron opened a cell door. “Inside!”
Tracy blinked and looked around. In the cell were three women, silently watching her.
“Move,” the matron ordered.
Tracy hesitated, then stepped into the cell. She heard the door slam behind her.
She was home.
The cramped cell barely held four bunks, a little table with a cracked mirror over it, four small lockers, and a seatless toilet in the far corner.
Her cell mates were staring at her. The Puerto Rican womanbroke the silence. “Looks like we got ourselves a new cellie.” Her voice was deep and throaty. She would have been beautiful if it had not been for a livid knife scar that ran from her temple to her throat. She appeared to be no older than fourteen, until you looked into her eyes.
A squat, middle-aged Mexican woman said, “¡Que suerte verte! Nice to see you. What they got you in for, querida?”
Tracy was too paralyzed to answer.
The third woman was black. She was almost six feet tall, with narrow, watchful eyes and a cold, hard mask of a face. Her head was shaved and her skull shone blue-black in the dim light. “Tha’s your bunk over in the corner.”
Tracy walked over to the bunk. The mattress was filthy, stained with the excreta of God only knew how many previous occupants. She could not bring herself to touch it. Involuntarily, she voiced her revulsion. “I—I can’t sleep on this mattress.”
The fat Mexican woman grinned. “You don’ have to, honey. Hay tiempo. You can sleep on mine.”
Tracy suddenly became aware of the undercurrents in the cell, and they hit her with a physical force. The three women were watching her, staring, making her feel naked. Fresh meat. She was suddenly terrified. I’m wrong , Tracy thought Oh, please let me be wrong.
She found her voice. “Who—who do I see about getting a clean mattress?”
“God,” the black woman grunted. “But he ain’t been around here lately.”
Tracy turned to look at the mattress again. Several large black roaches were crawling across it. I can’t stay in this place , Tracy thought. I’ll go insane.
As though reading her mind, the black woman told her, “You go with the flow, baby.”
Tracy heard the warden’s voice: The best advice I can give you is to try to do easy time…
The black woman continued. “I’m Ernestine Littlechap.” She nodded toward the woman with the long scar. “Tha’s Lola. She’s from Puerto Rico, and fatso here is Paulita, from Mexico. Who are you?”
“I’m—I’m Tracy Whitney.” She had almost
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