by Sarah Lovett
A line of inmates had gathered ten feet away from the scene. White and brown skins were polarized and Rosie saw jittery eyes staring from impassive faces. She whispered to one of the C.O.s, "Get Swanson the hell out of here, and get Colonel Gonzales. Now!"
A two-hundred-pound Anglo inmate raised his fist like a flag. A second man—this one skinny and white—parroted the militant gesture.
Rosie recognized them both as members of the pen's smallest major-league gang, the Aryan Brotherhood. The ABs stood opposite four wiry homeboys. Rosie started to ease her way toward the chain-link fence, and she signaled the C.O.s on the field to move with her.
Two of the C.O.s walked directly toward the first line of inmates; Rosie swore under her breath and whispered, "Back off, guys."
But they didn't.
The sun glinted off something metal; Rosie could see it in the skinny white inmate's hand—she prayed it wasn't a shank.
She heard barking dogs—reinforcements on their way—too distant to save this moment. Without another thought Rosie called out in a loud, clear voice that nobody could miss. "Well I'll be damned. . . a penis!"
It was oddball enough to throw the tension off center for twenty seconds while everyone regrouped. By then the metal gate opened, whistles blew, and the dog team was on the field.
Rosie walked calmly out the gate, stumbled on asphalt, and almost wet her pants. She didn't notice the lean, blond inmate who watched the action from a distance, but Lucas Watson noticed her.
One hour later, Main Facility was under a twenty-four-hour lockdown. During the shakedown, no evidence of the missing penis was found.
ON WEDNESDAY, THE parking lot of the penitentiary was full—the usual result after a lockdown when all privileges had been suspended. Billy Watson joined the steady flow of visitors.
The large visitors' room was crowded and noisy. Billy got a Pepsi from the machine, sat in one of the vinyl chairs, and drummed his fingers. Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" was playing in his head. Even though it was cold, some couples and little kids stayed out in the yard that butted up against the room. Billy watched a baby crawling on dirt. Then he turned to stare at the guard standing on the other side of the grilled doorway. As if on command, his brother appeared. The guard ran his hands over Luke, under his arms, between his legs. The whole time, Luke didn't look up. His hair was matted over a thick scab, and a long gash mapped his cheek.
"I got my eye on you," the guard said.
When Luke was inside the grill, Billy pulled him toward two chairs in the far corner. They sat. "What happened? What did they do to you?"
Lucas ignored the question and peered intently at Billy. "I need you to do a job."
"Whatever it is, no problem." Billy squirmed against the hard plastic chair. He would do anything to please his bro, but Luke was different now. He seemed all dried up like a husk of something. Billy forced himself to look straight at his brother. Those blue eyes took him right back to when he was five years old. Little Billy's chore: You will keep that dog chained securely to the post, otherwise he will kill the chickens. That was a job Billy was proud of—until the day he forgot to double-check. They found the chicken house filled with blood and feathers; feathers stuck to the dog's mouth when Duke beat the whimpering animal to death.
Lucas took the whipping for his brother, same as all the other times. Billy remembered. He squeezed the chair with his fingers and asked, "What you want me to do? Name it."
Lucas smiled, and leaned close to whisper what was needed. He smelled sour and sickly.
Step by step. They went over it together, and then Billy repeated the plan just to make sure it was in his head. He was concentrating so hard, he almost forgot to give Luke the pictures of Sylvia Strange.
THE SNOW STOPPED the next morning. Before dawn, Billy left the house his old man had bought in Bernalillo eighteen years ago—right after they'd moved from the adobe—the suicide house.
He pushed the Corvette to sixty-five on the dirt and skidded around the corner heading south toward Albuquerque. The old van was shit, but the 'vette was cool. He was following the river now, his eyes open for cops. He knew where they hung out, and they knew him. Mostly, they left him alone.
Billy lit up a cigarette and sucked on a can of Budweiser. It would be a good day to rip off a car. A fat, black raven spread its wings and flapped away from a fresh kill on the shoulder of the road. Bare cottonwoods draped the river, and the water flowed brown and rough.
He passed a sign that read DRIVE SLOW AND SEE OUR TOWN NOW, DRIVE FAST AND SEE OUR JUDGE LATER.
