Just Try to Stop Me. Gregg Olsen

      PROLOGUE

      Janie Thomas looked at the laptop she’d been ordered to transport to her second-floor office at the Washington Corrections Center for Women in Gig Harbor, Washington. It was against prison policy to bring any electronic devices inside the secure facility, but Janie was the prison superintendent. When she reached the checkpoint, she told her favorite officer, Derrick Scott, that she was running late.

      “Rough morning,” Janie said, an exaggerated look of displeasure on her face. She rolled her eyes. “Have a call with the governor’s office in five minutes.”

      “He’s never on time,” the officer said. “Not with a meeting or getting a budget approved. But if you ask me, a crying baby in the middle of the night is at the tippy top of the ‘rough morning’ scale. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

      “Tell me about it,” Janie said, going through the detector. “I haven’t forgotten those days. You’ll get through them.”

      The African American man grinned, showing dazzling white teeth, as he passed Janie’s briefcase over the counter instead of opening it to review its contents or send it through the scanner. She was in a hurry. Besides, the superintendent was always so nice, asking about the kids, sharing photos of her family.

      Later the corrections officer would say that the briefcase weighed more than usual and he probably should have opened it, but she was, after all, the boss.

      “She runs the prison,” he later said to the FBI agent looking into her case. “What was she going to smuggle in? A set of keys? A file?”

      * * *

      A half hour later that same morning, Brenda Nevins was in Janie’s office, purportedly to take on a special work assignment to help other inmates with life skills. Other inmates saw a huge irony in that reasoning, but didn’t say a word. Speaking up against Brenda meant getting cut in the shower with a shank made of a mascara wand and the sharpened edge of a Pringles’ can top.

      Or poisoned at lunch with meds ripped off from the infirmary.

      Or, worst of all, cut off from visitation with family.

      “I run this place,” Brenda had said when a new girl—a meth head from Black Diamond with more body tattoos then brains—stupidly challenged her. “You keep that in mind if you piss me off.”

      * * *

      In her office the day she disappeared, Janie Thomas opened the laptop for the benefit of the woman who had told her to bring it into the institution.

      Brenda smiled. “Nice. Very nice. Does it have video capabilities?” she asked as the pair moved from Janie’s office to the records room—the only location in the Washington Corrections Center for Women that did not have the prying eyes of security cameras.

      They stood face-to-face, a worktable separating them. Brenda had done her hair in the way she knew Janie liked—down, with slight curls that brushed past her shoulders.

      The two of them were there to plot the escape.

      Janie’s and hers.

      “It’s an Apple,” Janie said, caressing the silver case of the laptop. “The best. My husband helped me set everything up.”

      Brenda noticed a flicker of emotion coming over Janie’s face at the mention of her husband, Erwin. She moved her mouth into a slight frown, a mirror of Janie’s, albeit without the slight lowering of the chin. Quivering was too much. Not needed.

      “Don’t be sad, Janie,” she said in a voice dripping with a practiced honey-sweetness. “I know this is hard. But your life belongs to you, and you have to live it as you were meant to. No more dreaming. No more wondering, baby girl. We are on the verge of our time. We have to take it together. We have no choice in the matter.”

      A tear rolled, but Janie didn’t say a word.

      “You know what we are?” Brenda asked. “You know what brought us together?”

      Janie bit down on her lower lip. “We’re soul mates,” she said.

      Brenda relaxed her frown, and her eyes brightened.

      “Don’t ever doubt that,” she said. “Don’t ever. I know that God or some higher power—whatever She is—has brought us together. That’s right. The world will be all over us. You know that. They’ll be watching and hunting and trying to stop us from doing what we must do.”

      “I guess so,” Janie said, a tinge of fear clearly evident in her voice.

      Brenda reached across the table and grabbed Janie by the shoulders.

      “Get a grip,” she said, her tone still compassionate, but a bit more forceful. “This moment will not only set us free but will define the future for so many others. The world will be watching, and we’ll need to tell them the reasons behind everything we’re doing.”

      “To help them, right?” Janie asked.

      It was more than a question, almost an affirmation.

      Brenda gave her head a slight nod.

      “Yes,” she answered. “It isn’t about just us. Just you and me. I wish both of us could have come from other circumstances. Backgrounds free of the torment that sent us here . . . me to be a zoo animal, you to be my zookeeper. But life isn’t fair. I get that. Life is what we make it. We’re the example of living with authenticity.”

      Brenda watched Janie as a cat watches the family goldfish that twirls in the waters of its bowl.

      Like the betta fish on Janie’s desk.

      “And we’ll help people, right?” Janie repeated.

      Exasperation was in order. Maybe a little bit of the takeaway.

      Brenda threw up her hands. “God, are you even listening?” she asked as she let out a sigh. It was the kind of nonverbal punctuation with which she was particularly skilled. She was good with words. Good with presenting her concepts, no matter how outlandish.