by Sean Black
He noticed Judge Billy Kelsen’s car, a black Lexus, parked nearby. Next to it was a Mercedes Benz S-Series that belonged to Fidelius. The most expensive car in town for the richest man in town. Their presence explained why the deputies weren’t looking at him. The Kelsen brothers let him handle stuff like this. They didn’t dirty their hands with the details.
The men who worked for him probably saw their presence as bad news for the sheriff. A show of no confidence. Sheriff Martin already knew about Hank calling Thea to tell her about the grave site. Dumb asshole. Already covering his back before there was any need, and in the process making life more difficult for everyone.
Hank was up to his neck in all this. He’d been the one who’d suggested they could use his ranch to hide the bodies. Of course he’d wanted free labor from the county jail in return. Like everyone around here, he only helped out if there was something in it for him.
Sheriff Martin tipped back his hat as he saw Fidelius emerge from the Benz and walk towards him. God, he was sick of this place. All of these people had been happy when times were good, but were running around like headless chickens now there was a problem.
Fidelius reached him, and put a hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture that set him on edge. Beyond a congratulatory handshake every time he’d been elected, Sheriff Martin couldn’t remember Fidelius ever touching him. He just wasn’t that kind of guy.
‘I’m sorry, John,’ Fidelius said, squeezing his shoulder. ‘I really am. It should never have come to this.’
‘Sure,’ said Sheriff Martin.
Fidelius must have been talking about Arlo. A fellow officer struck down while doing his duty.
‘I’ll walk you down, John,’ said Fidelius.
Together they started along the track to where they had buried a container full of illegals. Not that Fidelius had been present. He’d left everyone else to deal with that.
Billy Kelsen fell in beside them. He patted Sheriff Martin on the back and offered his condolences. Weird, he thought. He usually wasn’t much more emotional than his brother. Jesus, maybe they were planning on throwing him in with the bodies and burying him too. The thought made him laugh. The two Kelsen men traded a look.
‘Sorry,’ said Sheriff Martin. ‘I just don’t know if this whole situation can get any more messed up than it already is.’
Neither Kelsen brother said anything. They kept walking until they reached the stand of trees and stopped.
It was all coming back now. Taking the bodies out of the containers. The little girl still clutching the pink rabbit. That had got to Sheriff Martin more than anything else. He’d tried to tell himself it was an accident. A mistake. Wires had been crossed and they’d been left too long in the heat with too little air and no water. It wasn’t as if they’d been killed deliberately. It had been a tragedy. A terrible tragedy.
Sheriff Martin had thought about returning them to their families back home. But that wasn’t possible. There would have been too many questions. Questions with answers that no one wanted to give. Someone dying in the jail or being injured in the factory was one thing. A whole bunch of people dead was something else. There was nothing else to be done but bury them and make sure it didn’t happen again.
They cleared the live oaks. Fidelius put his hand back on Sheriff Martin’s shoulder. ‘I know this must be hard, John.’
It was like Fidelius was talking in riddles.
‘It’s okay,’ Sheriff Martin said. ‘We can get some quicklime. John McGarry can make the arrangements for Hank and Arlo.’
McGarry was the town undertaker.
‘And what about Thea?’ said Fidelius. ‘Would you like McGarry to make the arrangements for her as well?’
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about, Fidelius?’
‘No one’s told you?’ Fidelius said, with a look of horror. ‘None of your men told you?’
‘Told me what?’ said Sheriff Martin.
‘She’s over there,’ said Fidelius. ‘That lunatic must have shot her straight after he murdered Arlo and Hank.’
Sheriff John Martin looked to where Fidelius was staring. There was a white sheet lying on the ground. A body under it. A puddle of black hair spilling out from one end.
In a daze, Martin walked over to the sheet. He knelt down, pulled back the corner. He struggled to take in what he was seeing. Thea. His only child. The person he loved more than anyone in the world. Beautiful, proud Thea.
