Lights Out (2 page)

They watched each other for a painfully long moment, the creature snarling and Hall trying to bite down on the scream he felt welling up in his chest. No way around it, he was going to die. This thing was going to kill him the same as it had Webber and Jenkins. He wouldn’t die screaming, though. If he had to go out, it would be like a man and not some bitch.

Suddenly, the creature fell silent. Its lips closed over its teeth, and it appeared to frown at Hall. A hand decorated with five long, skeletal fingers reached up and slammed the viewing window shut.

Hall watched the door, listening for the sound of the bolt being drawn back. It never came.

Eventually, he let himself scream.

Two

Father Darren Albright wished he had time for a smoke, but he was late enough already. He hurried down the concrete corridor, his footsteps echoing. They had tried to make this area of the prison more hospitable, painting the walls an annoying shade of off-white, but the effort only served to remind the chaplain that he had been assigned to this hellhole instead of some place--any place--resembling the real world. It was false serenity, like the hallways of the burn ward in a hospital. The soothing corner of hell.

He rounded the corner and raced to the steel door that stood on the right. It was painted a dark brown. A small brass sign on it read RONALD TIMMS, WARDEN.

Darren checked his watch. Five minutes late.

Damn it.

He twisted the knob and opened the door.

The Warden’s assistant, a young redhead named Heather, waved him through. “They’ve already started,” she said

“I was afraid of that.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay out here with me.”

“Oh, please don’t make the offer. I’m supposed to avoid temptation.”

“Then why do you keep coming back, Father?”

He leaned over her desk, giving her a wink. “Because I think you’d look hot in a habit.”

She laughed, and he threw her a grin before pushing open the next door and entering the warden’s inner office.

“Glad you could join us, Father.”

Great. Ronald only pulled out “Father” for special circumstances, like when he was good and pissed off. Must be one of those days.

“You know me,” he said, “Any chance to make an entrance.”

Warden Timms gave Darren a nod, and the chaplain snuck into a far corner of the office, back by a bookshelf stuffed with old law volumes. He watched the warden. Ronald Timms was a tall, wiry man, his hair still dark brown well into his fifties. His features were sharp, almost severe. The man could have made a career as a dentist or high school principle with those features. Prison warden was just the next step down. Darren silently thanked his family’s genetics for his own soft features, looks wasted on a life of celibacy. Oh, well. If being a priest was easy, everybody would do it.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he whispered.

Timms leaned over his desk, massaging his temples with thin fingers. A frown cast shadows over his face as he glowered at the office’s other occupants, a selection of corrections staff and unit managers.

“I don’t need to tell you all how much this pisses me off, right? This is a goddamn prison! If this shit happens in here, what’s the point?”

Darren raised a hand.

“Excuse me, Warden.” Calling his friend Ron was the best choice right now. “What’s happened exactly?”

“What, Father? You didn’t get the memo? We had one C.O. and two solitary prisoners get killed last night. And to top it all off, we got two other prisoners who up and went missing.”

“Missing?”

“Yeah. They’re not around anymore.”

“Aw, shit.”

“Shit’s the right word, all right. We got a great big bucket of the stuff, and we’re all sitting around with spoons pretending it’s soup.”

Missing prisoners were never good. They could be escapees, but just as often they showed up elsewhere, usually hanging from a rafter or cut in a hundred different ways. A time-honored tradition among Burnham’s various factions.

“The prisoners--the victims specifically--what were their affiliations?”

“Varied,” said Ray Morrow, the senior correctional officer. He was a big man, his hair short and black with a few wisps of gray. Darren knew him as tough but fair, good at keeping things under control for both prisoners and guards.

“We got Tony Jenkins, was Brotherhood to the bone. Second was David Webber, a crankboy with no connections. He was always too jacked up on crystal to play nice and make friends.

“Only survivor is Deon Hall, makes his bed with Diggs and the bangers.”

“So, who can we expect to make a play for retribution?” The question came from Toby Kinnett, unit manager for Cell Block B.

