The Book of the Dead (40 page)

A few minutes later, the doors opened and the escort guards filed out with their prisoners, who sidled out into the yard, blinking in the bright light, looking as shit-stupid as they were.

The last prisoner to come out was the special one. He was as pale as a maggot and looked a mess: face bruised and bandaged, one eye nearly swollen shut. Despite being numbed by years of working in pens, Gerry felt a creeping sense of outrage that the man had been put back in the yard. Pocho was dead, true enough; but that had been an open-and-shut case of self-defense. This was different. This was cold-blooded murder. And if it didn’t happen today, it would happen tomorrow or the next day, on their watch or someone else’s. It was one thing to stick the guy in a cell next to the drummer, or put him in solitary, or take away his books, but this was out of line.
Way
out of line.

He braced himself. Pocho’s boys were spreading out, doing their slow pimp-roll, hands in their pockets. The tall one, Rafael Borges, was bouncing the usual basketball, moving in a slow arc toward the hoop. Gerry glanced at Benjy and saw his partner was equally on edge. The escort guards made a gesture toward him and he gestured back, signifying the handoff was complete: they would take over the prisoners. The escort guards filed out, closing the double metal doors behind them.

Gerry kept his eye on the special prisoner. The man was strolling along the brick wall toward the chain-link fence, moving alertly but without undue alarm. Gerry wondered if he was all right in the head. If it were him out there, he’d have stained his shorts by now.

He watched as the special prisoner sidled over behind the basketball backboard and placed a casual hand on the chain-link fence, leaning against it. He looked up, then peered from side to side, almost as if waiting for something. The other prisoners slowly circled, none even looking in his direction, acting as if he didn’t exist.

When a call came over his radio with a burst of static, Gerry jumped. “Fecteau here.”

“This is Special Agent Spencer Coffey, FBI.”

“Who?”

“Wake up, Fecteau, I don’t have all day. As I understand it, you and the other one, Doyle, are in yard 4 on exercise duty.”

“Yes, yes, sir,” Gerry stammered. Why the hell was Agent Coffey talking directly to him? It must be true what they were whispering, that the special prisoner was a fed—although he sure didn’t look like one.

“I want both of you up here in Main Security, on the double.”

“Yes, sir, as soon as we hand over yard duty—”

“I said, on the double. That means
right now.”

“But, sir, there’s just the two of us guarding the yard—”

“I gave you a
direct order
, Fecteau. If I don’t see you in ninety seconds, I swear to God you’ll be in North Dakota tomorrow, on the midnight shift at Black Rock.”

“But you’re not—”

His reply was drowned out by a short blast of static as the FBI agent signed off. He looked over at Benjy, who had, of course, heard everything over his own radio. Benjy walked over, shrugging his shoulders faintly.

“We don’t report to that bastard,” Gerry said. “Do you think we have to do what he says?”

“You want to take that kind of chance? Let’s get going.”

Gerry replaced the radio, feeling sick to his stomach. It was murder, pure and simple. But at least they wouldn’t be there when it happened—and they couldn’t be blamed for that, now, could they?

Ninety seconds
… He moved swiftly across the yard and opened the metal doors. Then he turned and threw one last glance back at the special prisoner. The man was still leaning against the chain-link fence behind the backboard. Pocho’s gang was already starting to close in, packlike.

“God help him,” he murmured to Benjy as the doors swung shut behind them with a deep metallic boom.

J
uggy” Ochoa sauntered across the asphalt of the yard, glancing at the sky, the fence, the basketball backboard, his brothers scattered about. His eye turned back to the metal doors that had just clanged shut. The two guards had split. Just like that. He could hardly believe they’d put “Albino” back in the yard—and left him there.

There the sucker was, leaning against the fence, coolly returning his gaze.

Ochoa glanced around again through slitted eyes. His prison instincts told him something was going on. It was some kind of setup. Ochoa knew the others felt the same way. They didn’t need to talk; everyone knew already what everyone else was thinking. The guards hated Albino as much as they did. Somebody in high places
wanted
him dead.

Ochoa was only too eager to oblige.

He spit on the asphalt and scuffed it in with his shoe while he watched Borges pound the basketball on the ground with his fist, once, twice, as he made a slow round toward the hoop. Borges was going to reach Albino first, and Ochoa knew Borges could be relied on to be cool and sit tight. There would be plenty of time to take care of the problem, nice and quiet, in a way that nobody got singled out. Sure, it would mean a few months in solitary, loss of privileges—but they were all lifers, anyway. And this was
sanctioned
. Whatever the consequences, they’d be mild.

