One to Go

by Mike Pace

  Ball feigned left, then swung the knife upward with his right hand. Tom had played a little basketball in high school, and knew rule one when defending the man with the ball is to focus on his hips, not his arms or face. He was able to barely anticipate Ball’s feint and dodged the thrust. His back now up against the bunks, he yanked a blanket off Virgil’s bed and wrapped it around his arm just as Ball again attacked.

  Tom blocked the thrust with his blanket-covered left arm. The sharp blade sliced easily through the worn wool, but stopped short just as the blade edge tickled Tom’s arm.

  With Ball’s weight now forward, Tom stepped behind the man and encircled him in a bear hug, pinning both of the man’s arms against his sides. The move sent waves of pain across Tom’s ribs, but he held on. While smaller in stature, Ball was very strong, and Tom knew he couldn’t hold the embrace much longer.

  Ball bit down hard on Tom’s right hand, causing Tom to let loose with a howl that had to have been heard up and down the cell row. The pain injected a new burst of adrenaline, and Tom rammed the man’s head against the wall, momentarily stunning him.

  Ball kept a strong hold on the knife. Knowing there was no way he could continue keeping him at bay, Tom’s eyes again landed on the empty chip bags. Without thinking, he used his left arm to momentarily hold the stunned man secure, then grabbed a chip bag and rammed it down Ball’s throat. Instinctively, he tried to spit it out, but Tom, sensing an advantage, shoved the second empty bag into Ball’s mouth and down his throat.

  Doing his best to ignore the shooting pain from Ball’s teeth clamping down hard on his wrist, Tom used his left hand to brace the man’s head and thrust the fingers of his right hand down the man’s throat, jamming the crinkly foil deeper and deeper. Ball tried to bite down on Tom’s fingers, but the jaw movement had the effect of pushing the crumpled bags deeper down his gullet.

  Ball dropped the knife and clutched his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His face reddened and he fell to his knees, then crumpled to the cold concrete floor gagging, clawing at his throat.

  Tom hardly noticed the blood dripping down through his hair as he rushed to the door, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ribs. He had to get outside to see the clock, but the door was locked. He ran his fingers through Ball’s hair, searching for the hairpin, but it must’ve dislodged during the struggle. He wedged himself into the front corner and tried to see the clock through the small window, but the glass had fogged from the recent activity inside.

  He glanced over his shoulder. 8-Ball was lying still, but he continued to make gurgling sounds. Tom tried to rub the condensation away, but only succeeded in smearing it. Still, he thought he could see the tip of the minute hand. What time was it? What the hell time was it?

  The rasping stopped, and he turned to see the man’s eyes glaze over. Was he dead?

  Tom turned to finish him off.

  The door opened and Virgil entered. Tom burst past him through the doorway to the balcony where he could see the clock head on:

  12:04.

  He rushed back to 8-Ball, ignoring Virgil’s hulk as he hovered over the man.

  One more wheeze, then he was still.

  “He gone,” said Virgil, with the same emotion he’d exhibit commenting that he’d missed the bus. “You best get this dead piece of shit outta my room. Now.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Tom remained frozen. Virgil found the knife, wiped down the handle on the dead man’s shorts, and stuck the knife in Ball’s waistband. The big man climbed back into his bunk and rolled over.

  Four minutes, four lousy minutes. Maybe the clock in the dayroom was fast. Probably hadn’t been checked for years. Tom extracted the crumpled chip bags from Ball’s throat, rinsed them in the toilet bowl, and replaced them on the shelf. After wrapping the handle of the wrench in toilet paper, making sure not to touch the handle, he rested the tool on the body. As Virgil watched, Tom dragged the body out of the cell onto the balcony, then halfway down the cell row, where he left it in the shadows.

  He removed the toilet paper, then returned to his cell and flushed the paper down the toilet. When he was finished, he closed the door and climbed up to his bunk.

  He squeezed his eyes tight, but he knew there was no chance he’d be able to sleep. The image of the clock flashed in his mind—12:04—on and off, on and off. The front of the clock shifted out of focus, then reformed as a human face—8-Ball.

