by Sarah Lovett
C.O. Rafael heard, but did not see, his partner request entry into the control center. He pulled the long lever that manually unlocked the control center door when electronic methods failed. He managed to radio a 10-33 before he was beaten by four inmates who stormed up the eight-rung metal stairs into the room. When the communications officer radioed back for confirmation, Bubba Akins forced his hostage to give the 10-22. "All clear."
Two inmates scaled the ladder to the escape hatch that gave access to the roof from control. Within another minute, they had gathered up blowtorches, staple guns, drills, and hacksaws left behind by the work crew, and they passed them down through the hatch fire-brigade-style.
The first murder of the riot took place in protective custody when a snitch was strangled by two pod-mates immediately after the power surge. Two hours later, hostages were held in all three housing units of North Facility.
A quarter mile to the east and south, respectively, inmates at the Main and South facilities remained relatively quiet.
LIKE A STEER in a slaughterhouse, Lucas Watson's first instinct was to escape when the riot broke out. He slipped out of his cell and crouched on the concrete balcony of the pod while Bubba Akins pushed his hostage through the door below. Watson knew that sides would be chosen and lines of battle drawn. What mattered now was the strength of your army. . . or your invisibility. Lucas Watson had no army in the joint. He was alone. To survive, he would have to make his powers work for him. He reached under his shirt for the pouch but felt bare skin. He heard his own cry of rage bouncing off the cold, angular walls. Carried by the raw edges of that sound, he bounded down the eight curving stairs to the lower level and slammed through the door to the hall. He knew the entire yard around 3-B was a steel cage. He turned in the direction of the utility rooms.
THE MIDNIGHT SKY streaked red as flames licked the edges of North Facility administration. Fire trucks, ambulances, helicopters, dog teams, the media, and National Guard vehicles created a symphony of chaos. The governor of New Mexico had set up a command center in North's parking lot. With the help of Colonel Gonzales, Rosie Sánchez worked to establish radio contact with the rioting inmates inside North.
THE JACKAL DIDN'T know how long he stayed hidden in the women's locker room. Long after the initial panic of personnel exiting the building he remained tucked between several stacks of lockers. Once, he moved to the shower stall and crouched behind boxes of building materials and cleaning supplies, but that had become uncomfortable. At some point, there was a great chemical explosion and he vomited from the fumes.
Finally, he ventured out in the hall, entered a deserted office, and climbed through a smashed window to the central yard. None of the inmates stopped him, although he walked slowly, legs stiff. He passed the body of an inmate—probably overdosed from stolen pharmaceuticals—on his way to the gym. The dead man's skin was waxy, and vomit had dried in a crust around his lips. The jackal didn't allow himself to be sidetracked by the corpse; he was a man with a mission. And besides, he might be able to return later.
Inside the cavernous building, groups of inmates were smoking, talking, sleeping. Two inmates dribbled a basketball around the slick floor. No one challenged the jackal.
HOUSING UNIT 3-B was clogged with smoke. Lucas Watson's throat contracted as he imagined the screams from protective custody across the yard.
His father was coming for him; he knew that fact in every cell of his body. The Duke had planned all of this, set up the carnage, and now it was real. It was happening. They were going to kill him.
He crouched in the corner of his cell, unsure how much time had passed. He only knew he had been hiding for hours, waiting for the moment to make his move.
Inmate gangs had already searched the unit twice. The first time, Watson had hidden in the shower stall. The second time, he had been driven back to his cell in search of cover.
Now, someone yelled that they were torching snitches in P.C. Feet ran by, and then, moments later, he heard the sound of footsteps.
Inches away, just beyond the cell, he caught the sound of something being dragged across the wet floor. A man laughed and there were dull thuds as boots impacted against flesh. After several minutes there was only silence.
The smell was sickening. When Watson peered out, he saw blistered feet. By craning his neck he was able to look at the charred and blackened thighs, torso, shoulders, and head. A dead inmate. He slipped through the open door and examined the lifeless body; the arms ended in singed and bloody stumps.
