The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(22)

I found Paul walking the oval track, sucking on a cigarette. He glanced my way.

“So how’d that go?”

“I’m still breathing.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’ve got to get word to the outside,” I told him. “And without being listened in on. Anybody ever smuggle a cell phone in here?”

Paul flicked his cigarette to the track and snuffed it under the heel of his canvas shoe.

“Sure,” he said, “pricey, though. Burner with an hour or two of call time on it can run you four, five hundred bucks in commissary credit. Oh, there’s one other problem. In Hive C, there’s really only one reliable supplier.”

“Yeah? Who’s that?”

Paul nodded back toward the weight benches.

“Raymundo. Wanna go back over there, ask if he’ll talk business?”

“Shit.”

Paul lit another cigarette. Offered it to me. I passed. He took a deep drag and looked up to the cloudless sky.

“You are so right, my friend,” he said. “And we are all neck-deep in it.”

As we walked, I could feel the alien maggot crawling across my brain. Writhing over gray meat, leaving a burning slug trail in its wake. How long, I wondered, before it would stop wriggling and start chewing? Swallowing down my revulsion, I took a walk, alone, along the fence line. I knew that wasn’t safe, but I hoped I’d bought myself a little time with Raymundo and his boys. I needed a few quiet minutes to think.

Instead, I saw an unexpected arrival hobbling my way. The Prof. He goggled at me, eyes wide and bulging, coming closer in a limping shuffle-step like one of his legs was an inch longer than the other.

I stopped cold by the fence and waited for him.

“You,” he said, sounding as perplexed as he looked, “are not the Thief.”

“To the contrary. I’m a pretty damn good thief.” I shrugged. “Current situation notwithstanding.”

“You’re not the Thief. You—you shouldn’t be here.”

“That’s what I keep telling people.”

He grabbed a handful of his wild snow-white mane, yanking it in frustration and squeezing his eyes shut.

“No,” he snapped. “This is all wrong. He’s telling the story wrong. You aren’t supposed to be here. You…you need to talk to my sister. She can explain. Better than I can. I get…confused. My head is foggy.”

“Hey, if they ever have an open visiting day, feel free to introduce me. I just don’t think—”

“No. She can’t come here. But you can talk to her from my cell.”

I grabbed his shoulder.

“Are you telling me,” I said, “that you’ve got a cell phone? Let me borrow it for five minutes, and I’ll talk to anybody you want. Just one phone call, that’s all I need.”

His lips curled, and he gave me a slow, mad-eyed smile.

“Come with me.”





12.




Back in Hive C, up on the fourth tier, I knew the Prof’s cell before he led me inside. It was the one that glowed in my second sight.

The tiny chalk mark on the threshold was aflame with power. I didn’t recognize the symbol, but I could taste its intent, like the memory of ginger on my tongue and the scent of sandalwood incense. A warding sigil. Three more dotted his cell, one for each wall, the white glyphs tucked into hard-to-spot places. While I counted sigils, he reached under his bunk and dragged out a plastic storage tub.

“You’re a magician,” I said, keeping my voice low.

He paused, turning his head to grin my way.

“No, magic is tricks and lies. I peddle the truth. Only truth, but nobody ever believes me.”

The stench that roiled out when he popped the plastic lid, something like three-day-old roadkill on a hot Nevada highway, nearly knocked me flat. Prison wine. I recognized the makings of a crude still for fermentation, cobbled together with cast-off containers and plastic tubing.

“Problem is,” he muttered, shuffling to his desk and picking up a dusty plastic cup, “nobody wants truth. It’s a hard sell. I was a traveling salesman once, before I found my true vocation. Did you know that?”

“Buddy,” I told him, “I don’t even know your name.”

He barked a delighted laugh.

“Buddy. My name is Buddy. My parents were avid fans of the blues, quite avid. Here, hold this cup.”

I obliged him, but I wasn’t sure why.

I thought the stench from the makeshift still couldn’t get any worse. He took a Ziploc bag from the container, fat with viscous, strawberry-colored goop, and proved me wrong the second he opened it. I raised an eyebrow as he poured out three fingers of the nasty stuff, splattering into the cup.

“So, uh, what’s in this, exactly?”

“This and that.” He winked and sealed the bag back up. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. No, not blue. Pink.”

“Thanks, but I’m really not thirsty. So about that phone—”

“I know, I know, you want to talk to your—” He paused, furrowing his brow and tilting his head. “Cait…Caitlin. And you’re afraid for Jennifer, so very afraid, though you’re trying to tell yourself everything’s fine.”