One to Go (27 page)

He heard the soft sound of footsteps outside the cell.

Then the jiggling of the lock. Virgil instantly awoke and in a fluid motion reached under his mattress and retrieved a shiv. The door opened. Virgil relaxed.

“It's for you,” said Virgil, and he ambled out of the cell. A black man entered and closed the door behind him. It wasn't Creek.

The short, bald black man who'd been eyeing him in the mess slipped his hairpin into his hair, then flipped a heavy pipe wrench back and forth between his two hands. Up close, Tom knew he'd seen the man before, but couldn't remember where. Whoever he was, the man looked major pissed.

“You killed my brother.”

“Your brother—?” He remembered. The little guy sitting with Reece Mackey in the bar.

“Ball.”

“8-Ball.”

Tom could see a flicker of confusion on the man's face, probably surprised his target wasn't shaking in his boots.

“La Chiqua say when she find Reece, you just been there. Reece, he could always handle the gin, maybe nod off sometimes, but that be it. She think you had somethin' to do with him check-in' out.” He slapped the wrench hard into the palm of his left hand, the sound of the crack echoing around the small enclosure.

Tom's first instinct was to deny the charge and point out the obvious—Reece was a drunk, and the hootch had finally caught up with him. But time was running out. His only thought was Janie. He felt the knife tucked into the back waistband of his underwear, the point tickling the crack of his butt. 8-Ball didn't know he was armed and he needed to provoke the man to attack him.

Immediately.

Tom backed up until he could feel the toilet bowl on the back of his leg. “Maybe I did help him along, so what?”

8-Ball took a step closer, but then paused.

Shit
. Time was running out. He had to force the attack. Tom could think of only one way to do it.

“One less nigger in this world.”

The black man's eyes widened, his face contorted in rage, and he sprang, swinging the heavy wrench down from above his head toward Tom's skull. Tom ducked under the arc of the wrench. The tool grazed Tom's head, stunning him, but not enough to knock him out. He reached behind his back, wrapped his grip around the knife's handle, and in one fluid motion thrust it upward toward the chest of his assailant.

But Ball easily sidestepped, locked his elbow around Tom's arm and twisted back hard, almost ripping the arm from its socket.

Tom yelped and dropped the knife.

For a moment, Ball was off balance, and Tom used the small advantage to shove the little man hard against the cell wall. Ball dropped the wrench, purposely fell to the floor, and rolled across the concrete until he found what he was searching for:

Tom's knife.

In a split second he was on his feet, nimble as a jungle cat, circling, grinning, the knife in his right hand. Tom knew any moment the man would spring. Having never been in a knife fight before, much less a knife fight where only one of the combatants happens to possess a knife, Tom was fairly certain he was about to die. He quickly scanned the small room, searching for something, anything he could use to defend himself. But all he spotted were a few empty potato chip bags.

Ball feigned left, then swung the knife upward with his right hand. Tom had played a little basketball in high school, and knew rule one when defending the man with the ball is to focus on his hips, not his arms or face. He was able to barely anticipate Ball's feint and dodged the thrust. His back now up against the bunks,
he yanked a blanket off Virgil's bed and wrapped it around his arm just as Ball again attacked.

Tom blocked the thrust with his blanket-covered left arm. The sharp blade sliced easily through the worn wool, but stopped short just as the blade edge tickled Tom's arm.

With Ball's weight now forward, Tom stepped behind the man and encircled him in a bear hug, pinning both of the man's arms against his sides. The move sent waves of pain across Tom's ribs, but he held on. While smaller in stature, Ball was very strong, and Tom knew he couldn't hold the embrace much longer.

Ball bit down hard on Tom's right hand, causing Tom to let loose with a howl that had to have been heard up and down the cell row. The pain injected a new burst of adrenaline, and Tom rammed the man's head against the wall, momentarily stunning him.

Ball kept a strong hold on the knife. Knowing there was no way he could continue keeping him at bay, Tom's eyes again landed on the empty chip bags. Without thinking, he used his left arm to momentarily hold the stunned man secure, then grabbed a chip bag and rammed it down Ball's throat. Instinctively, he tried to spit it out, but Tom, sensing an advantage, shoved the second empty bag into Ball's mouth and down his throat.

Doing his best to ignore the shooting pain from Ball's teeth clamping down hard on his wrist, Tom used his left hand to brace the man's head and thrust the fingers of his right hand down the man's throat, jamming the crinkly foil deeper and deeper. Ball tried to bite down on Tom's fingers, but the jaw movement had the effect of pushing the crumpled bags deeper down his gullet.

Ball dropped the knife and clutched his throat. He couldn't breathe. His face reddened and he fell to his knees, then crumpled to the cold concrete floor gagging, clawing at his throat.

Tom hardly noticed the blood dripping down through his hair as he rushed to the door, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ribs. He had to get outside to see the clock, but the door was locked. He ran his fingers through Ball's hair, searching for the
hairpin, but it must've dislodged during the struggle. He wedged himself into the front corner and tried to see the clock through the small window, but the glass had fogged from the recent activity inside.

He glanced over his shoulder. 8-Ball was lying still, but he continued to make gurgling sounds. Tom tried to rub the condensation away, but only succeeded in smearing it. Still, he thought he could see the tip of the minute hand. What time was it?
What the hell time was it?

The rasping stopped, and he turned to see the man's eyes glaze over. Was he dead?

Tom turned to finish him off.

The door opened and Virgil entered. Tom burst past him through the doorway to the balcony where he could see the clock head on:

12:04.

He rushed back to 8-Ball, ignoring Virgil's hulk as he hovered over the man.

One more wheeze, then he was still.

