Dog Whistle: First Pages

These opening pages introduce the protagonist and set the inciting incident into motion.

Washington D.C. • • • • Day 1

As Avery Syrus approached the commissary, he met the gaze of a man he knew as “the arsonist” blocking the doors. Complexion pale and tattooed neck glistening with sweat, the man didn’t move. He instead said,

“Avery is a trailer trash name.”

The blunt assertion almost made Syrus laugh. They had never spoken before.

“That’s terrible to hear. Would you like to walk with me and discuss this further?”

As he gestured to the doors, a bright glint blinded him. Syrus made out the outline of the six inch knife as it plunged into his shoulder, then felt the vibration of cracking bone reverberate through his body, chattering his teeth. When the arsonist extracted it an instant later, Syrus stumbled backwards onto the ground. Hot blood poured down his chest, and his hands slipped on the tile as he tried to back away. He kicked the man in the stomach, but the arsonist didn’t lunge at him again. With wide eyes, he just stared at the weapon’s blade as it wept scarlet tears.

Syrus yelled for the correctional officers at the end of the corridor. With little urgency and no restraints, they ushered his assailant away. After the blood cascade dried and cracked, Syrus wondered why he was allowed to survive being stabbed.

The horror of it all played on loop a week after he was operated on and returned the same orange jumpsuit the knife pierced, as denoted by the bloodstain that ran from the clavicle down to the sleeve. It was washed but not scrubbed.

Putting it on involved multiple facets of pain. The knife left a curved wound in his shoulder, and his arm stung when he turned his neck. Everyday, a medic with a fixed scowl told him, 

“We can give you a pill.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

He had never been to the infirmary before in four years of incarceration, though he asked for treatment on a few occasions for illness. The nurses denied each request. Perhaps it was for the better, as the private room was sterile white and windowless, and the overhead fluorescent lights never turned off. He didn’t fight it when the warden said it was time for his transfer to protective custody just a week after the attack. 

That cell ended up being just as unnerving, with stone walls and a metal cot that must have been designed for sleep deprivation.

The exhaustion caught up to him. Syrus’s spirit wore down over the years from confinement, and the officers banging on his door at night chipped away at his sanity. He didn’t want to be dramatic, but in trying to reconcile it all with no belief in justice or God, the knife fractured more than his bones. 

One evening, two weeks into his solitary internment, he didn’t even try to sleep. His eyes fell on the night sky through the barred window and watched the red sunrise. When the winter gray of late morning took hold, they shifted to the metal door as it creaked open. The overhead alarm whined with reluctance, aligning with the attitude of the two officers waiting for him. 

They weren’t there to confiscate his belongings or gloat that his appeal was denied. They instead presented a guest in a tailored wool suit. 

Syrus stepped into the doorway of the cell and outstretched his hand to shake that of Landon Cloes, the campaign manager for President-elect Bradford Vure. He was best known for being one third of the ‘tripartisan trio’, a young Washingtonian friend group that consisted of him, a Senator, and the Speaker of the House. They made a performance art out of policy disagreements but all belonged to the same fraternity, the Mammoth. 

He and Syrus first met several years back but were reacquainted during his visit to the prison in November.

“I don’t understand how this could have happened,” Cloes said, grimacing at the discolored jumpsuit. 

Syrus frowned at the officers. “It was allowed to.” 

“Have you been attacked before?” 

“No.”

The other inmates left him alone after one of his old friends started paying for their commissary items. They were prone to outbursts of violence, though, unlike the reclusive arsonist. That was the last person Syrus expected to assault him. 

His shoulder tensed at the memory, and he grunted at the now dull pain.

“Well, it’s time to go,” Cloes said, peering at his phone. “You’re officially pardoned.”

Syrus’s breath caught in his throat on the inhale. When the gravity of those words set in, he breathed out.

Finally.

Cloes promised his release during his first visit, but Syrus was only hopeful, not convinced. His life took several sharp turns over the last decade, culminating in the plunge of a life sentence handed to him by a judge with blank eyes and a wry, crooked smile.

In his weeks of isolation, he concluded the stabbing was a warning to the incoming president about to pardon him. From his many enemies, a resounding ‘don’t’. 

But now, the chatty officer who frequently proclaimed his admiration for that judge had nothing quippy to say. He just led them to the gatepoint.

Cloes’s mouth curled more at the sight of each bound inmate that passed. He scraped his jacket leaning into the opposite wall.

“What happened to the arsonist?” he asked. 

“Transferred,” the officer said.

They never answered Syrus when he asked that question. 

“And the knife?”

“Mr. Syrus misremembered. It was a shank.”

Unlikely. 

When they reached the end of the prison threshold, the officer buzzed them through the three sets of timer-operated doors into reception without any outtake paperwork. 

On the other side were four straight-faced men in matching heavy khakis and windbreakers. Even without the telling attire, any Washingtonian could identify them as Secret Service by their rigid bearing.

With no greeting, one special agent handed Syrus a cardboard box. 

“Change, quickly,” he said.

They directed him to the adjacent restroom where the rusted handle wouldn’t quite lock. 

After silently acknowledging the significance of pulling off the uniform pants and shirt for the last time, Syrus’s eyes met a dirty mirror under green-tinted lights. They squinted in disbelief. 

He didn’t recognize the thin, older-looking man before him with a bandage on his shoulder. He never noticed his reflection inside the prison walls.

His dark, scraggly hair cast shadows into the lines beside his gray eyes. He shaved two days ago, but the strands that grew in were patched with white. The agent gave him a suit from his own storage unit, but his arms didn’t fill out the navy jacket sleeves.

I’m only thirty-nine years old. 

But what did age matter when no milestones were met? He was childless and unmarried. He owned nothing. 

He widened his eyes, which creased them more. 

Cloes and the agents didn’t seem to notice Syrus’s discomposure when they hurried him outside to a government Cadillac that looked identical to the ones he rode in hundreds of times before. When a frigid breeze hit his face and the dead grass crunched beneath his dress shoes, disappointment over the bagginess of his jacket wisped away. The clothes may have appeared starchy in the high noon sun, but they were his own. He was stabbed, but the wound was healing.

“Mr. Syrus,” another special agent said. “Get in the car.”

He took the backseat, and Secret Service filled the rows ahead of him. After a few minutes, the window defrosted, and Washington materialized. Dull winter coated the museums and landmarks he used to pass on walks, and Syrus anticipated the turns to his old apartment, until they ended up on 2nd Street.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“The rest of the Inauguration. They want you on the balcony.” Cloes said, eyes on his phone screen where an image of Syrus was pulled up.