The Four Stages Of Cruelty Part 17

Roy didn't give a s.h.i.+t.

"Now I see why they sent you here."

The drawings in Roy's hands, his fingers folded around the pages-Josh wanted to jump for them. Tear them away. But he did nothing, just waited.

"Here's you f.u.c.king the s.h.i.+t out of her. Here's you stabbing her with a knife. Here's her sucking your k.n.o.b while you've got a gun to her head. My, what a big c.o.c.k you have. I never thought I'd say this, Josh, but you're disgusting."

"That's got nothing to do with reality."

Roy laughed. "Ever do a Rorschach test, kid?"

Josh didn't bother to answer.

"I done more than my share, and I don't mind admitting, every single one of those ink splats look like p.u.s.s.y to me. Of course, you can't admit that, because you know somehow you're sick-about s.e.x and everything else, too. So you end up telling the doctor you just see a plate of hot lasagna or an open-faced roast beef sandwich." He paused, grinned at Josh. "You got a whole lot of lasagna on the brain, don't you." Head shaking in a mocking disapproval.

He rose up and thrust the pages into his pocket.

"In any event," Roy said, "you've given me better leverage than being nice to you ever would, all the pleasure that was. I show these drawings to some of the more sensitive fellows out there, jack or con, and your life will be a living h.e.l.l. I'm sure you understand. So, fresh start, new relations.h.i.+p. I've been happy enough to accommodate your surly bulls.h.i.+t so far because I like people in all their various moods and personalities. But there's business to be taken care of, and time ticking by. I need an extra helping of cooperation from you going forward. You know what I mean? Tomorrow we'll have a little talk about the work you did for Crowley and what you can start doing for me."

Then he was gone, and the call for dinner rang out. Josh didn't leave the drum, just lay there, his chest heaving. An hour went by. A cramp grew in his stomach, and he told himself it was all in his mind, not a ball of c.o.ke exploding into his intestine. Did you just reach up inside there and pull it out? The mechanics were beyond him, and then the overwhelming urge came and he rushed to the toilet, sat his a.s.s on the cold metal, and practically fainted with the pain as it pa.s.sed through him. It had come to this, he thought. All the good feelings were gone. Hope was like an adrenaline shot. It gave you a jolt of heart-thumping life and left you beat to s.h.i.+t afterward. Then he was on his knees, his fingers in his own muck, searching for it, whatever it was, knowing that something large had squeezed out-retching, the water streaming in his mouth and from his eyes. He couldn't let Fenton down. Every gift came with a price. Don't make friends, Officer Williams told him. You don't want any friends.

When he finally grabbed something, he thought it was too small, but he could find nothing else, and he washed it off in the sink. In his hand was a thin plastic case, an oblong ping-pong ball, a fake egg of some kind, and he an unlikely chicken. He could have cracked it, but he didn't dare and had never desired anything less. He put it on the shelf behind his stack of letters and washed his hands again and again.

His mind kept racing, and he thought about the drawings, the shame of them. By the time they came along for lockup, he couldn't stand it anymore. The doors slammed shut-bang, bang, bang, bang, down the line, one after another. He reached his own door just as the jack arrived to key him in, and he began screaming. The jack body-checked the door shut, slamming Josh's fingers. Josh stuck his hand out the slot, and the f.u.c.kstick crushed his knuckles. He stuck his face into the slot, and the f.u.c.kstick drove him back like a pool cue against the ridge of his eye socket, a black hole of pain, and he was lying on the ground unable to see, holding his face, blood in his hands. He stood up and stomped the world. He tore his shelves down, all the clothes and books and letters cras.h.i.+ng low. He leaned into the desk and lifted, wrenching it from its bolts in the wall. He kicked the wall. He rammed the door with the chair until the chair disintegrated. He tore at his bunk. He howled and thrashed and scratched. And when they came at him, bursting in, surrounding him on all sides at once, pus.h.i.+ng him down and taking the life out of his lungs, he gave them every last bit of fight he had.

31.

I slept hard until the alarm woke me late in the morning. It was a struggle to find the clock. I fell across the other side of the bed, dry-mouthed, limbs hardly obeying my brain, and stretched about. Bizarre memories of the night before. At first I thought they were dreams. Then the shock of knowing it had happened.

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting on the toilet with my head in my hands, feet planted on the cold linoleum. I needed to go through with it. I got an old, forgotten condom out of the drawer, ripped the plastic, and pulled it out. Ribbed, thin, those hopeful compromises between protection and pleasure. Shaky hands, each pill going in. Packed like a sock filled with gravel and tied off. I stood and leaned over, lifting a leg like a dog, and worked it into my body.

