The DA gave him an arrest warrant, and Scarbrough picked up two deputies to accompany him. But when he got to Mark’s house, he found Deni and Doug there, talking to his crying mother. No one knew where Mark was.
He searched a few places that Mark might be, but came up empty. Fatigue washed back over him, and he thought of that cat in his well. He hoped Jimmy hadn’t tried again to get it out. He’d forgotten to get a hydrologist to tell him what to do. He supposed they’d have to get water from the Keatons for another day. But there wasn’t time to waste taking care of personal business. He had to find Mark and lock him up before someone else found him. If Lou and his buddies got wind of the latest accusations and found him first, Mark might not live through it.
He pulled his van back into the parking lot at the sheriff’s department and headed inside, despite his debilitating fatigue. He’d give anything to lie down just for a moment. The coughing had exhausted him. Maybe if he did go to the doctor, he could get some cough medicine to get him through. Maybe it would be worth the time . . . after he found Mark.
He went up the front steps and into the cold building. Deputy Jones met him at the door. “Sheriff, there’s someone here to see you.”
What now?
He started to cough outside his office door, doubling over as he tried to clear his lungs. Finally, he heard a familiar voice.
“You really need to see a doctor, Sheriff.”
Scarbrough stopped coughing and stepped into his office. Mark Green sat with his elbows on his knees.
“Here I am,” he said. “I’ve come to turn myself in.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE JAIL SMELLED OF PORTA-JOHNS THAT WEREN’T MEANT to be inside. They had been set into each cell, the inmates’ only way of relieving themselves. The nauseating stench hit Mark the moment he stepped into the dark room, and he fought back the urge to gag.
The only light came from slits of windows at the tops of the walls, not big enough for anyone to crawl through, and not low enough to illuminate the faces of those crammed into the cells. The inmates were like shadows moving aggressively through a dream, but their voices layered upon each other in a deafening sound — obscenities, accusations, threats echoing off the concrete walls.
The muscles in Mark’s neck, shoulders, and arms were on full alert, rigid with dread. Men yelled demands through the bars. Scarbrough walked Mark down the center of the room, just out of their reach. The holding cells in Crockett were not meant to be long term, nor were they meant to hold more than a few prisoners at a time. Before the Pulses, those who were arraigned in the county court were transferred to the county prison or penal farm in Birmingham. But now the substations around the county housed their own inmates until places for them could be found.
As they walked through, Mark wondered whether he’d been wise to turn himself in. He’d tried earlier to come back to Crockett, but as he’d approached one of the community wells for water, he’d seen his name on a message board — WANTED: MARK GREEN. Pulling his ski cap low over his face, he’d moved close enough to read of his alleged attempt to kill Zach yesterday. Someone was setting him up, and they meant business. He’d decided there was no point in running anymore.
Now regret pulsed through him. The sheriff and his deputies didn’t buy his innocence, and he had to admit that he looked guilty.
The room was freezing, almost as cold as it was outside. Still, perspiration broke out over his lip and beaded on his temples.
He tried not to make eye contact with any of the prisoners, but he could see that there were five cells — two on each side and one at the end of the room. Each had three bunk beds — six beds in all — but there were at least ten men in each of the cells. Where did they all sleep?
Dread seized Mark as the sheriff stopped at the last cell and ordered the inmates to back against the wall. Mark’s mind raced for refuge.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. He muttered the words over and over in his mind, a rote prayer, an expectation.
The sheriff stopped to cough before unlocking the door, and Mark took a moment to size up his cellmates. As far as height went, he could hold his own with them. At six-three, he could meet most of them eye to eye. Only one loomed larger. Three or four of them had bulked-up steroid builds and looked like pit bulls waiting to attack. Three of them were small and frightened, beat up and abused. One had clearly lost a fight — he had a busted lip and a twisted, broken nose.
And one lay in bed, curled up and shivering on a bottom bunk.
Scarbrough kept coughing, lost in a fit that he couldn’t control.
“Aw, man, you’re sick too.” The biggest guy in the cell stepped forward. “Man, this place is full of disease!”
“And Blatt’s ate up with something.” One of the pit bulls kicked the metal bedpost, rattling the bed where the sick man lay. “Get him outta here.”
“I want my lawyer!” the littlest guy called.
