Lights Out (7 page)

“Get off of him, dammit!” the C.O. ordered. Tree refused to answer.

“I said get the fuck off!”

The guard raised his billy club and brought it down across Tree’s back once, twice. The big man fell away, and the guard pushed forward, locking the nightstick against the white man’s chin. More guards arrived, grabbing Tree by each arm and hauling him to his feet.

“Get him to the infirmary!” the guard said, and the newcomers did as they were told. Tree didn’t struggle. Diggs knew the licks the guard had given his homeboy hadn’t done much damage, but actively fighting a guard would earn you a good stretch in the hole.

The guard grabbed the white man by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. The cracker let out a sharp scream, and the guard pushed him down the stairs.

“Get your ass to your cell, Diggs,” the officer said. “I’ve got my hands full.”

Diggs stepped forward, gave whitey a smile. “You don’t fuck with me, bitch! Can’t you see I’m bulletproof?”

His arms as wide as his smile, he climbed the rest of the stairs. He called out to the cons around him, his voice reaching over the noise.

“You bitches hear me? Diggs is fuckin’ bulletproof! You white muthafuckas better read that shit loud and clear! You can’t kill me! Crackas can’t even hurt me!”

The brothers cheered, banging against the bars of their cells in approval. The whites bellowed their rage at him. The rest didn’t seem to care, probably just grateful for the show.

Diggs strutted across the walkway, turning in slow circles and soaking up the attention. He stopped in front of his cell.

“Y’all want to try again, you’ll find my ass right here!”

He stepped inside and threw his head back.

“Close my muthafuckin’ cell!”

The bars slammed shut with an echoing
clang!

The cheers continued for a long time.

***

Across the block, one level up, Sweeny hung on his bars, looking down at the nigger who thought he was immortal. His poker face was perfect, an impenetrable mask of calm. No one watching him would think he was the slightest bit interested. One thing Sweeny had learned long ago, cover your ass.

Behind him, Hodge kept muttering. “Bullshit, man. Fucking bullshit.”

“No way. Coon’s bodyguard is gone. He doesn’t know it yet, but as soon as this lockdown’s over, his ass is mine.”

Hodge grinned. “That’s what I like to hear, man.”

“Know what else?”

“What’s that?”

“We’re gonna take care of that little bastard Hall, too.”

Sweeny climbed onto his bunk and laid his head back. He had a suspicion he was going to sleep just fine.

***

Anton Ribisi lay on his bunk, reading the morning edition and trying to ignore the sounds of alarms and slamming doors and riotous cheers. He looked up once, only half-interested, when his own door closed, but he didn’t see any reason to quit reading. The lockdown was a real bite in the ass, a pain he didn’t need, but he could handle it as long as it needed handling. Sooner or later, his people would come by, Morrow and a few others. None of them knew each other, and he liked it that way. You never showed your hole cards. Either together or on their own, his people would see the lockdown finished. At least, they would if they knew what was good for them.

He stretched his legs, rolled his shoulders. His neck felt sore. His back, too. Some days it felt like his entire body was starting to break down on him. He’d seen it happen to others before him, but he wasn’t afraid. Maybe the rest had been, the ones who’d gotten by on the strength of their arms and their hands. Anton Ribisi didn’t need that, however. He had balls, and he had brains. Between the two, he would do just fine for many years to come.

He turned the page, the crinkle of newspaper barely audible over the sounds of violent men. Grumbling the slightest bit, he shut out their noise and concentrated on his paper. The words on the page mingled with his own thoughts, a dance of ideas in his head.

The lockdown might last a few days. It would slow down business, even with his gentle prodding and poking, but it wouldn’t do any lasting damage. He had ways of moving product, heroin mostly, when he couldn’t send his soldiers out to make the deliveries. Morrow still had errands to run, cash to collect from his customers. The guard could move a little more product, pick up the slack. Hell, in a lot of ways the lockdown made it easier. When the C.O.’s moved junk for you, you didn’t have to worry about your soldiers getting pinched. It was almost a sweet enough deal for Anton to ignore the decreased revenue it caused. Really, the dip in profit was the only flaw in the situation, and he maybe could have handled it if he didn’t like to maximize his cash intake so much.