It was a trick. It had to be. She was sleeping. Playing dead. He reached over and shook her shoulder. His hand came away wet with blood.
In that moment, the world imploded. He reached down again, picking her up and cradling her in his arms.
No. It wasn’t possible. He rocked her back and forth, as he had done when she was a little girl.
* * *
Over by the oaks, the Kelsen brothers stood and watched Sheriff Martin break down, cradling Thea in his arms.
‘Hell of a business,’ said Fidelius.
His brother sighed. ‘She was never one to keep her mouth shut.’
Fidelius stared ahead over the flat, open country beyond the oak trees. ‘A damn shame.’
81
Byron stood in the middle of the exercise yard and watched the flames lick up the outside wall of the bunkhouse. A group of four prisoners wandered past him wearing guard uniforms they’d raided from stores.
Over by the fence two actual guards were being pushed around by another group of prisoners. Byron marched over to where the two terrified men were cowering as they were spat on, kicked and punched by men still enraged by what they had seen only minutes before.
News of the grim discovery, as well as the story of what had happened to Romero, had spread rapidly through the facility. Half a dozen guards had made a half-hearted attempt to quell the initial disorder. It hadn’t worked. They had quickly given up when faced with hundreds of enraged inmates.
For his part, Byron had brokered an agreement with Cesar, the leader of the Latino inmates: the guards were to be released alive. Unharmed had quickly proven too much of a stretch, given the level of simmering resentment that had boiled over into cold, unrelenting rage. At least some of the guards, the ones who had dished out their own brand of justice, would catch a beating. Byron just didn’t want any more graves being dug that didn’t absolutely have to be.
As the blows raining down on the two hapless guards intensified, Byron shouldered his way through another crowd of prisoners, who were busy assembling a bonfire in the middle of the yard, and made for the fence.
He pulled a couple of inmates out of the way. One rounded on him, caught up in the collective madness, and ready to swing. He saw who it was. He saw the Glock held down by Byron’s side, pointing into the dirt. He put up his hands and went to join the bonfire assemblers.
Byron kept at it, peeling off assailants from the edge until there were only two men left, spitting threats in Spanish, their eyes full of murder. One aimed a kick at the head of a guard who had slumped, close to unconscious, with his back against the fence. Byron grabbed the kicker by his collar and dragged him back. He lost balance and fell. Scrambling to his feet, he raised his fists. Byron brought the Glock up hard and fast. ‘Back off.’
He grabbed his buddy and sloped off into the shadows, no doubt hoping to catch more fresh meat.
Cesar joined Byron. He was soaked in sweat. Organizing a prison riot while making sure that no one got killed must have been hard work.
‘Help me with these two,’ Byron said to him.
Between them he and Cesar managed to get the two beaten guards onto their feet. They helped them towards the mess hall where a half-dozen of the Mexicans who were prepared to take orders from Cesar were protecting the other jail personnel. Byron and Cesar found the two guards seats at a table with some of the others.
‘Is that all your men accounted for now?’ Byron asked the older guard he’d met near the entrance.
‘Everyone apart from one. Officer Strand. You
ng guy. Big. Blond crew-cut. Just came out of the army. Only started here this year.’
Byron had a vague memory of a guard who fitted the description. He hadn’t been notable for much, apart from being overly concerned with following procedure. He and Cesar traded a look. With the riot at fever pitch a guard on his own was bad news. They started for the door at the same time.
They hadn’t got back out into the yard when they heard the first crack of live gunfire. Byron broke into a run. As he pushed through the door and out into the yard he saw the group of inmates carrying bedding out to the bonfire scatter in a dozen different directions.
Another shot was fired. This time he was close enough to see where it had come from. Hunkering down, and staying close to the building, he saw a fresh muzzle flash from the watchtower and a prisoner fall to the ground.
82
‘I want him dead. Do you understand me?’
