Chapter 12: Reading the Map - Part 2
Morning. April 19th. Twenty-eight days until execution.
Michael found me in the library at 1000 hours, sliding into the chair across from me without greeting.
"Test," he said quietly.
I closed my book. "Shoot."
"What's encoded in the left shoulder blade?"
"Bolt hole location in psych ward wall. Exact coordinates: three feet up from baseboard, eighteen inches right of door frame. Wall thickness: eight inches. Composition: concrete over brick. Requires drill access or chemical weakening. Pope's door key pattern is in the angel wings—three-pin tumbler, brass construction, pins at .75, 1.2, and 1.8 inch depths. Guard tower blind spot timing: northeast tower rotation every ninety seconds, thirty-second gap in coverage."
Michael's eyebrow raised. "Lower back, left side?"
"Thermite formula. Iron oxide to aluminum powder ratio 3:1 by weight. Magnesium ribbon ignition strip. Burn temperature 2500 degrees Celsius. Application: cutting through steel bars or weakening structural supports. Alternative compound for concrete: ammonium nitrate fertilizer mixed with fuel oil, but that's messier and harder to control."
"Chest piece, right side?"
"Infirmary layout. Dr. Tancredi's office northeast corner. Supply cabinet west wall, locked but accessible with standard medical key. Pharmaceutical storage separately secured, requires higher clearance. Bolt hole access through supply closet—false wall panel, two feet by three feet, leads to utility corridor. Camera coverage: hallway only, office has no internal surveillance."
Michael leaned back. "You really do have photographic memory."
"Mind palace technique. Everything organized like a library. Each piece of information filed in its proper category, cross-referenced, accessible." I tapped my temple. "Your tattoo lives here now. Permanent storage."
"That's extraordinary."
"That's survival."
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael sat in the library, watching Miller organize papers on the table with unconscious precision, and felt something he hadn't felt in months: hope.
The tattoo had been his insurance policy. His backup. His way of carrying the entire plan on his body where it couldn't be confiscated or discovered.
But it had also been a weakness. If something happened to him—if he was killed, injured, isolated—the plan died with him.
Now there was redundancy. Miller had the entire blueprint memorized. Could execute the plan if Michael couldn't. Could adapt, improvise, keep going.
This might actually work.
"We need to talk about the team," Michael said.
"Agreed. Who else?"
"Abruzzi. He's got outside connections. Transportation, safe houses, money."
Miller's expression darkened. "And he'll want something in return. Probably information on that witness he's been hunting."
"Fibonacci. Yeah." Michael had already considered this. "We give him coordinates. Delayed information—enough to satisfy him short-term, not enough to eliminate the leverage."
"Dangerous game."
"Everything about this is dangerous."
Miller nodded. "Who else?"
"Sucre's already in. You brought him in."
"He needed to know. And he's loyal. Desperate to get back to Maricruz."
"Desperation makes people unpredictable."
"Desperation also makes people motivated. He'll fight harder than anyone because he has more to lose." Miller paused. "What about the old man? Westmoreland?"
Michael had noticed Westmoreland too. Observant. Experienced. Moved with the kind of caution that came from surviving decades of hard time.
"What about him?"
"Useful. Experienced. But there's something about him..." Miller's eyes went distant, calculating. "He's hiding a big secret. Something major."
"Can you find out what?"
Miller grinned. "Give me a few days."
DANIEL'S POV
I found Westmoreland at his usual chess table at 1500 hours. He was setting up pieces when I approached.
"Mind if I join you?"
"Free country," Westmoreland said. "Well, free chess table, anyway."
We played. He opened with King's Pawn. I responded with Sicilian Defense. The game developed slowly, thoughtfully.
"You're good," Westmoreland said, capturing my knight. "Better than Pope."
"Pope plays defensively. You play aggressively. Different challenges."
"Life lesson there somewhere."
"Probably."
We played in silence for several moves. I watched him more than the board—the way he touched pieces, the way he spoke, the unconscious mannerisms.
"You ever fly, Charles?" I asked, using his first name deliberately.
His hand paused over his bishop. "Fly?"
"Yeah. Planes. You've got that look. The way you study angles, calculate trajectories. Pilot's instinct."
"Long time ago." He moved the bishop. "Different life."
"You talk about money different too. Not like someone who earned it slow and steady. Like someone who had a lot of it all at once."
Westmoreland's eyes sharpened. "You're fishing."
"I'm observing." I captured his rook. "Northwest. 1971. November 24th. Flight 305. Portland to Seattle. Man named Dan Cooper—media later called him D.B. Cooper by mistake—hijacked a Boeing 727. Got $200,000 and parachuted into the wilderness. Never caught."
The color drained from Westmoreland's face.
"You're crazy," he whispered.
"Your daughter's name is Robin. You haven't seen her in decades. The money's buried somewhere specific—you talk about geography in your sleep, according to your cellmate. And you've got that look. The one men get when they pulled off something impossible and got away with it."
Westmoreland stared at me across the chessboard.
"What makes you think any of that's true?" he asked quietly.