Before he knew what was happening, two inmates shoved him back inside his cell and he felt something hard smash against his jaw. Eyeballs bulging, gasping for breath, he tried to lunge from his corner, but hands grabbed his arms and legs, and a steel pipe struck his forehead so he was blinded by his own blood. From a distant place he heard voices.
"It's the mojo man. Motherfucker."
Laughter. Another voice. "See you in hell, Watson."
And then an animal howl in crescendo, his own.
When the pipe came down, Watson heaved bile. He wanted to scream, "I know who sent you!" But the pipe came down again, and again.
He felt himself start to go out. A vision of his mother, smiling, arms open, flashed with each breath. He had one thing to ask her before it was all over. He opened his mouth and blood spurted from his throat as he whispered, "Can you forgive me?" Then there was only blackness and space.
IT WAS EARLY morning when the jackal entered the control booth of 3-B North. Miraculously, the list that matched every cell with the name and photo of its occupant had survived intact. He found Lucas Watson's photograph. It was a simple matter to find his cell.
He recognized Watson's corpse; in his heart, he knew the face of a savior however charred and blackened. The body had been punished. In fact, much of his work had already been done. There was a deep gash along the throat where the head lolled. Black welts, burn marks, and cuts marred the skin. A jagged pipe protruded from the body's rectum. The jackal shook his head and clucked with pity. He knelt and took the head in his hands. He wiped at the face with his sleeve. Beneath the dead skin, he knew the face was beautiful. There was life in the singed hair, and it would continue to grow after death. A miracle.
The jackal stood and set down his pail. In one corner of the cell he saw the blowtorch. He shook his head; he had no use for such a crude tool. Earlier, in preparation, he had retrieved his aluminum cigar case from its usual hiding place. Now, he unscrewed the lid and let the surgical blade slide into the palm of his hand. To the jackal's eye, the metal had a hungry gleam. He moved to the body. There was no time to waste. He'd been hired to do a job; although the jackal had not struck the death blow, the job had been completed. His will be done. He would take his reward, his crowning glory.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FROM HER PERCH on the edge of the bed, Rosie slammed the phone into its cradle and stamped her stockinged foot.
"You better put on shoes for that, querida," Ray said softly.
"Chinga." It was barely a whisper, but Ray heard his wife. When she swore in her mother's tongue, business was bad.
"The riot's over, Rosita," Ray said.
Eight days ago, the riot had ended officially—after forty-nine hours—when National Guard and SWAT forces regained control of North Facility. Preliminary information on the dead had not been released to relatives for five days. Names of live inmates were broadcast to family members camped outside penitentiary grounds. Those who did not hear the names of their husbands, lovers, fathers, and sons had only the worst to fear.
The death count was twenty-nine, but official confirmation of all fatalities had still not been announced by the Office of the Medical Investigator. Matching up the body parts was not an easy job. Perhaps the jackal had been at work again . . .
When his wife didn't respond, Ray prodded her, "Want to tell me about it?"
Rosie shook her head and gazed at the retablo of the Virgin de Guadalupe hanging on the wall; it had been ca
rved and painted by her son, Tomás. "I'm going to mass." She felt her husband's hand on her shoulder, but she didn't look at his face.
"Why don't you confess to me first," Ray said.
Rosie glared at the big man, ready to chastise him for taking her moods too lightly, but he looked worn out. She sighed.
Ray sat on the edge of the bed next to his wife. "I'm waiting."
Rosie said, "That was the M.I.'s office. Yesterday, they released the body of a riot victim, an inmate, to his family. I can't believe it."
"Those poor people are tired of waiting for their dead," he frowned. "Why is this a bad thing?"
"That's just it!" Rosie stood abruptly and began to pace the plush carpet. "Only one man got permission to bury: Duke Watson. And that happened because he pulled strings and made deals with the Good Old Boys. The same Good Old Boys who are busy talking to CBS and NBC and the L.A. Times while everyone else just waits and waits and waits."
She pulled a skirt from the closet, a sweater from the drawer, tossed them on the bed, then grabbed high heels.