As if the order needed any reinforcement, Sheriff Martin slammed both hands down on the hood of the patrol car that was parked just short of the stand of oak trees. The heart-breaking shock of seeing his daughter lying in the dirt had given way to a thirst for vengeance. Thea had always seen the good in people, and now her naivety had exacted the ultimate price. He had warned her over and over, but she wouldn’t listen, and now this.
There were whispers among his deputies that it had been worse than murder. That before she’d died, she’d been violated by that animal. They wouldn’t know for sure until the coroner did his work. Even the suspicion that she had been raped before she was murdered was almost too much for him to take.
Part of him wanted to throw himself into the grave, then dig himself into the ground until his mouth and nostrils filled with dirt and he stopped breathing. His rage, his need for revenge, was his lifeline. A reason to keep going. A reason to live.
He would find Davis, or Tibor or whatever the hell the guy was called. When he found him, he would kill him. After that? He had no idea what he would do. He would likely be staring back into the abyss. Maybe he would drink a bottle of whisky and eat a gun. Join in that great cop tradition.
Now he had a job to do. Find the man who had killed his daughter and take his life.
‘Sheriff?’
He looked up to see one of the younger troopers standing on the other side of the car. Most of the others had drifted off. ‘Yes, son. What is it?’
‘We need to know what you want us to do about the jail. We just had another call from one of the guards. He said they need us down there and fast.’
‘Didn’t we already send two patrols?’ Sheriff Martin asked.
‘Yes, sir, we did. But the prisoners have the entrance barricaded and they’re saying they won’t release the guards until our men fall back.’
‘Okay. Tell Deputy Cross that he’s to take command down there but we can’t spare any more men until we find that son of a bitch Tibor.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The young deputy didn’t move. Just stood there.
‘Is there something else?’ Sheriff Martin asked.
‘The people from Washington are here. They said they need to talk to you immediately.’
Two SUVs were rolling down the slope towards the trees, headlights on full. Sheriff Martin had to shield his eyes with a hand to avoid being blinded.
‘That’s them,’ said the young deputy.
‘Okay, son. I’ll handle this. You go tell Cross that he has operational command at the jail until I can get down there.’
Sheriff Martin started towards the two black SUVs as they rolled towards him and stopped. A young woman got out of the lead vehicle. Some preppy-looking kid in a suit and tie, who looked like he could barely pee standing up, never mind chase down a cold-blooded killer, stood behind her.
The woman thrust out her hand. ‘Sheriff Martin, I’m Lauren Stanley from the Central Intelligence Agency. This is Nick Frinz from the State Department.’
Sheriff Martin shook their hands. He couldn’t help but stare a second too long at Frinz’s shoes. Penny loafers. What kind of people were these? No wonder the country was going to hell in a handcart.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Lauren. ‘We heard the news about your daughter as we were driving over here.’
Sheriff Martin eyed her. ‘Who told you?’
‘We hear everything, Sheriff.’
Mother of God, thought Sheriff Martin. This little girl was totally delusional. ‘That so? Because I swear I heard that you’ve been looking for this Tibor guy for over a year now and it took us to find him for you.’
‘It might have helped if you hadn’t kept him off law-enforcement radar when you arrested him.’ Lauren looked past him to the trench and the three sheets that lay near the edge. ‘Maybe all this might have been avoided.’
Sheriff Martin had never struck a woman. Not in anger anyway. He was damn close to it now. His hand bunched up and he drew it back.
Lauren stared him down. ‘If you want to spend the next twenty years in a federal prison, go right ahead and hit me.’
He looked down at his clenched fist as if it had somehow taken on a life of its own. He dropped it back to the butt of his gun.
‘Now, can we stop screwing around here and get down to finding Tibor? My patience with your department ran out about an hour ago,’ Lauren continued.
‘I don’t need your help,’ Sheriff Martin told her.
Lauren took in the carnage behind him with a sweep of her eyes. ‘Is that a grave?’
