Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

Lacarra looked away. “Got a cigarette?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”

Lacarra nodded, still looking off into the distance, his eyes half closed, like two black slits. He began stroking the tuft of hair, pulling his lip down with each stroke, exposing a row of yellow, broken teeth.

“You don’t smoke,” Lacarra said quietly. “Isn’t that healthy.”

“I used to enjoy the occasional cigar, but I quit when a friend of mine developed cancer. They had to cut off most of his lower jaw, poor fellow.”

At this, Lacarra’s head swiveled toward him, as if in slow motion. “He must’ve been one ugly motherfucker after that.”

“It’s amazing what they can do with plastic surgery these days.”

Lacarra turned. “Hey, you hear that, Rafe? This boy’s got a friend with no mouth.”

As if on cue, Lacarra’s gang started to move again-all except the one with the ball. They began drifting in, like wolves.

“I think I’ll continue my walk now,” said the prisoner, moving to one side.

With a casual step, Lacarra moved to block the prisoner’s path.

The prisoner paused, and fixed a pair of silvery eyes on Lacarra. He said something in a low voice that Fecteau didn’t catch.

Lacarra didn’t move, didn’t look at the prisoner. After a moment he replied, “And what’s that?”

The prisoner spoke more clearly now. “I hope you’re not going to make the second worst mistake of your life.”

“What the fuck you talking about, second mistake? What’s the first mistake?”

“Murdering those three innocent children.”

There was an electric silence. Fecteau shifted, stunned by what he had heard. The prisoner had broken one of the most sacred rules of prison life-and what was more, had done it with Pocho Lacarra. And how in hell did he even know Lacarra? The man had been in solitary since he arrived. Fecteau tensed all over. Something terrible was going to happen-and it was going to happen soon.

Lacarra smiled, looking at him for the first time, showing more yellow teeth with a gap in the top, and then, through that gap, he ejected a gobbet of phlegm which hit the toe of the prisoner’s shoe with an audible smack. “Where’d you hear that?” he asked mildly.

“You tied them up first, though-big brave macho hombre that you are. Wouldn’t want a seven-year-old girl to leave a scratch on that pretty face of yours. Eh, Pocho?”

Fecteau could hardly believe his ears. This guy had a death wish for sure. Lacarra’s gang seemed equally stupefied, unsure how to respond, waiting for some kind of signal.

Pocho began to laugh: a slow, ugly laugh, full of menace. “Hey, Rafe,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t think this motherfucker likes me, know what I mean?”

Rafe sauntered over. “Oh, yeah?”

The prisoner said nothing. Now the others were still drifting in, like a pack of wolves. Fecteau felt his heart pounding in his chest.

“You hurt my feelings, man,” Pocho said to the prisoner.

“Indeed,” came the reply. “And what feelings are those?”

Pocho stepped back and Rafe came in, all slow and nonchalant, and then-fast as a spring-loaded trap-he swung on the prisoner’s gut.

The prisoner moved like a blur, one leg flashing out, and suddenly Rafe was doubled up, on the ground. Then, with a horrible sucking sound, he vomited.

“Knock it off!” Fecteau screamed down at them, raising his radio to call Doyle.

The others moved in fast while Pocho took another step away, letting the others do the dirty work. Watching, Fecteau was amazed, confounded, to see the prisoner move in a way he never thought possible, faster than he thought possible, some kind of martial art he wasn’t familiar with-but of course, he was up against six gang members who had spent their entire lives street-fighting and nobody could hold up to that. As for the gang itself, they were so surprised by the prisoner’s moves they had retreated, temporarily at bay. Another had fallen beside Rafe, stunned by a blow to the chin.

Fecteau turned and ran down the walkway, yelling into his radio for backup. No way was he going to break this up with just Doyle.

Lacarra’s voice rose up. “You gonna let this bitch kick your ass?”

The rest moved in and around. One lashed out and the prisoner spun, but it was a feint so another could move in while a third struck him in the gut-getting him good this time. And now they all moved in, fists flying, and the prisoner began to struggle beneath the blows.

Fecteau burst through the upper doors, no longer able to see the yard, ran down the stairs, unlocked another door, and dashed along the corridor. Doyle was just arriving, along with four other backup guards running from the station, riot sticks drawn. Fecteau unlocked the double doors to the yard and they jumped through.

“Hey! Cut the shit!” Fecteau screamed as they ran across the cement toward a small knot of Lacarra’s men, hunched over an invisible figure on the ground, kicking the crap out of it. Two others now lay on the ground nearby, while Lacarra himself seemed to have disappeared.

“Enough!” Fecteau waded in with Doyle and the others, grabbing the collar of one thug and jerking him back, whacking another across the ear with his stick.

“Cut it! Enough!”

Doyle charged in beside him, Taser in hand, and the other guards waded in as well. In less than thirty seconds, the inmates had been restrained. The special prisoner lay on his back, unconscious, the blood covering his face a striking contrast to his skin, his pants nearly torn off at the waistband, his shirt split down the side.

One of the other prisoners was screaming hysterically somewhere in the background. “You seen what that crazy fucker do? You seen that, man?”

“What’s happening, Fecteau?” came the warden’s voice over the radio. “What’s this about a fight?”

As if he didn’t know. “The new prisoner got nailed, sir.”

“What happened to him?”

“We need EMTs!” one of the other guards was calling in the background. “We got at least three prisoners hurt bad! EMTs!”

“Fecteau, are you there?” came Imhof’s strident voice.

“Yeah, the new prisoner’s hurt, don’t know how bad, though.”

“Find out!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Another thing: I want the EMTs on the new prisoner first. You understand?”

“Copy, sir.”

Fecteau looked around. Where the hell was Pocho?

Then he saw the form of Pocho huddled in a frozen corner of the yard, motionless.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Where are those EMTs? Get them here now!”

“Motherfucker!” came the hysterical voice. “You seen what he done?”

“Secure the others,” Fecteau cried. “Hear me? Cuff them and get them the hell out of here into lockdown!”

It was an unnecessary order. The gang members who could still stand were already being marched to the yard door. The shouting faded, leaving behind the high-pitched whimpering of one of the injured inmates. Lacarra lay in grotesque imitation of a supplicant, knees and face in the snow, head twisted in an unnatural angle. His motionlessness creeped out Fecteau most of all.

The EMTs arrived, two of them, followed by two more wheeling stretchers.

Fecteau pointed to the special prisoner. “Warden wants him taken care of first.”

“What about that one?” The EMTs had fixed their horrified eyes on Lacarra.

“Take care of the new prisoner first.”

Even as they worked on the new prisoner, Fecteau couldn’t take his eyes off Lacarra. And then, as if in slow motion, Lacarra’s body began to move, began to topple on its side, where it lay, again unmoving, the grinning face and wide-open eyes now turned to the sky.

Fecteau raised the radio to his lips, wondering just what to tell the warden. One thing was clear: Pocho Lacarra wasn’t likely to be making anybody his bitch, ever again.