Ray tapped her shoulder and said, "The colors clash."
She froze and stared at her husband. Her eyes were yellow with exhaustion and faint lines etched her skin. She said, "They are still piecing together those corpses . . . that's why it's taking so long. They don't even know which of those poor boys goes where . . . Dios mío."
LIKE A GRIM voyeur, Sylvia watched the funeral in Bernalillo. She needed to witness Lucas Watson's interment.
She had been acquainted with many of the men who survived the riot; she'd known five of its victims. Six, including Lucas. They had endured horrible, gruesome deaths and she pitied them.
Her feelings about Lucas were more complex. Pity and rage, yes. Those emotions had been accompanied by guilt: You could have saved him. And a fleeting relief that she wouldn't have to face him again . . . and more guilt.
Seated in a borrowed Toyota that belonged to Rosie's son Tomás, she watched from the road as the casket was lowered into a grave dug in an icy slope.
A colonial Spanish church made of mud and wood dominated the two-acre cemetery. The land was bordered by bare cottonwoods. Many of the graves were overgrown with weeds. The only sign of life was the circle of people clustered under black umbrellas seeking shelter from the drizzling rain. Sylvia identified Duke Watson by his trademark cowboy hat and boots and his position next to the priest.
A young man stood with his arm around a girl. He was dressed in a black suit that was too short in the sleeves. The girl kept her face pressed against his shoulder. Sylvia caught her breath when he raised his head. His coloring was dark, but his angular bone structure and short-cropped hair made Billy Watson the ghost of his brother. There was something else that was familiar. Sylvia slapped the dash. Billy Watson had delivered the flowers to her doorstep in November. The hat, the beard, the sunglasses had all obscured his face. It seemed so obvious, but she hadn't made the connection until now. Who knew what kind of game he'd been playing?
She guessed the girl was Lucas Watson's adopted sister, Queeny. Although Herb Burnett was conspicuously absent, there were five or six other mourners, and the murmur of prayer drifted out like a dirge.
When the services were completed, Duke Watson and the priest walked slowly toward the gate. Duke stopped short of a black limousine, and Sylvia endured a taut instant when he stared directly at her. Pressed behind the wheel of the Toyota, she felt fear. And again the crippling sense of guilt: if only she hadn't evaluated Watson . . . if she hadn't filed her report . . . if she had pushed harder for his transfer.
Duke Watson turned his back, and Sylvia exhaled deeply. Lucas had not belonged on the streets. Still, the ache in the pit of her stomach remained.
The sounds of raised voices caught her attention; the Watson family was arguing. Duke Watson stood rigid while his son moved like a man about to lose control. Suddenly Billy thrust an arm at his father's chest.
Sylvia was repulsed by Duke Watson's reaction to his son's fury. The senator turned his back, strode open-armed toward the elderly priest, and ushered him into the backseat of the limousine. He moved as if his children were nonexistent; his actions reflected a man oblivious to anything and everything not centered around himself. A narcissist, Sylvia thought as she watched the long black bullet of a car join the stream of late-afternoon traffic.
Watching the incongruous juxtaposition of the shiny limo, the dirt road, and the tiny Bernalillo cemetery, Sylvia let her head fall back on the seat. She felt the cold seep into her bones even with the engine of the Toyota idling and the heater at full force.
Billy Watson walked out to the road followed by his sister. The humiliation of the encounter with his father was apparent in his posturing, his false bravado. The girl huddled beside her brother for at least five minutes before a car stopped to pick them up. Sylvia drove away soon after.
Traffic on 1-25 North was heavy. Several cars with pine trees strapped to their roofs sped past the Toyota. Sylvia pushed buttons on the radio, avoiding holiday Muzak and heavy-metal renditions of "White Christmas." According to a disc jockey, there were four more shopping days until Christmas. Sylvia fought the lethargy that threatened to overwhelm her body. In her practice she saw the havoc the holidays inflicted on many people. This year, she could count herself as one of the season's emotional victims. She couldn't shake thoughts of the riot. She couldn't shake the guilt. If she couldn't deal with herself, how could she help her clients?
