Not Basal. It was sealed up and locked down like Area 51. Tucked away in the Angeles National Forest south of Wrightwood, off of Lone Pine Canyon Road.
Images of Nazi concentration camps that experimented on prisoners flashed through my mind. This was America, not Poland, but Basal was also a prison, and the prison system was a world unto itself, hidden from the rest of society. And I have an active imagination.
The drive from Ironwood to Basal would take only a few hours. Danny had arrived and was probably already processed by now. Why would someone call me if they wanted to hurt Danny? Maybe it was a prank call. Or a ghost from the past come back to haunt Danny on the outside. Danny and me.
That first part of the call ballooned in my head and for a moment I wondered if it was part of a dream. No, I was awake. I might have had something close to OCD, and sure, I was a bit neurotic, but I wasn’t crazy and I wasn’t hallucinating.
I thumbed in 4-1-1 and paced. When I asked for the number for the Basal Institute of Corrections and Rehabilitation, the operator put me through.
A warm female voice answered my call. “Basal.”
“Yes, uh…hi. This is the prison?”
“The Basal Institute, that is correct. How may I direct your call?”
“I’m looking for a prisoner who was transferred this—”
“Hold on.”
She shuffled me on to the appropriate party. It was a real place with a real voice that didn’t sound like it belonged to a Nazi doctor. That was good, right?
“Basal.”
This second voice didn’t sound so warm.
“Yes, I’m trying to reach an inmate who was transferred to your institution from Ironwood this morning. A Danny Hansen. Can you tell me if—”
“Visitation is by approval only, every Tuesday.”
“Well, fine, then I would like to schedule a visit.”
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t work like that here. Visitation is an earned privilege. Once the member in question has earned visitation rights, you may request a visit, assuming you are approved.”
“I’ve already been approved.”
“Not for Basal, you aren’t.”
The revelation set me back. It had taken me weeks to get approval to visit Danny at Ironwood.
“Why not?”
“The regulations at other institutions don’t apply at Basal. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait, like everyone else.”
“Then I can schedule a call with him.”
“No, ma’am. Phone calls are also an earned privilege. You have to understand, we’re not like the other prisons.”
“Then how do I get in touch with him?” I demanded.
“You don’t get in touch with him. Not until he earns the privilege and you’re approved.”
“How long does that take?”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“How long?” I snapped, aware I was starting to boil over but unable to calm myself.
“A month or two.” Her tone was now not only flat but unyielding.
“I’m supposed to wait two full months before I talk to him? That’s ridiculous!”
“We’re not a resort, ma’am.”
“Can I get him a message?”
“Once he earns mail privilege—”
“I don’t have time to wait for him to earn his privileges, or send a letter. I need to get him a message now! His life depends on it.”
“Are you his attorney?”
“No, I’m—”
“Then you’ll have to wait until he earns the right to receive messages. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Wait!”
I’d been pacing back and forth in front of the breakfast bar like a caged cat, hair on end, and I knew that I wouldn’t get anywhere with this Nazi unless I calmed down. So I stopped, took a deep breath, and placed my free hand on the counter.
“Fine. Okay, can you at least tell me if he arrived.”
I heard the faint clatter of keys on a keyboard. “His name?”
“Danny,” I said. “Danny Hansen. FX49565.”
“We wouldn’t use his corrections number. Danny Hansen, you said?”
“Yes, Danny Hansen.”
The phone went silent. In an age when the Internet is faster than light, I always wondered why the prison computers are so slow.
“He’s here,” she finally said.
“He’s safe?”
“He’s here, that’s all I can say.”
My hand-on-the-counter trick failed me; my fingers coiled into a fist. “Someone called me a few minutes ago and threatened to kill him! Now don’t just sit there and tell me I can’t get that message to him. I want to speak to the warden!”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“The warden doesn’t take unofficial calls.”
“This
“I’m sorry, but I have to terminate this call.”
“Wait! At least tell the warden what I told you.”
She didn’t respond. But neither did she hang up. So I surged ahead.
“Please, I’m begging you. Someone wants to kill Danny, you have to tell the warden that much. Aren’t life threats part of your concern?”
“I’ll tell him,” she said.
“You do that,” I snapped, and I disconnected.
I was a mess, and it took me ten minutes to calm down enough to start from the top and start thinking straight. The way I saw it I had three options.
One, I could sit around and wait for another breathy phone call, which in my condition was a clear impossibility.
Two, I could hire an attorney and get a message to Danny that way, but it would still take a day or two, at least.
Or, three, I could go to where Danny was and try to make something happen another way. What way, I had no idea. And that was a problem. Which brought me back to option two, which seemed as pointless to me.
I was pacing when the doorbell startled me. Other than UPS deliveries from Amazon or a visit from either Jane or Sarah, my bell rarely rang. Jane, who’d rescued me from a dead battery in the parking lot two years earlier, had become my closest friend, and although she lived in a unit at the end of the complex, she knew to call first if she wanted to swing by. Same with Sarah, who I’d met at the school for truckers—long story.
I crossed to the door and cautiously peered through the eyehole. On the landing stood a rather large woman, warped by the lens so that she looked like a bowling pin wearing a blue dress. I released both dead bolts, cracked the door a foot, and peered out.
“Renee Gilmore?” the woman asked.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
In her hands she held what appeared to be a shoebox. She glanced around nervously. Her brown hair hung