Anton finished his article and folded the paper. He checked his watch, a Rolex--smiling that his status allowed him such jailhouse luxuries--and saw that he still had two hours until lights out arrived. Oh, well. He climbed to his feet and moved to the sink, where he began brushing his teeth. The other cons had to share cells, and they might have to wait their damn turn to do simple things like brush or take a shit, but that was just another of the many things that didn’t concern him. He had a business, a good one, and he had his own cell. If he wanted, he had family, soldiers, and enough juice to run all of Burnham. All he had to do was tighten the reins.

He spit, rinsed, and smiled, admiring himself in the mirror. His face, though showing more than a few wrinkles, was still handsome. No matter what his wife said, he still had a lot to offer a woman.

Satisfied, he patted his face dry and returned to his bunk. Ribisi always slept on the bottom, never once got the urge to try the top. You couldn’t watch your back from up there. He stretched out and closed his eyes, relaxing against the thin-as-hell mattress. Just another thing that didn’t matter to him.

***

The lockdown unnerved Marquez a little, but then again, a lot of things had been making him a bit anxious lately. Those murders in solitary, for one. Who would airhole a guard, then murder two more men at random, without any sign of affiliation? He hadn’t ordered it, and Ribisi didn’t have anything to gain from such an action. The Aryans and homeboys were the most likely candidates, but there was a difference between showing balls and acting ratfuck crazy. It didn’t add up, and now this lockdown when Father Albright had said no such thing would happen. Something else must have gone down, something bad. The whole thing made his stomach churn. He wished he wasn’t out of antacids.

Leaning against the bars of his cell, he tried to sort it all out. Some of the other Mexicans liked to act first, let their tempers guide them, but Omar didn’t walk that street. He weighed the options, considered the possibilities. It was why he’d managed to stay on top of his tribe for so long, why men like Ribisi respected him instead of trying to muscle him out of the drug trade. More than anything, he had to figure out why the warden had called a lockdown, and he had to find a way to make the situation benefit him.

Rocha paced back and forth, stalking the floor like a hungry coyote. He paused every few seconds to throw his hands up in exasperation. Omar tried to ignore him, but when the man started muttering to himself, his patience thinned.

“Sit the fuck down, okay?”

“I can’t, Omar,” Rocha said. His eyes were wide and nervous, bouncing around in their sockets. “I don’t like being closed in like this, man!”

“You been closed in for eight years, amigo. Why is it suddenly a problem?”

Rocha shrugged, rolling his neck with the motion, and started pacing again. He drummed his hands on his thighs.

“Why lockdown, though? Why now? It’s bullshit, man! You don’t just lock a man up in a teeny tiny cage before lights out so that he’s got nothing to do but walk all back and forth and back and shit.”

Marquez started to smile. “What’re you on, man?”

“Nothing!” A shake of the head. “Okay, so I snorted a little something, but it’s just so I can stay awake, man.

I don’t want to end up like those putas in solitary. I don’t want to go out like some bitch.”

“You locked up here, Rocha. Can’t nobody get to you.”

“Tell that to those dead motherfuckers from solitary.”

Omar turned to look out at the cellblock. The noise had calmed some, and was now just a low murmur of voices and the footsteps of guards. He thought about the dead men, the ones who had been brutally murdered in their own cells, and it made his stomach shift once again. Something was wrong about all this, so wrong he almost didn’t want to think about it. He had to, though. He was the thinker who still had cajones. That’s what made him a leader.

So he thought about it. He wondered who could possibly pull off a bunch of murders like last night’s. Who could get into solitary, kill three men, and get out without being noticed or putting up a struggle, but his mind kept coming up empty.

“Might be a long night,” He said.

“What?”

“Forget it.” He shifted his weight, leaning forward against the bars. Watching the guards start their rounds, he wondered if he could stay up all night, too.

***

“Sleep tight, Hall. Don’t let those bedbugs bite.”