PERIMETER LIGHTS STAYED on all day at the penitentiary. The daylight was gone by 5:15, when Lucas Watson swallowed a razor blade. Although his manner was passive, his blood pressure was high and he showed signs of anxiety. The PNM nurse decided that transporting Watson to St. Vincent's Hospital in Santa Fe was a good idea. Arrangements were made, and the hospital was warned that the penitentiary was sending an inmate for X ray and treatment. This inmate could be considered dangerous. C.O. Salcido and a rookie C.O. named Barclay escorted a handcuffed Watson to the emergency room at the hospital. ER was backed up with a three-car collision and a drug overdose—a lively Thursday night. Dr. Paul Huffy placed Watson in a private examination room along with the two correctional officers.
"He swallowed a razor blade?" Huffy queried curtly.
"A safety blade," Salcido clarified.
The doctor was exhausted, worried about a three-year-old with severe scalp lacerations, and the razor blade was a standard inmate trick; it usually did surprisingly little damage.
"Most likely it's going to pass on its own," Dr. Huffy said as he left the room.
The three men sat waiting, Watson on a bed and the two C.O.s propped on hard metal chairs. At 6:45 a young woman offered coffee to the two C.O.s. With orders to Watson to stay put, they left the room.
Dr. Huffy took time between setting a broken arm and stitching head lacerations to check on the prison inmate. When he opened the door, he found himself alone with the handcuffed Watson, who was sitting quietly on the bed.
"Oh, Jesus!" Huffy's cheeks shivered when he bellowed, "Where the hell did those guards go?"
Watson shrugged his shoulders.
"Only in Santa Fe!" Huffy snapped in disgust. Just last week two felons had stepped out of a sheriff's transport vehicle while it idled at a stoplight. Cuffed and shackled, they'd still managed to evade recapture for three days. He slammed the door and returned less than a minute later with both C.O.s looking sheepish.
At 7:59 Watson complained that his hands were numb. His movements were sluggish and sickly, and he seemed to be in some pain. C.O. Salcido refused to remove the inmate's handcuffs.
Five minutes later, Watson asked to use the toilet. Both C.O.s accompanied him to the bathroom two doors down and then waited in the hallway. Nurses bustled by, rolling patients on gurneys. A female doctor was speaking Spanish to a child. The same young woman who had brought the officers coffee stepped out of an office and smiled at Salcido. "It's a zoo tonight," she said.
C.O. Salcido heard a dull thud. He wrenched open the bathroom door. Lucas Watson lay rigid on the floor in a puddle of his own vomit. Great shudders wracked his body, his lungs sucked air, his eyeballs bulged out and rolled up under his lids.
"Shit! Get him out—" Salcido began, but he was silenced by the great noise of wrenching metal, shattered glass, and screams. Forty yards away, a pickup truck had just smashed through glass and plaster and slammed into the lobby adjacent to the emergency room.
C.O. Salcido yelled to a nurse for help with Lucas Watson. A woman dressed in surgical greens responded. She pushed her way into the bathroom as C.O. Barclay restrained the seizing inmate.
Even over Watson's harsh, guttural spasms, they heard the explosion of gunshots from the lobby. A woman shouted, a child screamed. C.O. Salcido charged into the conflict like a snorting bull.
C.O. Barclay watched Salcido disappear, but the nurse's order brought him back
to attention.
"Get the cuffs off!"
"I can't—"
"Get them off before he dislocates both shoulders."
Barclay groped for the keys on his belt. Sweat ran down his face and throat as he tried to fit the key into the cuffs.
The nurse glared at Barclay. "Keep him down! He'll thrash his head!"
"I can't do both—" The key turned and the cuffs came off. "Oh, shit, he's turning blue!" Barclay moaned.
"Keep him still! I'll be right back." The bathroom door closed hydraulically behind the departing nurse.
C.O. Barclay clamped one hand on the jerking inmate's shoulder, the other on his hip. He wasn't ready for the shock of impact when Watson's body bucked and cracked upward. Barclay's jaw snapped behind the force of Watson's skull. Barclay gulped blood.
"Fuckin' pig!" Watson grunted as he jammed his head into the lumpish guard a second time.
"Ummmmph," the breath shuddered out of Barclay like air from a pierced inner tube.