“Hell,” Timms said. “I’d expect it from both sides. The Brotherhood will think Diggs was behind the whole thing, and Diggs will want to get in the first shot. The bangers and Aryans are always looking for an excuse to fuck up each other.”

“So what do you plan to do while the investigation takes place?” Darren asked.

“Lockdown.”

Darren rolled his eyes.

“I’d advise against it,” Morrow said. “Letting these assholes stew in their own juices is just gonna put more steam in the pressure cooker. Let ‘em think business is going on as usual, and I’ll keep the boys watching. We’ll put anything down before it comes up. Who knows? Maybe somebody’ll slip up, give us something we can use to catch this bastard.”

The warden nodded. “Works for me. I don’t want any more violence, though. Got me? We are at less than zero tolerance right now.”

“Maybe I can help?” Darren said. “I can get the faction leaders together; tell them we’re working on it. If they know we’re trying to solve this, maybe they’ll give us the time we need.”

“Worth a shot. Send out some feelers.”

“Right.”

Ronald pushed himself away from his desk, let out a fatigued sigh.

“In light of this fresh crop of bullshit, I’ll push the budgetary items back until next time. Anybody have a problem with that?”

A murmur of “No’s” ran through the room.

“Good. Let’s get out there.”

Darren watched Kinnett, Morrow, and the rest filter out of the office. He hung back, waiting until he was alone with the warden.

“You doing okay, Ron?”

“Except for this class five headache I got going on, I’m peachy.” He pulled open a drawer and snatched out a bottle of aspirin. Darren watched as his friend popped four in his mouth and swallowed them dry.

“Sorry I was late today.”

“Wish that were the case with me, Darren. Shit, I’m sorry I came in at all.”

“I’m serious. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t tell me something like that, okay? Neither of us knows if you can keep that promise, and one of us doesn’t care.”

“How can--”

“I was saying I’m the one who doesn’t care.”

“Right.”

“You honestly think talking to the faction leaders will do some good?”

“I think so, yeah. Getting a dialogue going might take us a long way toward keeping this place calm. You’re going to give me a chance, right? You won’t pull the rug out from under me?”

Timms gave him a smile. “No. I trust you.”

“I know you do. I’m a priest.”

“Which is why I won’t let my ten-year-old near you.”

He chuckled in spite of himself. “That’s sick, Ron. Real sick, even for you.”

“It’s your vocation, not mine!”

“Whatever. We getting a drink after work?”

“If the place hasn’t burned down yet, and the way this day is going, I don’t like my chances very much.”

“You didn’t put ‘optimist’ on you resume, did you?”

“No, just ‘hopeless romantic.’”

“That’s what I thought. It was probably directly under ‘pessimistic pain in the ass,’ right?”

“Get out of my office, Father. You have a flock to attend to, and I have a prison to run into the ground.”

“Right. You have fun with that.”

“Will do.”

Darren gave his friend another smile and shook his head. He left the office, looking back long enough to see Ron rub his temples again.

***

Sweeny hunched over his lunch tray like a vulture guarding a fresh carcass. His jagged shoulder blades scarped at the air. The wicked blade of his nose pointed downward while his eyes remained up and roaming, watching. His thin neck and smooth scalp completed the visual. Considering the man’s almost emaciated appearance, it was amazing he managed to hold control of the Aryan Brotherhood. In many ways, his bearing was his best asset. Nobody ever saw him coming, not until they felt the knife slide between their ribs.

He peeled the rind off an orange, talking under his breath as he stared across the cafeteria. His lieutenant, a beefy skinhead named Hodge, listened close, never looking his boss in the eye.

“It was the niggers,” Sweeny said in an even voice. “You know it, and I know it. No further investigation required.”

“But one of the guys killed was a nigger.”

“Good cover, huh? Law of averages. Even a fucking coon can understand it. Long as you get two white men at the same time, it’s cool to kill one of your own. Throws off the scent; gives you an alibi. Too bad there’s people like me who can see through their bullshit. Besides, Webber was a nobody, a fucking crackhead. It’s not like Diggs had Hall killed. No way. Those two are homeboys, y’know?””

“Okay, so what do we want to do about it?”

