The Traveler by David Golemon Page A

Thus, plan D.
    â€œShit, man, is that son of a bitch going to film my death?” the young man asked as the men in the balcony applauded the condemned men as they entered.
    The gold-toothed inmate looked to the balcony and saw the two men. One was a cameraman and the other a soundman. The camera and telescopic sound boom was extended over the balcony as they filmed the men below. The tattooed man exhaled the breath he had been holding as he took in the scene. He halfheartedly smiled in relief that his message earlier that day had been received.
    â€œYeah, I guess they are going to film it … news at eleven, huh, kid?”
    â€œDude, you need to work on your sense of humor, my man.”
    â€œJust wait for the punch line before you judge my comedic talents, son,” the man said as he brought the wheelchair to a stop on the broken asphalt of the exercise area.
    As the seventeen prisoners watched on in fear, they saw the horse trailers being backed up to the enclosed yard. Several guards stood by the rear doors of each of the four battered and old trailers.
    The blood of each man in hearing distance froze as the roar of a wild cat sounded from the first enclosure.
    â€œMan, this is fucking medieval,” the young man said as his eyes widened at the thought of what they were to face.
    The tattooed man said nothing as he realized the truth of what the FBI and DEA had explained in their reports. The man Gutiérrez was as insane as they come.
    *   *   *
    The man and woman waited just outside the office area of the registration wing of the prison. The white-haired man sat with a large black doctor’s bag between his feet. His round, brown-framed glasses were perched on the end of his nose as he watched the three secretaries at their desks. The woman next to him was attired in green nurse scrubs and sat stoically as she too waited.
    The secretary on the phone looked up from her desk and studied the two for a long moment, making both feel uncomfortable, the same feeling they had for the past twenty minutes as they had been forced to wait. The secretary spoke Spanish into the phone and then hung up and stood. She approached the two as her colleagues excitedly stood and hurriedly moved to the window. One of them turned as he moved.
    â€œHurry, they are bringing them out,” the girl called out to the first.
    The first secretary stood before them and looked as if she wanted to hurry. Her Spanish was rapid-fire and the two had a hard time keeping up. They both now knew that the recommendation by the linguistics department had been right on; they should have brushed up a little more with their chosen second language.
    â€œApologies, but the entire staff is unavailable for at least an hour, Doctor. Warden Ramirez says that you will be called when needed in the yard.” Without waiting and in a hurry to get to the window with her friends, the woman started to turn but stopped and turned back to the white-haired man in the rumpled suit and the small woman sitting beside him. “The warden inquired as to what happened to Dr. Torrez—he was scheduled for rounds this afternoon.”
    The white-haired man wanted to face his companion but decided he would act his role out and be brave simply because when this was over he was going to get killed by men other than the maniacs in this prison—men with a lot more talent for killing. He gave the secretary a stern look.
    â€œThe good doctor became aware of the scheduled activities this afternoon and decided he was losing his stomach for it, thus I am here in his place as a favor”—he smiled as if he enjoyed the conversation, making even his small female companion suddenly fearful of his demeanor—“as I have no such qualms concerning what’s happening out there.” He nodded toward the window where the other two women stood.
    The secretary decided she wanted to hear no more from this strange white-haired