The Killing Floor Blues (Daniel Faust #5)(56)

The hose turned off. The slot slammed shut. I shivered, my teeth rattling and jaw clenched, freezing in the darkness.

*

Time passed. Two weeks? A month? The cold burned my skin and turned seconds into hours. The slot rattled open and I hid, scurrying for cover behind the bunk like a roach fleeing the kitchen light.

Sometimes, when the slot opened, it was the hose again. Sometimes it was a tray of food. I couldn’t tell—there wasn’t any rhyme or reason to it. This time it was the tray. I snatched it, scrambling back to my hiding place in the corner. Squatting down and digging into the food with my fingers. The meal was always the same, some kind of processed putrid loaf of random glop blended together. I was hungry, so I ate.

The next time the slot opened, I saw a face. Not Jablonski’s but I hid anyway. The light hurt my eyes.

“Faust,” a voice hissed. “Can you hear me?”

I knew the voice. Emerson. Would he hurt me? I wasn’t sure. I peered over the edge of the bunk, cautious.

“Hurry,” he whispered. “We’re between a shift change, so I don’t have long. I’ve got to talk to you. I can help you. Come closer.”

I frowned. It sounded like a trick. Still, I crept closer to the light. A tiny spark burned deep in my heart. It felt something like hope.

“I can get you out of here, but I need your help,” he said. I got closer to the slot, our eyes meeting. My vision blurred, stinging from the light.

“How long?” I croaked. My voice sounded strange, like it belonged to somebody else.

“What?”

“How long have I been in here?”

“Four days,” Emerson said.

My world tilted sideways. I shook my head.

“N-no, that’s not possible. Longer than that. Two weeks at least.”

“You’re disoriented, and your perceptions are skewed. Solitary…does things to people’s heads. Look, I’ve got a way to get you out, but you’ve got to help me. Faust? Can you hear me?”

I could hear him. As my senses slowly returned, as I remembered how to think like a man—not the feral beast four days in the dark and wet and freezing cold had made me into—I recognized that burning in my heart for what it really was.

It wasn’t hope.

It was rage.

And inside my mind, the beast and the man shook hands and agreed to work together.

“Tell me,” I growled.

“I’m undercover,” Emerson told me. “I’m an investigator for the Nevada Department of Corrections. We know something’s wrong here, something very wrong, but Rehabilitation Dynamics has deep pockets; every time we’ve tried to schedule a full inspection, we get sandbagged from higher up the food chain.”

“So you got a job as a guard. Figured you’d investigate from the inside, on your own.”

“Exactly. Look, Eisenberg Correctional has one of the highest inmate death rates in the nation. It doesn’t get reported because the deaths are almost always people with no family, no outside ties, and life sentences. People who nobody will miss. Statistically, it just doesn’t work.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Most of those dead men were tenants of Hive B.”

“Exactly. And Hive B is hermetically sealed. The guards here have a fraternity; they’re tight with each other, too tight for me to infiltrate. You don’t get assigned to a shift in Hive B until they trust you like a brother.”

“Which isn’t you. Meaning you can’t get in to find out what’s really happening in there.”

“Right,” Emerson said, “but you can. And you will. I just saw the paperwork: you’re being transferred tomorrow.”





30.




At that moment, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about Hive B or what horrors might be waiting behind those sealed doors. Anywhere was better than here. I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry, and a fresh wave of nausea washed over me.

“All right,” I told Emerson. “What’s the plan?”

“When they take you out of solitary, I’ll give you a new uniform. Inside the pocket, you’ll find a miniature video camera. Whatever’s going on in there, I want footage. As much evidence as you can document.”

“From what I hear, a trip to Hive B is a one-way ticket. How am I supposed to deliver the goods?”

Emerson passed a sheet of paper through the slot. I held it up to the thin band of light and squinted. It was a partial map of the prison, photocopied from the original blueprints.

“Right there.” Emerson’s finger wagged through the slot. “See the circled spot, in yellow highlighter? That’s an access passage adjacent to Hive B. You’ll need to get there, somehow. Given how far your last escape attempt got, I’m figuring you’re clever enough to handle it.”

“Speaking of,” I said, letting the question hang in the air.

“Your buddies in the dune buggies? Vanished without a trace. If they didn’t get themselves killed off-roading in the desert, they’re probably halfway to the border by now.”

I closed my eyes for a second, breath gusting out in a sigh. At least I’d done something right.

“So I get to the passage,” I said, “then what?”

“There’s a floor panel providing access to the maintenance tunnels. Normally it’s locked down tight. I’ll make sure it won’t be. Follow the passage, and about fifty yards in I’ll leave a cell phone with my number on it. Call me and I’ll slip you out.”