The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(49)

I felt the minutes ticking away as I tried one key, then another and another, fumbling my way through the ring until one made a hollow click. The wire cage opened with a rusty groan.

The Hand of Glory was old-school sorcery, dating back to the eighteenth century. One of the earliest attempts at an invisibility spell, or at least one of the earliest that actually worked. Sort of. Right now, it was exactly what I needed to secure our escape plan. I was familiar with the spell, but I’d never actually used it, because it was so hard to find the key ingredient these days.

The severed left hand of an executed murderer.

“On the bright side,” I told Paul’s corpse, “in a way, you’re still breaking out with us.”

Then I surveyed the rack of tools and picked up a bone saw.

I may have committed a tiny little murder, Paul had told me when he signed on for the escape plan. One requirement down. As far as the other part, well, he’d been shot by a prison guard. If Jablonski didn’t go down for killing him—and he wouldn’t—that made it, by default, a legal execution.

I cheat at magic.

I took the sheet covering Paul and tucked one end into my shirt, wearing it like an oversized bib. Dead bodies don’t bleed, but they do leak. I stretched his left arm out on the slab, turning his palm facedown, and fired up the bone saw. The circular blade screamed like a dentist’s drill forged in hell.

It chewed through his wrist, spitting a stream of brown and red flecks that drifted down to the concrete floor along with a trickle of blood that had pooled in the base of his arm. The air filled with a stench like rotting meat mixed with burnt microwave popcorn. I just held the saw steady, careful, cutting as clean as I could until the last sinew sliced apart and the severed hand pulled free.

I tucked Paul’s arm against his side and covered him back up. All I could see was the clock, the minutes counting down like seconds as I ran to a washbasin and gave the blade a quick rinse in cold water. Far from perfect, but it looked clean enough at a distance. Valentino would discover Paul’s missing hand before he discovered the tool that did the deed.

And by then, we’d be long gone. Assuming I wasn’t about to get caught in the act.

I locked up the tool cage, slipped Paul’s severed hand under my shirt, and hustled back into the infirmary. I poked my head out the door. Just as planned, Westie was right outside with his trusty mop and bucket, taking his time as he swabbed the grimy floor.

He slid the bucket toward me with his foot, and I tossed Paul’s hand into the water. It made a tiny splash and bobbed in the soapsuds.

“Jesus Christ,” Westie said, his horrified gaze snapping from the bucket to me. “What the hell did you do in there?”

“I told you: here’s where it gets weird. Head back to the hive and meet me outside the bathrooms on tier three.”

He covered the hand with his mop and rolled the bucket away, muttering obscenities under his breath.

I’d barely gotten back to the bench, sitting innocently and catching my breath, when Valentino stalked into the room.

“Your wife okay?” I asked.

“Some people,” he seethed, “have nothing better to do than—yes, she’s fine, thank you. Now let’s see how that cut’s clearing up.”

I lifted my shirt and he rubbed the cut with rubbing alcohol again, mopping away the dried blood. The alcohol felt freezing and hot at the same time, with a sting like whiskey going down my throat.

“Hm, doesn’t need stitches, I don’t think. Might have a hairline scar, but it should heal clean.”

He turned on his stool, reaching for the cardboard box of gauze pads he’d taken down earlier. As he leaned to one side, I gently slipped the key ring back into the pocket of his lab coat.

I held a pad in place as he taped it along the edges, covering the cut under a fluffy white blanket. “Just keep that in place for a couple of days,” he told me, “and let me know if it seeps through.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I said, “you’re a real lifesaver.”

I hoped so, anyway. My little adventure in the infirmary had yielded the key ingredient for a Hand of Glory. Now came the hard part: making it work.





26.




Jake and Westie waited for me outside the tier-three bathrooms, where I’d had my run-in with Mister Kim. I needed an hour with privacy, no guards and no cameras, and that grimy hellhole was my best bet.

Jake handed me a plastic bag. “Everything you asked for.”

Westie just slid his mop and bucket my way. His usually ruddy cheeks were as pale as Paul’s.

“All right,” I said, “you guys stay out here and stand guard. Don’t let anybody come in after me.”

“Mind telling us what you’re gonna be doing in there?” Jake asked.

I smiled. “That’d spoil the surprise.”

Inside, I checked the stalls and made sure I was alone. Then I fished Paul’s soggy hand out of the bucket, tearing off fistfuls of toilet paper and patting it dry. I tossed the damp wads of paper into the closest sink.

I knelt down, the filthy tile hard and cold against my knees, and unfolded Bentley’s instructions before checking the bag Jake had handed me. Everything I needed. Well, almost.

My hacker buddy Pixie had once asked me to explain magic. I’d tried to put it in terms she’d understand and told her magic was the cheat codes for the universe. You carried out the right gestures, the right phrases, made the right sacrifices, and suddenly things that shouldn’t have happened, happened.