With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Read online

  Failing to locate his boss, Grant descended the stairs and went to the supply closet for the bucket and mop. Quietly wheeling the yellow bucket toward the pump room, steering with the long handle of the mop, he halted as Roger exited the head and almost ran into him.

  “Madsen!” he boomed. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “Yeah?” Grant asked nervously.

  “I just thought of something. Your mom was Joe’s sister?”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Joe Madsen is your uncle? Your mom’s brother?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then why is your last name Madsen? Shouldn’t you have your dad’s last name?”

  Grant froze. His name, of course, had been Barberi before Joe had legally adopted him upon his mother’s death.

  Attempting to cover his consternation, Grant drummed up a look of incredulity. “I’ve been working for you more than two weeks, Rog, and you’re just realizing this now? No wonder you never advanced past ensign. You’re not too bright, are you?”

  Roger’s jaw dropped, and a twinkle gleamed in his hazel eyes. “You little prick,” he said fondly.

  Grant smirked. At first he’d been upset that Joe changed his name. But later, when he came to understand the horrific acts perpetrated by his family, Grant realized it was one of the kindest things Joe had done for him. If only a legal name change could also disentangle him from the emotional ties to his family.

  Grant met Roger’s gaze and his slight smile faded. “Joe adopted me after my mom died. And it was fine with me. My dad, well, he’s not a good man.” He looked down and sniffed.

  “I’m glad you have your Uncle Joe, then,” Roger said, his heart going out to Grant.

  “Me too … Well, I better get to the head, now that you just trashed my clean bathroom. Is it going to smell like a bomb went off in there?”

  Roger chuckled. “Actually, Madsen, I’ve got another job for you in mind. Put that stuff away. Tommy is going to be cleaning the shitters today.”

  Arching his eyebrows, but not about to refuse, Grant did an about-face and began wheeling the bucket back to its home, while his boss fell in step with him and explained. “That faggy young kid, Blaine, I got working as server—what the fuck kind of name is that? Anyway, he can’t work anymore because his family is going to Paris or something for the summer. That lucky rich shithead just up and quit on me, so I want you to take over for him up top.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grant nodded, closing the door to the supply closet.

  “You know how to play waiter?”

  “I think I can figure it out, Rog.”

  “Good. That grungy jumpsuit has gotta go, though. Hightail it to the office and get yourself a waiter’s uniform.”

  “Okay.” Grant followed Roger’s order and emerged from the office ten minutes later looking dapper in black pants and a white shirt. Hopefully this was the next step up the ladder to chief navigator. And in the meantime, serving drinks simply had to be better than cleaning toilets.

  * * *

  “May I take your drink order, ma’am?” Grant asked, peering down at a middle-aged woman in a low-cut blouse sitting on one of the benches on deck. An eight-year-old boy, likely her son, jumped up and down at the nearby railing in a hyperkinetic frenzy.

  She glanced up at Grant with a harried expression, planning to dismiss him, but paused once she saw his aquamarine eyes and tall, lean body. A brilliant smile bloomed on her bright-red lips. “Well, yes. Yes you can,” she replied coyly. “My ex-husband tried to tell me never to drink alcohol before five p.m., but screw him. I’ll take a chardonnay.”

  “One chardonnay,” he repeated, scribbling the order on his notepad. The woman had scooted her body closer to his and was batting her eyelashes. Grant blushed uncomfortably.

  “Would your son like a drink too, ma’am?”

  Her smile faded, and she turned to the boy in a Chicago Cubs baseball hat. “Henry! Do you want a Coke?”

  The freckly boy remained perched on the second rung of the white railing, but nodded his head distractedly.

  “Uh, he’s not allowed to climb on that railing, ma’am,” Grant warned.

  “Henry!” the woman scolded. “Get down from there right now.”

  The boy reluctantly climbed back onto the deck, whining, “This cruise is bore-ring, Mom!”

  “Shh,” she admonished. “People are trying to listen to the man on the speaker!”