Watson closed his fingers around Barclay's neck and dug his nails into skin. He leveraged his weight and smashed the C.O.'s head into the edge of the toilet.
Barclay went limp.
At the same instant, the nurse stepped through the door and saw a blood-soaked inmate staring back at her with white eyes. She stiffened in fear, but Lucas had her by the hair before she could scream. His body poised like a hitter, hands clamping hair instead of a bat, he slammed her into the wall and she went down.
He stuffed the unconscious C.O. into the shower stall, tore off the nurse's surgical top, and left her limp body where it had fallen. He slipped her shirt over his head, opened the bathroom door a crack, and peered out into the hall. He could see two nurses huddled behind the reception counter, their attention riveted on the sliding glass doors and the lobby directly beyond.
For an instant he stared, too. Under the glaze of fluorescent lights a bright yellow pickup truck looked like it was eating its way through plaster. A doctor, her white coat flapping, yelled orders. Two or three other people huddled over someone on the glass-strewn floor.
Lucas forced himself to walk out of the bathroom, and ten feet down the hall, he slipped into a curtained treatment bay.
Yellow eyes stared back at him. An old man was propped up in a wheelchair; a tube protruded from a hole in his throat.
Lucas inspected the wheelchair-bound man. "You're my ticket out of here, old man," he whispered. He heard raised voices.
Dr. Huffy's voice boomed out from the damaged lobby, "The cops are on their way!"
C.O. Salcido's voice exploded angrily, "Get down! Spread your legs!"
"You're fuckin' nobody! You're all fuckin' nobodies!" Even from a distance, Billy's voice was slurred and raw.
Lucas growled; they'd caught his brother.
He couldn't wait; he pushed the wheelchair. The ancient face rolled up at him, red eyes bulging. The tube in the old man's throat jerked like a straw as it sucked in and out of the fleshy hole.
Watson pushed the man past a nurse comforting a child, past a room where someone was crying, and through the door marked EXIT in hot red letters.
He moved briskly toward the west end of the ER parking lot. When he reached the last six car slots in the row nearest the hospital, he let the wheelchair go. It rolled forward—the old man straining like a landed fish—and bounced off a truck's fender.
At least three sirens wailed angrily. The sounds grew closer by the second.
The overhead street lamp was out; Watson's feet crunched broken glass. In the dark it was hard to see the colors of the vehicles. The blue Capri was parked second to last. Lucas found the key under the front bumper. He unlocked the door and slid behind the driver's seat. The map was on the seat next to him. Clothes, fast food, and a bottle of whiskey had been stashed on the floor. He was ravenous. He clamped a Big Mac between his teeth, turned the key, and felt the rumble of the engine in his bones.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROSIE SPUN OUT, struck a pose, and then whirled back into Ray's arms. She had her shoes off, the heels too high for dancing, and her stockinged feet moved easily to the funky beat of Los Lobos. Ray, though short and round, was the perfect dancer; he always made his partner look good. For most of their married life, Rosie had been Ray's principal dance partner but he'd been known to kick up his heels with various cousins, nieces, and even Abuelita Sánchez. Ray let out a whoop as he dipped Rosie back and planted a kiss square on her mouth. Laughing, Rosie led her husband off Rodeo Nites' dance floor and back to the small table where Sylvia was sitting.
"I'm getting old," Rosie said. Sylvia shook her head and pointed to her ear. Rosie tried again, forcing her voice over the loud bass beat of the music, "I'm getting too old to stay up past midnight."
"In that case, I'm dancing with Sylvia," Ray said.
Sylvia protested as he pulled her from the chair.
Rosie waved. "Just let him lead!" She watched her husband gliding Sylvia across the floor. Her friend was at least five inches taller than Ray, but the two still made a cute pair. Rosie was glad to see Sylvia laughing, having fun.
She eased her feet into magenta heels and glanced toward the bar. Through the smoke and press of bodies—for a Thursday, it was packed—she glimpsed a familiar face. She lost him in the crowd. When he reappeared following a majestic blond female, Rosie recognized the twice-broken nose and dark head of Matt England. It was easy to spot him for a cop. The authority of his presence couldn't be left at home with the uniform.
The woman tugged him toward the bar.
"Yo, Matt!" Rosie tried to catch his attention. He and the blonde were speaking—arguing?—and then Matt turned away and left her at the bar.