  And he was laughing his ass off.

  At about five a.m. Ball’s body was discovered, and the block went into lockdown mode. Each cell was searched, although not very thoroughly, since there were no obvious knife wounds or blood found on the body. The discovery of the knife and pipe wrench on the victim’s body was suspicious, but any further action would have to await an autopsy, and needless to say, no one saw anything. By seven a.m. the lockdown had been lifted, and the men were eating breakfast as if nothing had happened.

  Tom had skipped breakfast and now waited in the day-room, his eyes locked on the damn clock: 7:55 a.m. Five minutes until he could use the phone. He’d positioned himself to be first in line.

  Creek approached him and bared his teeth. “Get out of my spot, asshole.”

  Tom had no time for this. “Every penny on my book, it’s yours.”

  Creek glared at him with bloodshot eyes. “How much?”

  “I don’t know, close to 500 bucks. Whatever it is, it’s yours.”

  Creek paused, then nodded and stepped behind Tom.

  At the stroke of eight, Tom inserted his phone card and dialed Gayle. She picked up on the first ring. And she was crying.

  Tom screamed into the phone. “What? What? Oh, God, no.”

  “Tom?”

  “Janie?”

  “She’s fine. But do you remember her little friend, Emma Wong?”

  At that moment, Tom heard a familiar voice, and turned to see the Sunday Baptist Hour playing on the big TV. But instead of the well-known, African-American preacher with the portly frame and the booming voice, Chad stood in the pulpit wearing a black robe with a scarlet-red cross on each of its billowing sleeves. The crosses were upside down.

  “Hallelujah, Thomas, hallelujah! Praise the Lord. Now, which lord would that be? Hmmmm.” He stepped out from behind the pulpit and opened his robe to reveal Emma Wong in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas, her skin so pale she could’ve been wearing whiteface. Her neck was bent at an odd angle, tilting her head to the left. Her large brown eyes stared out at him, dead, unblinking.

  “Thanks for Emma, Tom,” said Chad, as he caressed Emma’s black hair. “She’s as sweet as pie.” He bent down and slowly ran his tongue across the top of her head. “And do you have something to tell Tom, sweetie?”

  She nodded, then spoke. But her voice wasn’t the gentle lilt of a seven-year-old girl. Instead, a deep whisper formed her words.

  “One to go.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Tom sat in the private, attorney interview room with his head in his hands. His ribs ached and his nose hurt. Why couldn’t it all be a nightmare? Why couldn’t he just wake up at home in a cold sweat and, after realizing it had all been a horrible dream, get up, eat breakfast, and later laugh about it with Zig over a beer? That poor little girl. Think what her parents were going through this morning. And it was all his fault because he couldn’t kill a criminal lowlife four minutes earlier.

  And two weeks from now? He vowed Janie would not die. If he had no weapon, he’d use his teeth if need be to rip open the throat of someone, anyone, before the clock struck twelve.

  The easiest path, of course, was to take his own life. Since Janie was the only one left, there no longer was any chance his death would save one of the others and leave his daughter to Chad and Britney. But did suicide count? Who the hell knew?

  After he’d hung up with Gayle, Briscoe had told him he had a visitor, his priest. When the door opened, Matt Sheran held his gaze as he walked purposely to the table. The priest sat down in the uncomfortable, straight-back chair b
efore Briscoe had even fully closed the door.

  The moment they both heard the click of the door locking, the priest spoke.

  “How did you know?”

  “You were there?”

  “I almost didn’t go. I told myself you were a troubled soul and my job was to bring you peace if possible. And the first step on that path was to show you how your delusions weren’t real.”

  “Did Gayle let you in?”

  “She offered. Don’t know what you told her, but she was very welcoming. Still, I decided to wait in the car. Figured a little after midnight I’d take off and be in my own bed by one. Midnight came and went. I waited an extra ten minutes just in case. But nothing happened. The door didn’t fly open, your ex-wife didn’t come running out of the house screaming her head off. Nothing. So I left.”