  Grant took advantage of the distraction to slink away, relieved when his exit went undetected. He then relayed the order to the bartender, Dan, who filled it all too quickly. Grant barely slowed down when he returned to serve the drinks, swiftly moving on to take the next order. This was only the first cruise of the day, but after filling drink orders for more than thirty passengers, his new job was already getting old. However, he reminded himself, it was still vastly better than prison.

  A short time later, the cruise was headed back to the dock. The last drink order had been filled, and Grant had finally earned a little respite from his duties. He stood by the stern, gazing out into the blue-green water. The ship’s engines left a churning trail behind them, and the steady hum and splashing lulled his mind into a peaceful state. The temperature on deck was at least ten degrees cooler than on land, and he shivered slightly. This would be a good day for his White Sox jacket.

  His jacket. As he had so many times in the past few days, he remembered those gorgeous mahogany eyes gazing at him, warning him to take off his Sox gear before meeting with Officer Stone.

  Her full, pink lips—inherently kissable lips. Her tall, lithe body with legs that stretched for miles—an irresistibly huggable body. Would he ever have the opportunity to get beyond their brief snatches of conversation in the courthouse hallway? He knew one activity she might enjoy: a baseball game. She was a Sox fan too.

  The affectionate glow in Grant’s eyes darkened as he thought of the first White Sox game he’d ever attended. He’d been eight years old—just him and his Uncle Joe, sitting up high, far above the field.

  His uncle’s invitation came only two weeks after his father began serving a life sentence at Gurnee, leaving Karita, Logan, and Grant Barberi to fend for themselves. Determined not to have her sons follow in their father’s criminal footsteps, Karita had promptly moved them north of Chicago to her brother Joe’s apartment at the Great Lakes Naval Base. Unfortunately, Logan refused to get on board with the change, challenging Joe’s authority at every turn.

  Between innings, young Grant had inquired, “Why can’t Lo come to the game with us? Is he in trouble for running away?”

  Joe peered down at the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy, kicking his skinny legs up and down in the black metal stadium chair.

  “Logan is not going to stay with us for now,” Joe explained.

  “What?” Grant’s voice trembled, and he blinked rapidly.

  “He’s going to live with his godfather, your Uncle Angelo.”

  “That’s where he went last night?”

  “Yes. Your mom tracked him down at Angelo’s house this morning.” Joe sighed. “Logan decided he’d rather live there. But your mom and I want you to live on the base, with us. You’ll be safe on base.”

  The crowd roared as the White Sox pitcher struck out the third batter in a row. Grant was silent for several moments before he asked, “Doesn’t Lo like me?”

  “Oh, Grant, it’s not your fault,” Joe reassured him. “Your brother loves you. If there’s anyone he doesn’t like, it’s probably me. I was pretty hard on him.”

  Joe glanced down lovingly at his younger nephew. Grant seemed awestruck by the sights and sounds of a major league baseball game. “We’ll have to make it without Logan, all right? That means you and I can go to lots of Sox games, just the two of us.”

  Grant appeared pensive. “I’m sorry. I shoulda heard Lo leave our room last night.”

  “It’s okay. Your mom didn’t hear him either.”

  “Is Mom mad at me?” the lit
tle boy asked.

  “Not at all.” They sat in amiable silence, watching the game, before Joe added sternly, “Just don’t ever let me catch you smoking, Grant.”

  He looked at his uncle with fear, nodding slowly. Joe reached out to hug him but pulled back with surprise when Grant visibly flinched at his approaching arm.

  “I just wanted to give you a hug!”

  “Oh – oh—okay.” Grant nodded and allowed himself to be drawn into his uncle’s arms. Joe was overcome by sadness as he held Grant, rocking him a bit.

  Thirty-year-old Grant still remembered the feel of his uncle’s strong arms that day—a sense of safety he’d never felt before. Far off in the distance he heard the cries of a young boy, echoing in his mind like his own helpless, abandoned whimpers. The fearful sounds became louder, and Grant snapped out of his trance to see the alarmed faces of ship passengers all around him at the railing.

