The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(51)

Another part of me, the part that squirmed in the back of my brain like a cornered rat, wanted to run. Run for the front offices, steal some clothes, and get out. If I were fast, I’d have just enough time to reach the open highway. Hitch a ride to Aberdeen—jack a car if I had to—and figure it out from there.

I couldn’t do it. I’d given my word to Jake and Westie. I could escape alone, right here and now, but I wouldn’t like how I’d feel about myself when the deed was done. Then there was Buddy. If any part of that craziness his twin had shown me was real, the fate of the world might hang on his “message” getting to the right ears.

And I was the only person who could make that happen.

Jablonski sat in a chair overlooking the hive floor, stupefied, sniper rifle cradled in his arms like a newborn son. I resisted the urge to pitch him through the window headfirst. It wasn’t a sense of mercy, just the knowledge that a mysteriously dead guard would lead to the entire prison getting locked down tighter than a bank vault. I turned my gaze to a rack of equipment and monitors along the back wall. There they were: four pairs of black rubber binocular-style scopes with head straps and icy winter-green lenses. I helped myself to a couple and hustled back downstairs.

The cigarettes burned low as I pounded up the steps to my tier, racing for my cell, and flecks of hot ash spilled down onto my hands. I made it just as the first light burned out. The wreath of silver smoke convulsed around me, fraying as if slashed with invisible knives. Then the other four cigarettes burned out one after another, and the magic died.

I stashed the now-useless severed hand under my mattress. Have fun coming up with a reasonable explanation for that, I thought. The image pleased me, until I realized they’d probably assume I was a necrophiliac.

Outside the cell, life was back to normal. Cons milling around and shooting the breeze, guards on the catwalks. Nobody noticed the lost minutes. And there’s Emerson again, I thought, glancing up, keeping tabs on the other guards and doing a crap job of being subtle about it.

I met Jake and Westie outside the bathroom. Westie did a double take, while Jake pushed open the door and peered inside.

“How the hell did you get out of there without us seeing you?” Jake asked.

“Magic. Hey, out of curiosity, if the guards found a severed hand under an escaped prisoner’s bunk, what would they think?”

“Necrophiliac,” Westie said.

“Major necrophiliac,” Jake agreed.

Okay, so there might be some embarrassing newspaper articles in my near future. I’d live with it.

“Changing the subject,” I said, “we might have a little hitch in the plan. Don’t worry about it, though. I’m working on it.”

The confidence in my voice was a dirty lie. Without a working Hand of Glory, I had no idea how I was going to get those gates open. With every night in this place bringing the risk of a one-way trip to Hive B, though—and my cell number next on the hit list—we’d never get a better chance than now.

“So,” Jake said, “we good to go? We really doin’ this?”

I spread my hands and smiled.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “let’s break out of prison.”





27.




I met Westie back at my cell. He rolled his bucket past, pushing it by the mop handle, whistling tunelessly. He glanced both ways and pulled out the mop, kicking the empty bucket into my cell. I stopped it with my foot, dropped in the two pairs of night-vision goggles and the knife, and sent it rolling back toward him. He caught it, covered the contraband with the mop, and strolled away as if nothing had happened.

Buddy’s cell was my next stop. He sat on the edge of his bunk, hands clasped in his lap, fidgeting. His mouth moved like he was having a conversation, but no words came out. I knocked softly on his open door. He jumped.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

He just gave me a sad-eyed smile.

“Listen close, okay?” I said. “This is really, really important. Soon a guard’s going to come get you and say you have a visitor.”

His eyes lit up. “I have a visitor?”

“No. I mean, yes, but…just follow the guard. You’ll see me there, too. Just stay behind me, okay? Right behind me, the whole time.”

“It’s good if we leave soon,” Buddy said. “It’s not safe here.”

“Is that what your, uh, sister says?”

His shoulders sagged.

“My sister is dead. Something ate her. It’s okay. I have lots of other voices to keep me company.”

Jake met me on the way back to my cell, falling into step, speaking fast and low.

“On my way to my work shift,” he said. “It’s all set up. Expect three guards, four max—one or two in the booth, two down on the floor.”

“And the distraction?”

“A fire. Small one, something we can put out fast before it sets off the smoke alarms, but it’ll get their attention. I soaked a rag in gasoline last night and stashed it.”

“What about the other prisoners on your shift?”

“Five, tops,” he said. “Could be trouble. We can’t take ’em with, not enough room in the buggies, and they aren’t gonna like that.”

I shrugged. “So we corral them with the guards if they get feisty. Just keep an eye on the clock; your timing has to be perfect.”