Rosie saw him exit Rodeo Nites. She pushed her way past urban cowboys and followed her friend out the door. The cold assaulted her skin and cleared her head.
"Hey, England," Rosie called.
He was hunkered against the stucco wall, both hands stuffed into pockets. "Rosie?" He returned her grin with an embarrassed smile that melted away fifteen years. She almost expected to hear a gee whiz.
Instead, Matt spit out his chewing gum and said, "What are you doing here?"
"Dancing with Ray. What's your excuse?" Rosie arched an eyebrow toward the bar's entrance. Two men were entering just as Matt's date appeared; they both turned to appraise her butt.
"Angelique," Matt said. It came out more like an apology than an introduction. "Angelique Harvey, this is Rosie Sánchez."
As Rosie extended her hand to meet Angelique's limp handshake, she got a whiff of smoke laced with expensive perfume. Neither woman spoke. With ample opportunity to survey Ms. Harvey's lithe body in skintight jeans, off-the-shoulder bandeau, and leather jacket, Rosie placed herself a mental bet—the clothes, the muscles, and the mane were all the result of a very recent divorce. The blonde gave Rosie a cool once-over.
To fill the silence, Matt spoke loudly. "Angelique's brother works at the lab with Gausser."
"Really?" No doubt Hansi Gausser, who ran the state crime lab, had fixed Matt up with Angelique. Gausser was terrific at his job, but completely inept at anything else, especially matchmaking. Pull in your claws, she told herself.
Rosie took Matt by the arm and navigated him to the edge of the walkway. "Did you look at the file I sent over?"
Matt frowned. "Missing body parts . . . I think the whole thing smells like gang bullshit." He shook his head slowly. "I'll tell you who to talk to . . . one of the honchos during the riot belonged to the Aryan Brotherhood. That dude knows everything that's going on. Bubba Akins, a real sweetheart, remember him?"
Just as Rosie was about to answer, Ray stepped up and delivered a punch that connected with Matt's shoulder.
"Time to try a few hands among friends."
"My poker's rusty, Ray," Matt said.
"Hey, all the better," Ray laughed.
Sylvia stood several feet away, arms crossed over her chest. Angelique ignored Sylvia, but greeted Ray with a smile t
hat was sixty degrees warmer than anything she'd flashed Rosie.
"Matt, have you met Sylvia Strange? She's an old friend—"
"I know who she is." Matt's voice sharpened with sarcasm, "She wrote the book on inmates who love too much." For the first time, he looked directly at Sylvia. "I see you got your acquittal on the Allmoy case. Remind me to get your phone number. I'll give you a call when he murders someone."
"Screw you," Sylvia said flatly.
Rosie grimaced and watched Sylvia stride toward her car. "Matthew, you little brat." She shook a finger at him. She heard Sylvia's car door slam.
"What?"
"You know what." Rosie waited while Sylvia's Volvo slowed on its way out of the lot
Sylvia leaned her head out of the window and called to Rosie. "I'll give you a ring tomorrow." She glanced back at England and mumbled, "Macho fuck."
Rosie found Matt waiting beside his pickup truck. She leaned against the fender of the Mazda parked in the next slot. "Why were you so rude? I'll never forgive you."
"Yeah, you will." He crooked a finger, motioned her close enough to hear his confidence. "Did you ever hear me talk about the jackal?"
Rosie's butt slipped off the Mazda and she caught herself. She stared at him, stunned. "The jackal?"
"Right after the riot, that's when I heard about him."
Rosie shook her head. "The jackal existed fifteen years ago?" She sighed. "I only heard about him from Angel Tapia."
Matt raised his eyebrows. "After the riot a snitch told me, 'El chacal was scavenging.'"
"Does that mean what I think it means?"
"Collecting miscellaneous body parts? Isn't that what jackals do—scavenge?" Matt grinned. "Interesting, no?"
"Was your source reliable?" Rosie asked.
"Under normal circumstances, yes. But OD'd on Thorazine ain't exactly normal." Matt frowned, "If the jackal existed, the dude was invisible."
From inside the truck, Angelique leaned across the seat and rolled down the driver's side window. "Can we go? I'm tired." She sounded angry.
"In a minute." Matt kept his eyes on Rosie. "I'd like to help you track him down."