  “Somebody get him!” a man yelled.

  “Henry!” a woman screamed. Grant followed the sound of abject panic and saw the chardonnay lady wildly waving her arms, staring at the river below. Grant trained his eyes on the water and was horrified to see the boy thrashing in the river, his small head bobbing precipitously, about to go under.

  “Man overboard!” Grant roared, and without thinking, he climbed the railing and launched himself into the river.

  The icy water sliced through him, but instinct and Navy training took over as he calmly swam toward the boy. The ship engines kicked off, and he inched closer to his rescue target in what felt like dead silence. The boy was sputtering and his eyes flashed with terror each time he was able to kick to the surface.

  Almost there, Grant told himself as he took swift, sure strokes. His sopping clothing weighed down his arms, and he mentally kicked himself for failing to remove his shoes before he jumped into the water. He was a little rusty in Navy rescue techniques after two years in prison.

  Finally he reached the boy, and he extended his strong arm, trying to rein him into a safe embrace.

  “It’s okay,” he shouted. “Just relax. I got ya.”

  The boy frantically kicked and clawed before finally going limp in Grant’s arms. He still appeared conscious, so Grant guessed he must be in shock. He treaded water with some difficulty, but kept them both afloat until Roger restarted the engines and navigated the ship closer to them. Tommy (who apparently used the commotion to take a break from Grant’s former toilet-cleaning duties) tossed out a life buoy, which Grant retrieved, lifting the donut-shaped raft over the boy’s head and encircling him in the floating device. Grant kicked and pulled them both toward the rope ladder that had been extended over the hull of the ship, and he carefully helped the young boy up before climbing the ladder himself.

  Pulling himself over the gunwale, he heard the mother screech at her son, “Why in the hell did you jump off the boat?”

  “My Cubs hat flew off my head!” he whined, his body shaking from the cold. “It went into the river, and I wanted it!”

  His mother snatched the towel offered by a staff member. Wrapping her trembling son in the fluffy fabric, she placed her face within inches of his. “You ever try something like that again and I will kill you!”

  Roger arrived on the scene, studying the soaking-wet white shirt clinging to his employee’s chest. His eyes trailed down to the water dripping off Grant’s black pants onto the deck below.

  “You kept your shoes on, you idiot.”

  “Sorry.” Grant grimaced, shaking water out of his ear.

  Roger leaned in closer and whispered, “You just saved my ass, Madsen. Well done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looks like you’re more valuable up here on deck. You’ll never have to clean toilets again.” Roger nodded, then turned on his heel and headed back to the bridge to guide the ship to the docks.

  Grant grinned as Tommy handed him a towel. Maybe the man overboard had just swum closer to shore.

  8. Forty Percent

  Was she having a heart attack?

  Sophie had trouble getting air as she paused outside Officer Stone’s door. Her throat constricted with fear, and the dull pain in her chest sent waves of alarm coursing through her body. Had her mother felt this way prior to her heart attack? Would Sophie soon be seeing her mother again? She grasped the blurry frame of the metal door in front of her, maintaining a white-knuckled death grip as black spots danced before her eyes.

  Wait a minute. Tightness in her chest? Racing heart? Fear of dying? This was no heart attack. This was an attack of another kind: a panic attack.

  She’d come close to experiencing this heart-pounding panic in prison several times, but now she knew what a full-blown attack felt like. She suddenly felt complete empathy for her past panic disorder clients, who had tried to describe how terrified they felt, sensing impending death as their bodies broke down before their very eyes. Now she felt for herself their subsequent embarrassment upon realizing their bodies were quite fine. They had simply conjured up the physical symptoms in their minds.

  What was the intervention for a panic attack? Oh, right—deep breaths. Sophie forced herself to inhale slow, strong gulps of oxygen, trying to reverse the quick and shallow breathing of her state of panic. Feeling her shoulders sag as she began to relax, she tried to clear her mind. It’s okay. It’s only panic. Nobody has ever died from panic. Just breathe and talk yourself through it.