"Everything. The way you move. The way you think. The references you make without realizing it. Aviation terminology. Pacific Northwest geography. The fact that you're seventy years old and still sharp as hell, which means you were smart enough to evade the FBI for thirty-plus years." I leaned forward. "You're D.B. Cooper. And I'm not telling anyone. But that money could help all of us."
"Help with what?"
"With getting out of here. With starting over. With giving your daughter the inheritance you've been hiding all these years."
Westmoreland's hands trembled slightly. "You're planning something."
"We're planning something. Michael Scofield's breaking his brother out. I'm helping. And we could use someone with experience. Someone who knows what it takes to disappear and stay gone."
"That was thirty years ago."
"Skills don't expire. Neither does buried money."
Westmoreland knocked over his king. Resignation.
"You win," he said. "The game and the deduction."
"I'm not looking to expose you, Charles. I'm looking to help you get back to Robin. With the resources to make up for lost time."
"And in return?"
"You help us escape. Share your expertise. And when we get out, you tell us where the money is. We split it. Everyone gets a fresh start."
Westmoreland was quiet for a long moment. "Michael knows about this?"
"Not yet. Wanted to confirm first." I stood. "Think about it. We've got time. Not much, but some."
I walked away, leaving him at the chess table.
WESTMORELAND'S POV
Charles Westmoreland sat alone at the chess table, staring at the scattered pieces.
D.B. Cooper.
Nobody had called him that in thirty years. He'd been so careful, so cautious. Changed his name, built a new identity, lived quiet and small.
And this kid—this observant, too-smart-for-his-own-good kid—had figured it out from chess games and conversation.
What else does he see?
Westmoreland thought about Robin. His daughter. His baby girl, now a grown woman with a life he knew nothing about. The money was for her—always had been. Buried in Utah, waiting.
But he was dying. Stomach cancer, stage three. The doctors had given him six months. Maybe less.
What's the point of money if I can't give it to her?
If Scofield's plan worked—if these crazy kids actually pulled off a prison break—then maybe Westmoreland could see Robin one more time. Hand her the location of the money. Tell her he'd always loved her.
One last flight.
He began resetting the chess pieces, hands steadier now.
Decision made.
DANIEL'S POV
That evening, I found Michael in his cell. Sucre was at the library writing another letter to Maricruz.
"Westmoreland is D.B. Cooper," I said without preamble. "He knows where the money is buried. That's our escape fund."
Michael's mind was already racing—I could see the calculations happening behind his eyes.
"You're certain?"
"Yes. He didn't deny it. He's thinking about coming in."
"How much money?"
"$200,000 from 1971. Adjusted for inflation, buried somewhere safe—probably worth more now if he invested it or if the bills are collectible."
Michael sat down on his bunk, processing. "That changes everything. With that kind of capital, we can afford transportation, safe houses, new identities."
"Exactly."
"We need to bring him in carefully. He's old. Probably scared. Definitely cautious."
"Already working on it." I leaned against the cell bars. "Also, I think Abruzzi's noticed us talking. We should expect an approach soon."
"How soon?"
As if on cue, a shadow fell across the cell door.
John Abruzzi stood in the corridor, arms crossed, expression calculating.
"Heard you're planning something interesting, Fish," Abruzzi said, his voice carrying the weight of mob authority. "Let's talk."
Michael and I exchanged looks.
Here we go.
"Abruzzi," Michael said carefully. "What makes you think we're planning anything?"
"Because I watch. I listen. And I see a structural engineer who got himself arrested on purpose talking to a magician who knows way too much." Abruzzi stepped closer to the bars. "So I'll ask once: what are you planning, and how do I get in?"
Michael stood slowly. "What makes you think I'd bring you in?"
"Because you need what I have. Connections outside. Transportation. Resources. Money." Abruzzi smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "And because I can make your life very difficult if you don't."
Blackmail. Classic.
"We need to discuss this privately," I said. "Not in the open."
Abruzzi nodded. "Maintenance shed. Tomorrow. 2200 hours. Be there."
He walked away.
Michael and I stood in silence.
"Well," I said finally. "That escalated quickly."
"He's dangerous."
"Yeah. But also necessary. You said it yourself—we need outside connections."
"He'll want Fibonacci."
"Then we give him Fibonacci. Eventually. With enough delay that it doesn't compromise us."
Michael ran his hands through his hair. "This is getting complicated."
"Breaking out of prison is complicated. That's why you spent six months planning it." I clapped him on the shoulder. "We've got this. Westmoreland gives us money. Abruzzi gives us transportation. Sucre gives us muscle and loyalty. Lincoln gives us motivation. And you and I give us the brains."
"And what could go wrong?"
"Everything. But that's why we plan for contingencies."
Michael almost smiled. "You're insane."
"You keep saying that like it's a bad thing."
That night, lying in my bunk, I organized everything in my mind palace.
The team was assembling: Michael, Daniel, Sucre, Lincoln, Westmoreland, Abruzzi. Six people. Six sets of skills. Six reasons to escape.
Twenty-eight days until Lincoln's execution.
The chess pieces were moving into position.
My hands shuffled cards in the darkness, muscle memory keeping perfect rhythm.
Tomorrow we negotiate with the mob. After that, we start the real work.
Breaking out of Fox River. Saving an innocent man.
And hopefully not dying in the process.
The game had leveled up.
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