Then I put on my uniform and drove to Ditmarsh. All I could think about was the library. I had to maneuver myself there somehow before nine o'clock to do the drop. Getting out of my truck took a lot. Entering the north gate, smiling at Jones, and walking around the metal detector took everything I had. Jones waited until I was inside, then told me I needed to report to the Keeper's office. Every muscle in my face stopped working. I was a small animal that had walked into a trap.

Keeper Pollock was in the office, and he made me close the door. Pollock was a white-haired buzz cut about six minutes from retirement. The kind of simple soldier who smoothed all nuance out of right and wrong and made rank, seniority, and loyalty the cardinal virtues of a well-served life. He told me Detective Melinda Reizner of the Pen Squad wanted to talk with me. I felt like a child moments from breaking down, confessing every wrong and begging for forgiveness. But instead I managed to ask why I was wanted.

"You got me. Maybe they want to ask you about your boyfriend, Hadley. We're all wondering where love went wrong."

I thought about the videotape evidence and MacKay's take on why it hadn't been turned over. I told myself the meeting with Melinda didn't have anything to do with the drugs inside me, and I headed off, stiff with a bravery I didn't feel.

The Pen Squad was officed in a closed-off hall inside the old warden's residence behind the infirmary. As a CO, I had never pa.s.sed through the secure door before. I'd escorted inmates to the entrance but had always handed them off to one of the detectives or intelligence a.n.a.lysts within and then waited for the interrogation to be finished. In my experience, the inmates walked in full of bl.u.s.ter and walked out quiet and wary. Like everyone else, I a.s.sumed they were guilty or at least in possession of knowledge that made them complicit in whatever was being investigated. Like everyone else, I a.s.sumed they would quickly inform on one of their fellow inmates in return for some legal favor or break.

The young man who answered my buzz resembled a weak sister or a civilian visitor more than a plainclothes officer. He knew who I was. Detective Reizner wasn't ready to see me. Fast-talking and harried, he shrugged with an empathetic smile. "You know how it is. We're working late tonight."

He showed me to Melinda's office: a desk, a computer, and four filing cabinets. There were no frills. Zero personal touches. A long foldout table with an off-kilter stack of files, a video monitor, and a tangle of cables.

"Do you mind waiting a few minutes?" he asked.

I said I didn't mind. He closed the door, gently but firmly.

The fluorescent lights sucked away all hope. I looked around the room for something to distract me. Memos on the wall, official notes about this and that. A chart listing inmate personal and family visits over the last three months. A statement, copied from the plaque just inside the north gate, describing the offenses for which visitors could be arrested and charged. I saw an evidence box and peered inside. Filled with impressively creative homemade weapons. The long plastic tube with a brutal pointed end had probably been a plate stolen from the cafeteria, microwaved, melted, and folded repeatedly until it looked (almost laughably) like a death-dealing d.i.l.d.o. The short aluminum pipe and elastic band was a zip gun for shooting darts. What men will do with their free time. Jacked up on fear, greed, envy, and hate. Throw in a little mental illness, and stir.

I saw a file containing Jon Crowley's autopsy report.

It was impossible to resist picking it up. It even allowed me to hope, almost rationally, that Crowley was the reason Melinda had called me in. The pages were meager, only a half dozen pictures, the details rough. Highly compromised liver function owing to long-term untreated hep C. A duodenal ulcer. So much for our prison health-care system. More germane to the events in question, partial hypothermia and acute asphyxiation. Third-degree chemical burns to his chest and face. One hundred and thirty-seven separate contusions.

Ten minutes later the door opened and Melinda appeared with an older woman at her side. "Oh," she said. "They've got you in here." Surprised to see me, but instantly changing gears, she threw around introductions. "This is Cynthia. Been around the longest and knows more about the work than the rest of us put together." Cynthia, dressed in blue jeans and a plaid hunter's s.h.i.+rt, told Melinda she was full of s.h.i.+t. Melinda looked more like a businesswoman running a corporate division. She asked Cynthia if they could follow up later, and Cynthia left us.

Melinda closed the door, and the way she relaxed, a little downturn in her energy, gave me my second blast of hope. "Sorry. Busy day. You been in here before?"

"Deliveries only." Tense and ready for anything, I kept myself friendly and humorous, eager to please. I saw inmates do it every day.

"Well, thanks for coming in. Some COs wouldn't." Melinda continued: "I've been meaning to talk to you about the whole Crowley thing, but we haven't slowed down since."

Crowley. I could talk about Crowley. I'd thank G.o.d if I could talk about Crowley.

"But now I've got a new reason to chat."

I waited, and wondered if my hand would shake if I lifted it to my face.

"What about?"

"You have a fan in here."

"A fan?"

"Someone who wants to see you. Wants to see only you."

I asked who.

"An inmate named Joshua Riff."

"The kid from the infirmary?" The question sounded in-authentic in my own ears.