  She had no more time. She had to face her PO. She wasn’t ready, but she had to do it.

  Sophie forced her trembling hand upward and knocked on the door. Regrettably, she heard Officer Stone’s immediate response, hollering for her to come in. Fighting the urge to flee, she swallowed hard and entered the shabby room.

  “What’s wrong?” Jerry asked as soon as she walked in.

  She gave a tight smile and sat down gracefully, tucking one long leg behind the other.

  Observing her trembling in the chair, Jerry repeated, “I asked what’s wrong with you, Taylor. Spill it.”

  Sophie couldn’t look him in the eye and instead kept her gaze glued to her hands. She finally mumbled, “I don’t have a job.”

  “What? I couldn’t hear you.”

  She lifted her gaze and locked her eyes on his, a trace of defiance mixed with her hopelessness. “I haven’t found a job.”

  Jerry’s jaw jutted out and his face hardened. “This is our third meeting,” he growled. “I told you to get a job in two weeks or you would return to prison.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  A palpable tension hung in the air. Suddenly Jerry popped up. The scraping of his chair against the cracked linoleum startled her even more than his menacing approach.

  “Stand up, Taylor.”

  Her heart resumed its frantic thumping as she rose, stuffing her large handbag onto the chair behind her. He was right beside her now, the shiny handcuffs that swung against his belt reflecting the fluorescent lighting of the office. She felt the PO’s thick hand grasp her lean bicep, and he roughly guided her to the wall.

  “Spread ‘em,” he ordered, and she immediately placed her hands up and out against the wall, moving her legs apart as much as her beige skirt would allow. She tried to appear calm and composed, but her continued trembling revealed her fright. At least this time she knew what to expect, unlike the first surprise arrest in her therapy office. Sophie Taylor was returning to prison.

  Jerry frisked her in a methodical and business-like manner, his stone face hiding his disappointment. He had thought this one might actually make it. But he had to follow through on the consequence for her parole violation. It was his job. He had no choice.

  Unclasping the handcuffs from his belt, he drew one wrist from above her head down to the small of her back, feeling the tremor of fear in her body. Encircling this wrist, then the other, with a cold steel manacle, he joined the two in a shameful binding. Unlike the large, burly men he typically had the pleasure of cuffing, Sophie’s thin, delicate arms fit neatly behind her. She ha
d dipped her head, and he wondered if she was crying.

  “Have a seat,” he commanded.

  Sophie kept her head down, and they both sat on their respective sides of the desk. Jerry glanced at the panic button on the wall near his desk, for use if a parolee physically threatened him. It had been a few months since he’d pressed it, as the metal detectors at the courthouse entrance had greatly reduced attacks on parole officers. He still had a scar on his belly from a knife wound he sustained twelve years ago, though, and he could not allow himself to become complacent.

  Suspiciously eyeing the docile woman across from him, he decided to use a less emergent means of communicating that he had a prisoner ready for transfer. He picked up the phone.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a prisoner that needs to go back to Downer’s Grove,” he told whoever was on the other end of the line. Through a surreal fog, Sophie listened to him bark, “Well, don’t make us wait too long. My next con is due in ten minutes.”

  He hung up the phone and gave her a stern glance. “Forty percent, Taylor.”

  She looked up at him with surprisingly dry eyes. Dry, hollow eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “You told me you weren’t returning to prison. You seemed determined to be in the forty percent who don’t violate their parole. And I believed you.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sensed his disappointment, and it made her feel even sicker. Kirsten was going to kill her. Sophie had not told her this was a possibility when she left for work this morning. She hadn’t wanted to worry her, and there was nothing Kir could do anyway.

  “What the hell were you thinking showing up today without a job? Did you think I would look the other way? Did you think you would just walk out of here?”

  “No, sir.” She felt his expectant gaze upon her, but what was the use of explaining? It wasn’t like he cared. It was hopeless.

  “I asked you a question,” he prompted. “We have a few minutes before the officers arrive, and I want to find out how I was so wrong about you.”