“He gone,” said Virgil, with the same emotion he'd exhibit commenting that he'd missed the bus. “You best get this dead piece of shit outta my room. Now.”

Tom remained frozen. Virgil found the knife, wiped down the handle on the dead man's shorts, and stuck the knife in Ball's waistband. The big man climbed back into his bunk and rolled over.

Four minutes, four lousy minutes. Maybe the clock in the dayroom was fast. Probably hadn't been checked for years. Tom extracted the crumpled chip bags from Ball's throat, rinsed them in the toilet bowl, and replaced them on the shelf. After wrapping the handle of the wrench in toilet paper, making sure not to touch the handle, he rested the tool on the body. As Virgil watched, Tom dragged the body out of the cell onto the balcony, then halfway down the cell row, where he left it in the shadows.

He removed the toilet paper, then returned to his cell and flushed the paper down the toilet. When he was finished, he closed the door and climbed up to his bunk.

He squeezed his eyes tight, but he knew there was no chance he'd be able to sleep. The image of the clock flashed in his mind—12:04—on and off, on and off. The front of the clock shifted out of focus, then reformed as a human face—8-Ball.

And he was laughing his ass off.

At about five a.m. Ball's body was discovered, and the block went into lockdown mode. Each cell was searched, although not very thoroughly, since there were no obvious knife wounds or blood found on the body. The discovery of the knife and pipe wrench on
the victim's body was suspicious, but any further action would have to await an autopsy, and needless to say, no one saw anything. By seven a.m. the lockdown had been lifted, and the men were eating breakfast as if nothing had happened.

Tom had skipped breakfast and now waited in the day-room, his eyes locked on the damn clock: 7:55 a.m. Five minutes until he could use the phone. He'd positioned himself to be first in line.

Creek approached him and bared his teeth. “Get out of my spot, asshole.”

Tom had no time for this. “Every penny on my book, it's yours.”

Creek glared at him with bloodshot eyes. “How much?”

“I don't know, close to 500 bucks. Whatever it is, it's yours.”

Creek paused, then nodded and stepped behind Tom.

At the stroke of eight, Tom inserted his phone card and dialed Gayle. She picked up on the first ring. And she was crying.

Tom screamed into the phone. “What?
What?
Oh, God, no.”

“Tom?”

“Janie?”

“She's fine. But do you remember her little friend, Emma Wong?”

At that moment, Tom heard a familiar voice, and turned to see the
Sunday Baptist Hour
playing on the big TV. But instead of the well-known, African-American preacher with the portly frame and the booming voice, Chad stood in the pulpit wearing a black robe with a scarlet-red cross on each of its billowing sleeves. The crosses were upside down.

“Hallelujah, Thomas, hallelujah! Praise the Lord. Now, which lord would that be? Hmmmm.” He stepped out from behind the pulpit and opened his robe to reveal Emma Wong in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas, her skin so pale she could've been wearing whiteface. Her neck was bent at an odd angle, tilting her head to the left. Her large brown eyes stared out at him, dead, unblinking.

“Thanks for Emma, Tom,” said Chad, as he caressed Emma's
black hair. “She's as sweet as pie.” He bent down and slowly ran his tongue across the top of her head. “And do you have something to tell Tom, sweetie?”

She nodded, then spoke. But her voice wasn't the gentle lilt of a seven-year-old girl. Instead, a deep whisper formed her words.

“One to go.”

Tom sat in the private, attorney interview room with his head in his hands. His ribs ached and his nose hurt. Why couldn't it all be a nightmare? Why couldn't he just wake up at home in a cold sweat and, after realizing it had all been a horrible dream, get up, eat breakfast, and later laugh about it with Zig over a beer? That poor little girl. Think what her parents were going through this morning. And it was all his fault because he couldn't kill a criminal lowlife four minutes earlier.

And two weeks from now? He vowed Janie would not die. If he had no weapon, he'd use his teeth if need be to rip open the throat of someone, anyone, before the clock struck twelve.

The easiest path, of course, was to take his own life. Since Janie was the only one left, there no longer was any chance his death would save one of the others and leave his daughter to Chad and Britney. But did suicide count? Who the hell knew?

After he'd hung up with Gayle, Briscoe had told him he had a visitor, his priest. When the door opened, Matt Sheran held his gaze as he walked purposely to the table. The priest sat down in the uncomfortable, straight-back chair before Briscoe had even fully closed the door.

The moment they both heard the click of the door locking, the priest spoke.

“How did you know?”

“You were there?”

“I almost didn't go. I told myself you were a troubled soul and
my job was to bring you peace if possible. And the first step on that path was to show you how your delusions weren't real.”

“Did Gayle let you in?”

“She offered. Don't know what you told her, but she was very welcoming. Still, I decided to wait in the car. Figured a little after midnight I'd take off and be in my own bed by one. Midnight came and went. I waited an extra ten minutes just in case. But nothing happened. The door didn't fly open, your ex-wife didn't come running out of the house screaming her head off. Nothing. So I left.”

“And Emma?”

“I was a couple blocks away when I heard sirens. I saw flashing lights and followed the emergency vehicles back to your old neighborhood. Asked myself, could everything you've been telling me be true? But the ambulance didn't turn onto your old street. It turned one street earlier.”

“To Emma Wong's house.”

The priest nodded. “I stopped at the scene. I told the family I just happened to be passing by, and asked was there anything I could do.”

“Died of a broken neck, right?”

Father Matt's jaw dropped. “Nothing's been in the papers, not even the neighbors knew how the accident happened. The older brother confided the information to me.”

“I saw Emma with Chad this morning on TV. Her neck appeared broken. And she was wearing pink Hello Kitty pj's. What happened?”