The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(47)

“Privileged communication,” I said.

Back in the hive, with the papers stashed under my cot, I found Jake and Westie milling around down on the crowded open floor. The sluggish air hung humid, choked with the stench of nervous sweat.

“Okay,” I told them, “here’s where it gets weird. I’m going to need you to do some things that might not make a lot of sense.”

“Brother,” Jake said, “I’m pretty sure things have already been weird.”

“Touché. Okay, correct me if I’m wrong. They’ll be storing Paul’s body on-site, until his relatives claim him, right?”

“Yeah, or they’ll just bury him in the potter’s field if nobody steps up,” Westie said, “but…his body? What’s that got to do with anything?”

I ignored the question. “And the morgue, is it close to the infirmary?”

“Spitting distance,” Jake said.

“The doctor on call, what’s his name?”

“Valentino. Guy’s all right.”

“What do I have to do to see him?” I asked. “If I tell the guards I’ve got a stomachache, that good enough?”

Westie snorted. “He ain’t the school nurse, friend. If you’re not bleedin’, the guards couldn’t care less.”

I was afraid of that.

“All right,” I said. “In that case, I need a razor blade.”

*

Whatever Emerson expected from the beginning of his shift that day, it probably wasn’t the sight of me rushing up to him with upraised, bloody hands, looking like something out of a zombie flick.

“You gotta help, man,” I groaned, clasping one hand to the side of my shirt. Blood soaked through at the hip, staining the beige fabric mahogany-dark.

“Whoa,” he said, taking a quick step back and pointing at me. “Do not get any of that on me. Why are you bleeding? What happened?”

I wheezed the words out like it took an effort to breathe. “Don’t know. Was just…just coming in from the yard, in a crowd of people, and suddenly I felt this horrible pain. Think somebody stabbed me.”

“Okay, c’mon.” He unclipped the radio from his belt and raised it to his lips. “Central? This is Emerson, bringing an injured prisoner to the infirmary. Need a guard to cover my shift at point C-1 for about fifteen minutes, over.”

I limped alongside him as he hustled me out of the hive and through the maze of corridors. All the while, sucking air through my gritted teeth and letting out the occasional moan.

It wasn’t a complete exaggeration. My injury burned like a row of wasp stings. Back in the hive, it hadn’t taken long for Jake to score a contraband blade from a buddy of his. Then it was time to suck in a deep breath and take one for the team.

Most people have some degree of love handles. I was in pretty good shape, but I had a little padding there myself. Padding that came in handy when picking a safe place to cut.

Usually, on the rare occasions I cut myself, I’m standing in front of a pentacle and chanting in doggerel Latin. Blood magic is powerful stuff. Do it enough times and you develop a certain skill for the quick, shallow slice, the kind of cut that bleeds, but not too much. While Jake watched, I untucked my shirt and pulled it up, took a deep breath, and raked the blade across my pale skin. It took a second for the pain to hit, an electric burn that slammed home as a four-inch line of scarlet welled up and began to pour.

“Jesus,” Jake said, taking the blade from my trembling fingers, “you’re gonna need stitches for that.”

“Trust me, I’ve done this before. I mean, it’s usually my fingertips, but still. It looks a lot worse than it is.”

I pressed my palms to the cut, smearing them together, getting blood all over my hip. My shirt was next. I bent to one side, patting the fabric against the open wound. When I’d finally finished spreading the red around, I looked like a proper stabbing victim.

By the time we reached the infirmary door, I was pretty sure the cut was already clotting. Still, I played it up and clutched my wound with grim resolve as Emerson ushered me inside.

The infirmary looked like any other doctor’s exam room, albeit with cheap, shabby fixtures and an industrial-sized lock on every cabinet and drawer. The cold eye of a security camera watched from the corner of the room as Valentino, a middle-aged man with a thick black mustache and a white lab coat, waved me toward a padded bench. I eased myself up onto the cracked tan vinyl.

“Got a bleeder here,” Emerson told the doctor. “Sounds like it’s pretty bad.”

Valentino fished in his coat pocket for a heavy ring of keys and fumbled through them one at a time, finally getting a cabinet unlocked. I was glad I wasn’t really dying. He slipped on a pair of disposable rubber gloves, then set a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cardboard box of gauze pads on the counter.

“Let’s have a look, then,” he said and nodded to Emerson. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

My attention was on the swinging door with the narrow, tall wire-reinforced window off to my left. On the other side, I could see a wall of stainless steel honeycombed with square doors. Morgue lockers. Bingo.

Emerson left and Valentino pulled up a stool. “Lift your shirt for me, please.”

I obliged. He soaked a gauze pad in alcohol and patted at the cut. My breath hitched at the sudden sting.