Jeffery Deaver - Hard News

The three of them stopped about fifteen feet from where Boggs sat, next to a tall wall of red brick. Ascipio said, "Yo, man. Here. Now."

Boggs looked at him but didn't get up.

Ascipio pointed to a small shaded area out of sight of the towers. The prisoners called it Lovers' Lane.

Ascipio stepped into the nook and unzipped his fly. "Yo, man, I'm talking to you. You deaf, or what?"

His friend said, "You, man, on your fucking knees. Gonna turn you out, man, turn you out. You do that an' you'll live. Big nigger ain' here to save your pretty cheeks."

The other: "Come on, man. Now!"

Boggs looked back at them. He said, "Don't believe I will." He measured the distance to the nearest guard. It was a long, long way. The other inmates were all studying very important things in the opposite direction from Boggs.

This's going to be bad.

Ascipio spit out, "Don'tbelieve you will? Motherfucker say he don't believe he will?"

Then Boggs's eyes lowered to his own right hand, which rested on his knee. He glanced down at it. Ascipio followed his gaze.

A long fingernail.

It kept growing. One inch, two, three, four, six. Boggs looked back into their eyes. One by one, his head swiveling.

Seven Washington had given it to him last night, this piece of double-strength glass, a clear stiletto honed on one side so sharp it would shave hair. The handle was taped. Metal-detector-proof. The fingernail could do the most damage glass could ever do. Boggs had said, "Would Allah, you know, approve of this?"

Washington had reassured him, "Allah say it's okay to fuck up assholes try to move on you. I heard Him say that personally."

Ascipio laughed. "Put that 'way, man. Get you pretty white mouth over here, man."

They'd get him on his knees, then the other two would hold him and Ascipio would beat him to death and then they'd find the body in the laundry room, where the official word would be he'd died by falling down the stairs.

Boggs shook his head.

Ascipio said, "Three of us, man. More, I want. That" – he nodded at the knife – "that do you shit."

"Man," one of the others growled at the insubordination.

Boggs didn't move. The blade blasted light off its point.

Ascipio walked close. Slowly. And he looked into Boggs's eyes. He stopped. He stood for a long moment as they stared at each other. Finally the Latino smiled and shook his head. "Okay, man. You know, you got balls. I like that."

Boggs didn't move.

"You okay, my friend," Ascipio said, admiration in his voice. "Nobody else ever try that shit with me. You fuckin' all right."

He extended his hand.

Boggs looked down at it.

A bird swooping in.

Boggs half turned as the fist of a fourth man, who'd come up behind him silently, caught him under the ear. A loudthwock as knuckles bounced off bone and he felt Ascipio's hand grabbing his right wrist with fingers that wanted to pierce the skin.

The knife fell to the ground and Boggs saw it tumble, appearing and disappearing as it fell.

"No!" The word didn't come out as a shout, though. It was muffled by the meaty forearm of the man who'd hit him.

There were no guards, there were no Aryan Brotherhood protectors, no Severn Washington, there was no one in Lovers' Lane except the five men.

Five men and a glass knife.

Ascipio leaned forward. Boggs smelled garlic on his breath – garlic from his private stocks of food. Tobacco from the endless supply of cigarettes.

"Yo, man, you a stupid motherfucker."

No, Boggs thought in despair. Don't cut me! Not the knife. Not that, please…

As the blade went in, Boggs felt much less pain than he'd expected, but the sense of horror was far worse than he'd thought.

The knife retreated and returned into his body and he felt a terrifying loosening inside him.

Then there were other shouts, from a dozen yards away or a hundred. But Boggs didn't pay any attention; they didn't mean anything to him. All he was aware of was Ascipio's face: the grinny-mean eyes that never flinched or narrowed and the smile, one that might please children.

She heard the news on another station. Not even a network O amp;O but one of the locals. The one that broadcastM*A*S*H reruns and whose best-seller was a talk show that did stories about sexual surrogates and discrimination against overweight women.

Rune's own Network News hadn't even thought Randy Boggs's stabbing was worth mentioning.

Rune sweet-talked Healy into taking Courtney for a few hours. She figured this was a major abuse of the relationship, but he was so happy she'd gotten the girl back (she was a little vague abouthow exactly) that he didn't complain at all.

A half hour later she was on the train to Harrison, wondering if maybe she should buy a monthly commutation pass.

The infirmary surprised her. She expected it to be totally grim. More Big House, more Edward G.

Robinson. But it was just a clean, well-lit hospital ward. A guard accompanied her, a large black man with a broad chest. His uniform didn't fit well. The glossy blue collar buttons, one a D, one a C, for Department of Corrections, came just to the level of her eyes. He was silent.

Randy Boggs didn't look good at all. He was shell-white, and the spray or cream that he used on his hair glued it out in all directions. The eyes were what bothered Rune most though. They were unfocused and still. God, they were eerie. Corpse eyes.

"It's you, miss." He nodded. "You come all the way up to see me."

"You going to be all right?"

"Got me a pretty nice-looking scar. But the knife missed all the important stuff."

"What happened?"

"Don't rightly know. I was in the yard and I get pulled over backwards and somebody stuck me."

"You must have seen him."

"Nope. Not a glimpse."

"Was it daytime?"

"Yep. This morning."

"How could somebody stab you and you not see it?"

Boggs tried a smile but it didn't take. "People get invisible here."

She said, "But-"

"Look…" His eyes came to life for a moment then faded back to lifeless. "… this is prison. Not the real world. We got ourselves a whole different set of rules." He lifted his hand to his stomach and touched a large while pad under his tattered, overlaundered dressing gown. He leaned his head back into his pillows and pressed his thin, sinewy forearm over his eyes. "Damn," he whispered.

She watched him in this still pose for a long minute, wishing she'd brought the camera. But then decided that, no, it was better to keep this private. He was the sort of man who'd never want to be seen crying.

"I brought you something."

She opened her bag and removed an old book, flaky and scabbed. She held it out. The pages were edged in gold.

Boggs lowered his arm and looked at it uneasily as if no one had ever given him a present before and he was wondering what would be expected in return.

"It's a book," she said.

"Figured that out." He opened it. "Looks like an old one."

He flipped open to the copyright page. "Nineteen oh four. Yep, that goes back a ways. Year my grandmother was born. How 'bout that?"

"It's not like it's worth a lot of money or anything."

"What is it, like fairy tales?"

"Greek and Roman myths."

At least his eyes were reviving. He even had a slight smile on his face as he turned the pages, glancing at the pictures, which were protected with tissue. The smile of somebody who receives a present he likes but doesn't know what to do with.

Rune said, "There's a story I want you to read. One in particular." She flipped through the pages. "Here."

He looked at it. "Prometheus. Wasn't he the guy made the wings out of wax or something?"

"Uh, nope. That was another dude."

Boggs squinted. "Hey, lookit there."