God, she missed Malcolm. He had always helped her regain her balance and clarity.
The radio had become a steady stream of static; she switched it off.
What would Malcolm have told her? That Lucas had all the hallmarks of someone suffering from an attachment disorder? That he had indeed been an extremely volatile individual? He would have said, let go, leave it alone, you've lost your objectivity; you're moving into dangerous territory.
And why was she so obsessed with Lucas? She'd dealt with inmates who were more pathological, more shrewd, more crazed.
Don't try to pin the guilt on Duke Watson to relieve your own conscience—that's what Malcolm would say.
Her car crested La Bajada. In the distance, west of Santa Fe, a strip of hot orange sunset shone like a ribbon against the horizon. By the time she reached her driveway fifteen minutes later, it was dark.
Rocko had managed to escape from the yard again; he raced to meet the car. She honked, then pulled up to her mailbox. The latest edition of the Journal of Forensic Psychology and several envelopes were stacked inside.
Sylvia drove the last thirty yards to her house with Rocko hounding the car. The Chevy parked in the driveway scared her until she recognized Matt England leaning against the hood.
Shit. After the funeral, he was the last person she wanted to deal with. She strode up the walkway, thrust the key in the dead bolt, and left the door ajar. England followed her inside and stood with his hands in his pockets. He seemed unaffected by the cold reception.
She said, "I need a cup of coffee."
In the kitchen, she glanced at the answering machine; the light was blinking, but she wasn't about to listen to messages with England staring over her shoulder. She thought about the tape with Lucas Watson's recorded voice. It was in the top counter drawer tucked behind a packet of sponges. She set her mail on the counter.
"How was the funeral?"
She stared at England, her dark eyes softly quizzical.
He said, "I was parked right behind you."
She emptied coffee beans into the grinder. The whine of the blade killed all possibility of conversation for several moments. Sylvia used the opportunity to inspect England. He seemed to be searching for something to say, or the right way to say it.
"You were there?" she asked as the grinder moaned to silence.
He nodded. "I also passed you on the highway. Are you always that distracted?"
"No."
England brushed his hand lightly through his hair, a gesture S
ylvia recognized as characteristic. He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet as if he were finding his center against the soft sway of a ship. "If you want to get on with your life, stay away from that family."
Sylvia avoided his gaze, shook the last of the grounds into a filter, and filled the base of the coffeemaker with water. The machine began its mechanical wheeze, and the first aroma of coffee mixed with the faint scents of Ajax and lemon. "Is delivering that advice the point of your visit?"
England's eyes narrowed. "Duke Watson has already slapped a lawsuit against the corrections department; I wouldn't be surprised if you're next."
Sylvia felt the involuntary contraction of her muscles. She took a deep breath and said, "Why do you hate him?" When England didn't respond, she turned to face him. "What did he do to you?"
He massaged his neck and there was an audible crack as a vertebra realigned itself. "We've had a few run-ins."
Sylvia snorted as she took two cups from the cupboard. Steam exploded from the coffeemaker and she reached for the pot. Hot coffee bubbled over the side of the cup as she poured. She pulled her hand away and mopped up the excess liquid with a sponge.
She studied England as she slid the cup across the counter. "That's all? A few run-ins?"
"Save your therapy for your patients, Dr. Strange."
"Fuck you, Agent England. You've got an attitude problem."
He caught her off guard with his grin. His mouth was a lopsided angle against the irregular line of his nose. He pulled gently on one ear. "So I've been told."
Unexpectedly disarmed, Sylvia returned his smile. The man was attractive when he acted human.
He took a sip of coffee and said, "Why did you go to that funeral?"
"Closure."
"He was a sick bastard who destroyed your house. He would've raped and murdered you."
She was right back where she had started with Matt England—feeling frustrated and antagonistic. She guessed he felt the same way. Intentionally, she turned her back on him and sorted her mail. A badly creased envelope caught her eye. It was addressed to Sylvia Strange, La Cieneguilla. There was no route or box number and someone had scrawled "Please forward" near her name.