  “And Emma?”

  “I was a couple blocks away when I heard sirens. I saw flashing lights and followed the emergency vehicles back to your old neighborhood. Asked myself, could everything you’ve been telling me be true? But the ambulance didn’t turn onto your old street. It turned one street earlier.”

  “To Emma Wong’s house.”

  The priest nodded. “I stopped at the scene. I told the family I just happened to be passing by, and asked was there anything I could do.”

  “Died of a broken neck, right?”

  Father Matt’s jaw dropped. “Nothing’s been in the papers, not even the neighbors knew how the accident happened. The older brother confided the information to me.”

  “I saw Emma with Chad this morning on TV. Her neck appeared broken. And she was wearing pink Hello Kitty pj’s. What happened?”

  “Emma woke up a little before midnight very thirsty. She wanted to go downstairs to get some Coke from the fridge. She tripped on the feet of her oversized pajamas and tumbled down the stairs. When she reached the first floor, her neck snapped.”

  “It’s my fault.” Tom struggled to keep the tears from his eyes.

  Matt reached out and put a comforting hand on Tom’s arm. Tom used his other arm to wipe his eyes. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to say something like, ‘There must be a reasonable explanation’?”

  The priest lowered his eyes. Was he praying?

  Tom continued. Suddenly he desperately needed someone to believe him. “If your faith is real, if you truly accept the concept of good and evil, of God and Satan, then you must believe me.”

  While a declarative sentence, Tom raised his voice at the end, positing his remark as a question. Matthew didn’t respond, so Tom proceeded to describe the events of the previous night. When he was finished, Matthew leaned back and shook his head.

  “You could’ve been killed.”

  “If Ball had killed me before midnight, possibly Emma would now be alive. Who the hell knows what the rules are? You’re supposed to be God’s agent on earth, what are the rules? Tell me what the frigging rules are?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And in two weeks Janie will die unless I commit murder. So what’s the moral thing to do, Father? Take my own life and hope my application to hell’s accepted? Murder a total stranger?”

  “Suicide’s a sin.”

  “Gimme a break. Now? Today? If I knew for certain taking my own life would count and save Janie, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d be hanging from my bunk bed post with my snappy orange jumpsuit tied around my neck.”

  Neither of them spoke for almost a full minute. Then Tom broke the silence, his voice softened.

  “Sorry I raised my voice. It really has nothing to do with you personally. I guess if I’ve appeared hostile, it’s because I’m just an average guy matched up against…against what? Demons from hell?” Even now, after all that’s happened, those words sounded crazy.

  Tom continued. “You have to understand, when my mom died, at first I blamed God, then quickly concluded there was no God, or this wonderful woman who believed deeply in Him would still be alive. Now, thanks to the demon twins, I do believe, but not in the God of love and goodness you and those like you preach. A God of goodness would not have allowed that innocent child to die as if He’d just lost a few chips in a poker hand.” Tom took a deep breath. “You’re the closest thing on Earth to the cosmic good guys, and I think I’ve been frustrated that no one on your side has done anything to help.” He struggled to hold back the tears. “Right now, I just need you to believe me.”

  Matt didn’t respond; his head was bowed and it was evident he was engaged in some kind of internal struggle. Finally, he looked up.

  “When we first met, I thought you were loony tunes. But as time passed, I began to question, not my faith but my commitment, my belief in my faith. Does that make sense?”

  “Um, not really.”

  “I believed in God, in the power of redemption, and yes, heaven and hell, though not so much in the fairy tale version of those places. But I was never tested; the strength of my belief was never tested.”

  Tom stood up and paced back and forth across the small space. “I now know with absolute certainty there is an evil force roaming this world, a force that can cause an innocent little girl to trip on her pink pajamas and fall to her death. Please tell me I’m insane.”

  “If the Bible’s to be believed, hell’s real and demons, they’re real, too.”

  Tom struggled to suppress anger from his voice. “But God’s the top guy, right? The king of kings, lord of lords. Hallelujah. You’re telling me He’s going to let this child, and maybe another child, my daughter, burn in agony for all eternity?”

