John Locke - Lethal Experiment

“Once you guys leave, you won’t be able to make me do anything. I’ll get a new identity, go into hiding.”

“Alison, you’re in this up to your eyeballs. You’re going to help us bring down the biggest terror cell in America, and you’re going to do it for all the right reasons.”

“What,” she sneered, “Patriotism? A sense of duty?”

“That, and two hundred thousand dollars, tax free.”

“You’ll put that in writing?” she said.

“We don’t put anything in writing. But we’ll put the money in a locker for you and give you the key.”

“What stops me from taking the money before you kill the terrorists?”

“You won’t know the location of the locker until the job is finished.”

“What, I’m just supposed to trust you?”

Quinn said, “If you like, we could just kill you instead.”

“What a charmer,” she said.

Quinn bowed.

“There’s a more immediate problem,” I said. “The Texas Syndicate. When they find out what happened they’ll want to make an example of you.”

Alison’s face tightened. “This wasn’t my fault,” she said. “Hector’s the one that got them involved.”

“That’s not how they’re going to see it, Hector being dead and all.”

She looked around, started to panic. “I can’t stay here,” she said.

We were silent awhile, Quinn and I thinking it through, Alison waiting to hear something reassuring. Finally I said, “When Darwin calls to ID the Bernies, I’ll have him find out who’s the head of the Syndicate. I’ll arrange a meeting and see if I can keep you alive awhile.”

Alison had used many voices in the short time I’d known her. The one she used now told me she finally understood the danger she was in: “If you keep me alive and give me two hundred grand, I’ll do my part.” She thought a moment about what she’d just said, set her jaw, and nodded once, firmly. “I will. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“That’s my girl,” I said.

Alison pursed her lips. “Since we’re going to work together, I don’t have to keep calling you Cosmo, do I?”

Quinn laughed. “Far as I’m concerned, that’s his new nickname.”

I frowned.

“My name is Donovan Creed,” I said to Alison.

“I like Cosmo Burlap better,” she said.

“Of course you do.”

Chapter 33

The Control Unit of the maximum security prison at Lofton, Texas, was built four years ago, in response to the riot that ended the lives of four guards and twelve inmates. The unit houses 320 male prisoners under six different levels of security. The worst offenders are locked in solitary confinement twenty-three hours each day. Their cells are concrete chambers, with steel doors and a steel grate. Cell furniture, including the bed, desk, and chair, are comprised of poured concrete. The top of each cell contains a four-inch high by four foot long window that allows prisoners a view of sky and nothing else. This design has a purpose: without landmarks, inmates can’t discern their specific location within the building. Their one hour per day outside solitary gives them an opportunity to exercise alone in a concrete bunker. Each month they’re allowed one family and one attorney visitation. My visit was an exception, courtesy of Darwin’s connections.

Roy “Wolf ” Williams had recently bought three years at Level Six security for attempting to kill a guard. Now that Roy was removed from the general prison population, I had no doubt that some other maggot would soon step up to head the Texas Syndicate. Until then, Wolf Williams was the man.

“I don’t give a shit how they died,” Williams said. “It’s on her, now.”

“Alison didn’t even know those guys. Hector’s the one that brought them in.”

“Yeah, well Hector’s dead. So that leaves the girl.” He sneered. “Tell her it’s gonna be ugly.” He licked his lips. “Real ugly.”

Wolf Williams knew all about ugly. He was a six-five, three hundred fifty pound turd, with vacant eyes, a puffy, pock-marked face, and cruel Joker-type lips that exposed a mouthful of tiny teeth in various shades of yellow, brown and black. Prison regulations ensured his hair was shaved short in a buzz, but you look at him and know he’d wear it long and filthy if he had the choice. Like the way he wore his greasy, scraggly beard.

“I’m going to ask you nicely not to kill her.”

“Fuck you.”

Visitors and inmates are separated by thick, floor-to-ceiling bullet-proof glass.

Lucky for him.

“Look,” I said. “You want to go after someone for killing those pukes, go after me.”

“We plan to. You’re a dead man walking.”

“Fine. So leave Alison alone.”

“No way. She suffers. It’s part of the code, man.”

We looked at each other through the glass. “I’m willing to barter,” I said.

“You wanna barter? Get me out of here.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then no deal. I got little to gain and nothing to lose. I got no family, nothing to live for when I get out.”

“You could have had family waiting if you hadn’t killed them.”

He shrugged his shoulders and stroked his wormy beard. I kept quiet, waiting for him to get to the question I knew he had to ask.

“What’s she look like?” he said. “She hot?”

I took a plastic baggie from my pocket, held it up to the glass. Inside the baggie was a picture of Alison, fully dressed.

“Not bad,” he said. “Tell you what: you get me a hundred grand and a conjugal visit with her once a month, and I’ll let her live for a year.”

I’d have bet a grand he couldn’t have pronounced the word “conjugal.”

“I can do the hundred grand,” I said. “Not the sex.”

“No deal, then.”

“Look. They’re not going to let you anywhere near a woman for the next three years. Surely they explained that when they put you in the hole.”

“You’re a big shot with the government, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. So make them do it.”

“Doesn’t work that way unless you’ve got something huge to bargain. And we both know you don’t.”

“Which is why she’s gonna die.”

“I’d rather she live. And what’s more, she’d prefer not to die. Let’s wrap this up, Gumby. Here’s the best I can do: a hundred grand and a hundred naked pictures of Alison.”

“Th ey won’t let me have naked pictures in here.”

“They’ll never know.” I showed him Alison’s picture again. “The reason this is in plastic, it’s a rub off . You give me the name of your guard, I’ll make sure he sneaks you the pictures a few at a time. The way it works, you rub the picture with your finger. Th ere’s a totally naked photograph of Alison under this coating.”

“Bullshit.”

I held the photo at an angle so he could see the raised portion above her clothing.

“How long they been doing that?” he said.

“The technology is new, but the idea goes back to Leonardo Da Vinci. If you take an x-ray of the Mona Lisa, you’ll find two other paintings beneath it. Back in those days canvasses were hard to come by. If you wanted to paint something new, you painted over a used canvass.”

“I look like I want a history lesson?”

“Rub the picture with your thumb or index finger just hard enough to make some heat. That’s what melts the coating. I’ll get you a hundred photos of Alison with clothes on. You can enjoy her that way or rub the pictures and make her nude, it’s up to you.”

“What kind of girl poses for a hundred naked pictures?”

“The kind who wants to live.”

“She know about the hundred pictures yet?”

“Nope. She’s only done this one.”