“Dumbass. What do you think we want to do about it?” He refused eye contact, even as his voice took on the properties of a rusty dagger.

Hodge cleared his throat. “What I meant was, do we want to take two, even it up? Might start a war.”

“We are at war, Hodge. Been at war ever since those monkeys went and got themselves emancipated.” He took a bite out of the orange, chewed it a few times before swallowing it down. “I’m tired of this eye for an eye game we’ve got going on. If we really want to step up--take this country back once and for all--it’s time we showed the rest of these fucks we mean business.”

He nodded across the cafeteria, and Hodge followed his gaze.

“Diggs?”

“Yeah, Diggs. The head nigger, himself. It’s time that piece of shit went down for the count.”

“We want to take out Diggs, we’ve gotta take out Tree, too.”

Sweeny eyed Diggs’ bodyguard. Tree stood over six-foot-five, thick as a goddamn tank. Black eyes peered out from what had to be the ugliest face in human history. Sweeny had seen the big man crush a spic’s skull with his bare hands, retribution for a stiff drug deal. He’d heard rumors Tree had taken seven shots before slowing down long enough for the pigs to arrest him.

“So go through Tree. I want Diggs to take a long fucking nap by the end of the week. There’ll be one hell of a reward to whoever pulls it off.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure word gets out.”

“Good. We’re gonna be back on top of this shitheap again. Mark my fucking words.” He grabbed his tray and stood, Hodge right behind him. He caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. He turned to find a skinny little bastard with stringy red hair staring up at him, his jaw slack. Sweeny shot him a pissed-off sneer.

“Eyes front, shithead.”

The man did as he was told, almost falling out of his seat as he turned, and Sweeny led his good right arm out of the cafeteria.

***

The cowering man went by the name of Maggot. It was not a name he had chosen. In fact, it was a name he hated with every last fiber of his being, but it was the name he had earned over his eight years in Burnham, and it was the name he would be stuck with for the rest of his life, because that was how long he was going to be a resident, and he knew good and well that, if he wanted that life to be a long one, he would accept Maggot as his given name.

“Sorry, sir,” he muttered to his lunch, and he hoped Mr. Sweeny had not heard him. He did not like drawing attention to himself. Attention was bad, and he had taken more than a few beatings while screaming “Sorry, sir!” or “It won’t happen again, sir!” because of it. These days, he called everybody sir. Years before, he had called his own father sir, and the habit had stuck. Good manners usually did.

Relieved at the sight of Mr. Sweeny walking away, Maggot curled himself over his tray, spooning a small bite of applesauce past his lips. Nobody sat beside him. Nobody ever did. He liked it that way; there was that thing about attention.

The prison smelled wrong today. A stale smell filled the air, a stink like slow death. He remembered breathing the scent from years before, but he could not recall where.

He held his breath as he chewed and swallowed.

He gasped, almost choking on his applesauce, when a shadow fell over him. Wiping his mouth clean, he looked up and hoped he would not see a fist flying right at his nose. Sometimes you got sucker punched for no reason. Lord knows it had happened to Maggot a time or two in the past. Luckily, this was not one of those times. Instead of a punch, he saw a trio of Latinos, each one looking tougher than the last. The one in the middle, his face weathered, but his hair still dark and slicked back, jerked a thumb behind him.

“You’re in my seat again, Maggot.”

Maggot scrambled away from the table, scooping up his tray and taking it with him, clutching it tight to his chest.

“Sorry, sir.”

“That’s okay, but make sure it don’t happen again. I don’t tolerate bullshit.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

One of the other Latinos watched the skinny gringo leave. “That guy creeps me out, Marquez.”

“Maggot?” the older man asked. “The little man’s harmless. Don’t twist your dick in a knot over him.”

Omar Marquez sat down, and his boys sat down on either side. Rocha and Gonzalez were good soldiers. Marquez was lucky to have them working for him. At fifty-seven, he’d seen his share of good help and shit help, and these two definitely fell closer to the upper end of the scale. Their sales remained better than average, and they made sure the dirty work got done. Most days, you couldn’t ask for better without being an asshole.