  “There are passages in the Book of Peter which describe Christ entering hell and releasing deserving souls. I would like to think—” The priest looked away and lowered his voice almost to a whisper, speaking as if only to himself. “I have to think, to believe, He would not countenance an innocent soul suffering eternal torment. But—”

  “But you don’t know. Of course, no one knows. Okay, two simple questions. Do you believe me? Will you help me?”

  “Yes, I believe you. But, aside from praying for God’s intercession, I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “I know this sounds nuts, but what about an exorcism? Somehow, these demons are connecting with me, so they must be inside me. Maybe when they stopped the car from crashing over the bridge, they, I don’t know, sort’ve infected me. Do you guys still perform exorcisms?”

  “A little over ten years ago, the church updated its ritual for exorcism, a rite which dates back at least as far as 1614. Exorcisms are conducted every year; they’re not publicized in order to avoid undue attention. But there are specialists who conduct this rite.”

  “You’re not allowed to do it?”

  “Any priest is permitted to perform an exorcism, but—”

  “What do we have to lose?”

  That Matt was engaged in an internal conflict was obvious from his expression. “You must understand, a true exorcism is not like the movies. No green vomit or swiveling heads. It’s serious business.”

  Tom kicked the chair, knocking it over. “Serious business? An innocent young girl’s life was snuffed out and another, my daughter, her life is gravely threatened, and you don’t consider that serious business?”

  The priest didn’t react to Tom’s outburst, his distant gaze telegraphing his mind was elsewhere. Tom took his seat and waited what seemed like an eternity for Matthew to respond.

  “It’s possible,” said the priest.

  “Do you really believe it could work?”

  “I have absolutely no idea. But there’s one major problem.”

  “What?”

  “You have to get out of jail.”

  CHAPTER 49

  The worn shock absorbers on the old prison bus were no match for the city’s potholes, and its occupants bounced around in their uncomfortable bench seats as the vehicle maneuvered through Monday morning rush-hour traffic on its way to the courthouse. The bus was full. Tom assumed Mondays were busy days in the judicial syste
m, given the citizenry’s penchant for criminal mischief on weekends.

  As the bus approached the courthouse, Tom saw a midsized media gaggle, replete with satellite trucks, cameras, mic booms, light umbrellas, and perfectly coiffed news personalities gathered on the Indiana Avenue plaza.

  “I wonder who they’re here for?” asked Tom, to no one in particular.

  “They here for you, New,” said a voice from the back of the bus. “You the man with the stripe.”

  “United States versus Thomas Michael Booker.”

  The bailiff’s booming voice carried through the door to the holding cell behind the courtroom. Tom had just finished changing into a suit and tie that Zig provided to the marshal a half hour earlier. A few other inmates had changed out of their orange jumpsuits as well, but most continued to wear the prison garb and didn’t appear to care. The marshal nodded to Tom, who stepped forward while the cell door was unlocked. The marshal led him through the heavy oak door to a packed Courtroom 16. No cameras were allowed, but Tom saw reporters furiously taking notes, while at least one artist had her colored pencils poised over her sketch pad.

  Eva stood behind the defense table with a welcoming smile. Zig, sitting directly behind her on the first bench, offered a thumbs up. The marshal unlocked Tom’s cuffs, and he sat down next to Eva.

  He saw that the AUSA was Vera Lutz, whom he remembered from the Reece Mackey hearing. He nodded a greeting, she ignored him.

  “How are your injuries?” asked Eva.

  “Not as bad. What about bail?”

  She flicked her eyes toward the bench where the Honorable Gerhard Schnabel presided. In his brief criminal defense career, Tom had never appeared in front of Schnabel, but everyone knew his reputation. The judge leaned so far toward the prosecution that his detractors, which included virtually every other member of the criminal justice system, referred to him as the Fuhrer. With his shock of snow white hair, trimmed beard, florid face, and permanent scowl, he resembled an insane Santa Claus. His voice retained the slightest residue of his parents’ native German tongue.