He glanced up at the distant tower. Nobody was looking their way: the tower guards mostly looked to the side and out, toward the perimeter fences. Their view of the interior of yard 4 was limited.

He turned his gaze back to Albino, disconcerted to see the man was still staring at him. Let him stare. In five minutes, he’d be dead, ready to be rinsed off and shipped out.

Juggy glanced around at the
hermanos
. They, too, were taking it slow. Albino was a fighter, a motherfucking dirty fighter, but this time they’d be more careful. And he was banged up; he’d be slower. They’d take him down as a pack.

They continued to slide in, tightening the ring.

Borges had reached the three-point line. With a smoothly practiced motion, he tossed the ball up and it swished through the hoop, dropping down—into the waiting hands of the Albino, who had stepped forward with a sudden deft movement to catch it.

They all stood and stared at him, hard. He held the ball, returning their looks, his stitched-up face utterly neutral. Juggy felt a surge of rage at the raw challenge in his look.

He glanced over his shoulder. Still no guards.

Borges stepped forward and the Albino said something to him, talking in a rapid undertone, so low Juggy couldn’t hear what he said. As he approached, Juggy reached down and pulled the little shank out of the crotch seam of his underwear. The time was now: shank the bastard and have it done.

“Hold on, man,” said Borges, gesturing with his palm out as Ochoa stepped forward. “I want to hear this.”

“Hear what?”

“You know you’re being set up,” Albino was saying. “They
want
you to kill me. And you know it—every single one of you. Do you know why?”

He stared in turn at the group that now encircled him.

“Who the fuck cares?” said Juggy, taking a step forward and readying the shank.

“Why?” said Borges, holding his arm out toward Juggy again.

“Because
I know how to escape from here.”

An electric silence.

“Bull
shit
,” said Juggy, darting forward with the shank. But the Albino was ready and shot the ball at him, taking him by surprise, and in dodging it Juggy lost his stride. The ball bounced off and rolled away.

“Are you going to kill me and then spend the rest of your lives in here, never knowing if I was telling the truth?”

“He’s full of shit,” said Juggy. “He did Pocho, remember?” He lunged forward again, but the Albino skipped sideways and turned, like a matador. Borges grabbed Juggy’s arm with a grip of steel.

“He fucking did Pocho!”

“Let the man talk.”

“
Freedom
,” Albino continued, his drawling accent making the word sound delicious. “Have you been caged up so long you’ve forgotten what the word means?”

“Borges, nobody gets out of here,” Juggy said. “Let’s finish this.”

“Jug, don’t fucking do
anything
.”

Juggy looked around and saw that the others were staring at him. He felt incredulous: the Albino was sweet-talking his way out of a shank.

“Hear the man out,” said another gang member, Roany. The others nodded.

“This is the guy that waxed Pocho,” Juggy said again, feeling the conviction begin to drain out of his voice.

“So?” said Borges. “Maybe Pocho needed a little waxing.”

The Albino continued, speaking in a low voice. “Borges is going out first,” he said. “He believed me first. Jug, if you’re ready, you’re next.”

“Going out? When?” Borges asked.

“Right now, while the guards are gone.”

“The hell with this,” Juggy snarled.

“Okay, instead of Jug, I’ll take you.” And the Albino pointed to Roany. “Are you ready?”

“You
know
I am.”

“Wait a goddamn minute.” Ochoa took another lunge with the shank, but there was a sudden flashing movement that took him utterly by surprise, and when it was over, Albino held the shank.

Ochoa backed up. “You son of a bitch—”

“He’s just wasting our time,” said Albino. “Another word out of him and I’ll cut out his tongue. Any objections?” He looked around the group.

Nobody responded.

Ochoa stood there, breathing hard, saying nothing. The bastard had killed Pocho and taken over, just like that. How could it have happened so fast?

“Anyone who doubts me, look at this.” Albino reached over to the fence and grasped the links at a welded seam at a post, giving a sharp tug. The links parted effortlessly. He drew them back a bit more, stretching out an opening just large enough to admit a human being.

They stared in disbelief.

“Follow my instructions and you’ll all get out of here—even you, Mr. Jug. To prove my sincerity, I’ll go last. I’ve worked it out to the final detail. On the far side of the fence, you will scatter, each going out by a different route. Here’s the plan…”