"Last night there was an incident." Melinda hesitated, and I could see her composing a story. "The COs heard screaming, ran to his cell, found him in an agitated and destructive state. He refused to restrain himself, so they moved in to prevent self-injury and temporarily housed him in a safe room."

Rubber walls, wrapped tight. Maybe even sedated. Probably softened up first.

"They searched his cell, standard procedure, and found something."

She showed me the clear bag. A white plastic ball broken open, a pouch of white powder poking out.

"He admitted to the drugs. Says he was supposed to bring them to the library. We can't get the details out of him, though. Who pa.s.sed them on, how he got them, who he was going to give them to. He says he wants to talk to you."

"The library."

"A nice bit of intelligence to stumble on. We'd been keying in on the warehouse ever since we found a bag inside the southwest wall. We'll get a camera on the library tonight and see if we can figure out the drop-and-pick patterns."

A few hours later and it might have been me. I could picture the video of a blue-uniformed CO in the library, looking nervous, stumbling through a handoff.

"Will you talk with him? He's scared and doesn't want to say any more to us. But I want to find out what he knows, see what kind of trouble he's in. We might be able to turn him into a regular informant."

I didn't want the a.s.signment. Not this way. I wanted to walk.

"I know it's not in your job description," Melinda said, "but I figured you wouldn't mind helping out. We won't record it, so you'll never have to worry about it showing up. Just a friendly chat, and maybe you can prime him to cooperate with us. He's insistent on you."

"Okay," I said. I didn't mean yes. I wanted time to think, but Melinda misinterpreted.

"Fantastic. I knew you'd be into it. Here's the two-second course on interrogation. Say little, listen a lot. It's difficult for people to stay quiet. It makes them uncomfortable. It's human nature to want to fill the gaps. Good interviewers use that. You know what I mean?"

Nod.

"Then let's get it over with. Do you need to pee?"

I said I did. I wanted the drugs out of my body, even if that was the worst idea in the world.

32.

His face was puffy, a black eye and a thick lip you could put a steak on. Older than before, and younger, too. Our time in the car, so imprinted on my memory, seemed hazy to me now, different people in different times.

I needed to show him kindness. A mercy and decency I didn't feel. "How is your face?" I asked. "Are you all right?" My head tilted with caring. My heart was stone. I hoped no one was watching. Melinda had said the camera was off, but a precise red-lettered sign on each wall stated, "You are being recorded." I didn't know whether to trust Melinda or the sign.

He looked up, blinking through the swelling. "Thanks for coming to see me." His voice was tight with the hoa.r.s.eness of exhaustion. "It's not easy in here sometimes."

"They don't make it easy for a reason." I kept my own tone dry and reasonable, but the harshness had crept back.

"I could use a little help," he said. "I think I'm in over my head."

Was it a con? The ones who were good at lies fooled you so completely you questioned reality in the aftermath.

"I don't know, Josh. You seem to be handling yourself pretty well. Making friends."

"What do you mean, friends?"

"Josh, they found enough cocaine in your cell to keep a range going for a week."

"You think I knew that was coming?"

"Oh, someone forced it on you?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact." A genuine laugh. Then his face got heavy again, and he lifted a shaky hand to his forehead.

"What is it?" I asked, irritated at the joke I didn't understand.

"I need to get out of the infirmary and into population. I want to start my real time. I want to be on B-three. There's some people there who will look out for me."

I must have looked surprised.

"Crowley thought I was crazy to want out of the infirmary, too. He said I didn't know how good I had it. But they got me in there for a reason."

"Who's they?"

He said nothing. I waited.

"Keeper Wallace, for one. Roy."

"What are you talking about?" I wanted and didn't want to know about Wallace.

Josh showed a sullen hurt.

"Roy isn't sick. His ears bleed sometimes when he bangs his head. But he can do it whenever he wants, and the doctors can't figure out what's wrong, so they can't let him out. But he's really in there to put the squeeze on me. He's always asking about Crowley. About the comic book I showed you in the car. He wants me to remember what was in it. And whether I tell him or not, I'm afraid I'm going to end up like Crowley or Elgin."

"What do you mean like Elgin?"

Josh's face tightened, a flinch of anxiety or fear. He didn't answer.

"Josh, I don't understand any of this. What does that comic book have to do with anything? Why would Roy or anyone hurt you for it?"

"Roy says the comic book is a treasure map."

I sat back, the tired lines around my thirty-nine-year-old face a little heavier. I was flattened by the craziness of it, this silly boy's adventure.

"A treasure."

He nodded.

"Maybe that's why your friend Crowley wrote 'dig' on the door of the old segregation hole."

"He wrote dig?" His eyes widening.

"A treasure. Do you know how ridiculous you sound?"

"I don't care if you don't believe me," he said.