The new guard, a tall guy named Shaw, pulled the bars to Hall’s tiny cell shut and then slammed the solid steel outer door. Hall eyed the door for a few seconds, and he felt safe. In the next instant, however, he remembered Webber’s and Jenkins’ screams, and he thought he might tear loose with a cry of his own. When he thought about the face he had seen the night before, the dark eyes and jagged teeth, the blood all over its lips and chin, the feat hit his gut, and his stomach revolted. He hit his knees in front of the toilet and spewed up his last two meals in one hot, runny mess.

He collapsed onto the floor, wiped his mouth. The air inside the dank cell tasted sharp and acidic, but he gulped it down anyway. Reaching out, he flushed the toilet, but the sharp stench of his own sick still hung thick in the air.

“Officer!” he yelled. The quick sound of footsteps followed, and then the viewing window in his door slid open.

Shaw’s face looked down at him.

“What is it, Hall?”

“I need to get out of here, man. You gotta put my ass in PC or some shit.”

“Throw you in protective custody? Why?”

“Why the fuck you think? You think it’s fuckin’ safe in
this
bitch? Buncha muthafuckas was
killed
last night!”

Shaw’s face registered a look of annoyance, but little else.

“That’s right, Hall, and when we find out who did it, their ass is gonna pay.”

“Well, unless you sumbitches find that ass in the next hour, I want in PC, dammit!”

“Don’t you think if whoever did this wanted to grease you too, they might have done it last night?”

The words just tumbled out of his mouth. “Maybe they weren’t hungry no more.” His jaw clicked shut, and he wondered if he had really said the sentence out loud. The sudden anger on Shaw’s face told him he had.

“Please, Shaw! Don’t make me stay in here another night!”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m serious!”

“Me too.” The guard shook his head. He looked like he was trying to scrub their entire conversation out of his brain. “Look, we’re doubling the guard posting for solitary tonight, but that’s it. You want in protective custody; you better have some info for the warden.”

The window slid shut, and Hall heard Shaw’s angry footsteps retreat down the corridor. He staggered away from the door and sat back on his bed, buried his face in his hands. How was he going to survive another night?

Closing his eyes, Hall began to pray.

Eight

When morning came, cold and pale and filtered through the greasy panes of Burnham’s windows, Darren stopped at his office long enough to shrug off his coat and toss it over a chair. Then, he stormed through the administrative wing. A real beauty of a headache surged between his temples, and it throbbed with every step. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed against the lids until he saw stars, but the pain continued.

So did the anger.

He greeted his coworkers with the briefest of nods, and the expression on his face seemed to give more than a few of them the creeps.

Darren had received the call from Morrow on his way home. Four more dead. Lockdown. By the time he’d reached the rectory, his emotions had run through sadness, fear, anger, and finally betrayal. They swirled through his mind and sank in his heart, growing hot, then cold, and then hot again. He had spoken at length with the other priests, but their attempts at insight he had not helped him feel any better. Throughout the night, he had tried to understand what Ronald was faced with. Two disappearances and seven deaths was plenty of reason for a lockdown, and he knew that. He’d be a fool to ignore it.

Still, Ronald had promised him and Morrow both. He thought they’d all agreed that confining the prisoners would only breed more confusion and hostility. Now, they’d be faced with the pressure cooker situation he’d asked his friend to help him avoid, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be around when the steam needed release.

It was all so very bad, but the worst part was knowing one of his best friends had gone back on his word.

He pushed open the door to Ron’s office. Heather flashed him a smile that he was in no mood to see.

“Hello, Father.”

“Is he in?” His voice surprised him, flat and cold. A stone in his throat.

She blinked, and the smile faltered. “Yes. Did you want to--”

He charged through the door.

“What the fuck, Ron?”

Timms turned around to face him. He was standing at the coffee maker, pot in hand. His eyes went wide for a second, and then his expression returned to normal. He poured himself a cup and then sat it on the edge of his desk. “Good morning to you, too. Help yourself if you want a cup.”

Darren ignored the offer. Instead, he closed the door behind him and stepped further into the office. He tried to keep his emotions in check, but he could feel his hands shaking at his sides. “I thought you were with me on this one. Why the fuck did you do it?”