83
Correctional Officer Strand slowed his breathing, waited for his heart rate to fall away, and squeezed the trigger. Down below on the yard, his bullet caught the prisoner in the shoulder. The prisoner spun, lost his balance and fell forward. Other men scattered in every direction.
Strand got ready to fire another round. He had the span of the fallen prisoner’s back caught flush in the cross-hairs. He took another deep breath.
The fallen prisoner began to wriggle forward. The movement threw Strand off for a second. He lowered his rifle, knowing he couldn’t take the shot. He couldn’t kill an injured man who was crawling for his life. He didn’t have it in him. He’d thought he had. He had been mistaken.
He brought the rifle back up to his shoulder and quickly panned across the rest of the yard, first using his eyes, then narrowing down possible targets with the scope. He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of one of the guards, blood pouring down his face from a nasty gash across his forehead. The man was being held up by two of the prisoners. One was the rabble-rouser, Cesar. The other was a Mexican, whose name eluded him. He was holding a kitchen knife to the guard’s throat.
Cesar waved his arms, calling for the prisoners to quieten down as thick black smoke blew across the exercise yard and spiraled into the sky.
Strand shouldered his rifle. ‘Touch that guard and I’ll blow your head off, Cesar.’
‘Throw down that rifle and I won’t need to,’ Cesar shouted back. ‘No one will touch you or him. You have my word on that, but you have to come down.’
Strand wasn’t buying it. ‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Because you don’t have any other choice,’ Cesar replied, with a nod towards half a dozen inmates who had breached the fence and were busy carrying pieces of wood, blankets and a green metal can of gasoline towards the bottom of the watchtower.
Screw it, thought Strand. If they were happy to burn him to death they sure as hell weren’t going to let him get out of there in one piece after he’d shot at least three of them. He’d rather take his chances up there until he ran out of ammunition and he was a long way away from that happening. In any case, the sheriff had to be sending help to the jail soon. Hell, for all Strand knew, they could be about to mount a raid and he’d be surrendering for nothing.
‘Go to hell,’ he shouted down to Cesar. ‘You cut his throat, that’s on you.’
From nowhere, cold metal parted the hair at the back of Strand’s neck and pressed into the flesh. Fingers clo
sed around his throat and squeezed in a vice-like grip.
A voice whispered in his ear, ‘Put the gun down. This place doesn’t need any more heroes.’
Strand slowly lowered the rifle to the deck of the watchtower. The man behind him pulled him backwards, sweeping his feet out from under him with his leg. He turned Strand over, so he was lying face down, grabbed his hands and cuffed him.
* * *
Byron Tibor hauled Strand to his feet and led him towards the spiral steps that led down towards the yard. At the bottom, he unlocked the door. A couple of inmates moved to swarm Strand. Byron backed them up with the Glock, gun-facing them hard, his finger on the trigger and a look that said he was itching to go the last half-inch. They got the message, and retreated back into the shadows.
Cesar was waiting for him in the middle of the yard. The smoke was billowing in every direction, making breathing difficult. Byron pushed Strand towards him.
‘Present for you.’
Cesar caught the guard before he could fall. ‘Just what I always wanted,’ he said.
‘If this is going to work you can’t hurt any of these people any more than you absolutely have to,’ Byron said to Cesar. ‘And preferably not at all.’
Cesar nodded. ‘I don’t want to hurt them any more than you do.’
‘That’s not saying much. You know what I mean, though, right?’ Byron said.
‘I do.’
‘Okay, get everyone ready,’ said Byron.
84
Byron stood next to Cesar and took in the teeming mass of inmates gathered in the corridors near the main entrance to the administration building. There must have been several hundred men, women and children. Cesar had sent a party of armed prisoners to the neighboring women’s facility to free the occupants. The guards there hadn’t bothered to offer so much as token resistance as soon as they’d seen a few dozen armed inmates.