Scarbrough stopped coughing and straightened. “I’ve been trying to get the doctor to come see him,” he rasped out. “I’m still waiting. Now get back!” He put his hand on his firearm. The men drifted back, chins held high. Mark got the feeling they weren’t obeying — they were just biding their time.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .
Scarbrough rattled his keys, found the right one, then unlocked the door. The hinges squeaked as he pulled it open.
“I know it’s crowded,” Scarbrough said, “but it’s the best we can do. Go on in, now.”
Mark pulled in a deep breath and stepped inside. Scarbrough slammed the door behind him. The noise echoed throughout the room. He wondered if they’d worked on that sound, carefully designing the doors to clang shut and echo. A psychological tactic to freak out the newcomer.
It worked.
The men came away from the back wall and stepped menacingly toward Mark. He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them in fists at his sides.
“You got family?” one of the smaller men asked.
Mark looked into his eyes. The whites of his eyes were yellow, and he was missing his front row of teeth.
“Yeah, I have family,” he said. “Why?”
“They close by?” Yellow Eyes asked.
“Not too far.”
“Good. Then they can bring you food.”
“We provide one meal a day,” Scarbrough said through the bars. “That’s all we can manage. We bring you water. A lot of the families bring more food up here to supplement. But get ready. You’re going to have to fight for it if they do.”
The men spread out and went to their bunks, as if making sure that Mark didn’t claim one of them. He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned back against a cold wall.
“We’ll bring in some mattresses when it gets dark,” Scarbrough said. “There’s not room for them until then.”
Mark nodded and figured it wouldn’t pay to lie down now anyway. He was better off standing, warding off those who had something to prove. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the place, and he saw some bean bag chairs scattered around the floor. One of the inmates picked up a pink one and tossed it to him. “Here. This looks like yours.”
He didn’t much care what color it was. Catching it, he said, “Thanks.”
“They can’t trust us with real chairs,” somebody said. “They figure we could break ’em over each other’s heads.”
Suddenly, he was thankful for the bean bags. He gripped the vinyl in one hand, but didn’t sit just yet.
“What’s your name?” the little guy asked him.
“Mark Green.”
The little guy held out an ice-cold hand, and Mark shook it. “I’m Sam. You can call me Samuel or Samson or Sambo or Sam-I-Am — whatever you want.”
The man seemed simple and defenseless. Mark wondered how he’d survived here. “Thanks. I’ll just go with Sam.”
&nbs
p; “And he’s Tree House,” Sam said, pointing to the big guy.
Tree House looked like he could mow down a crowd with an AK – 47 without blinking an eye. “I’m de one wit’ de most upstairs.”
The man had an accent Mark couldn’t place — Caribbean, maybe. He was taller than Mark and twice as built. He had a smooth bald head and the beginnings of a beard. The sheriff started coughing again as he walked away, letting the steel door clang, its sound echoing through the room. Mark felt abandoned in the very pit of hell.
The noise level rose again as the sheriff closed them in. In another cell, he heard a fight, flesh pounding flesh, vile shouts and a pitiful scream.
Suddenly, Tree House was next to him. Leaning over, he whispered in his ear, “You hear dat, man? I’m de boss in dis cell. You cross me, you wind up like dat dude in dere.”
Refusing to show fear, Mark stood taller, straighter, and looked the man in the eye. He could hold his own with him, he thought, if it came down to it. He would do what was necessary to protect himself.
They stared at each other for a long moment, then Tree House took a step back. Walking over to the bunk with the sick man, he grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him off the bed.
The man hit the floor with a thud.
Mark lunged forward, but Tree House’s hand shot out and clamped Mark’s throat. “I tol’ you, don’t mess wit’ me.”
Mark jerked free and stooped next to the man, as Tree House stretched out on the sick man’s bare mattress. The man’s eyes were sunken, dark circles shadowing them. His face had a deathly gray pallor and his lips were blue. His shivers bordered on convulsions. He was burning with fever.
Mark thought of fighting Tree House to get the man’s bed back, but he knew it wouldn’t be just the two of them. There was a whole crowd of bloodthirsty men just waiting to jump in.
Sam stooped next to him. “We been hoping Blatt would die so we could get him outta here,” the little man said. “He’s been dyin’ for days.”
This man might not make it even if the sheriff managed to get him to a hospital, but he would surely die if they kept him in here. Why hadn’t Scarbrough gotten him out?
Mark looked up at Tree House as the big man got up from the coveted mattress. He stalked around like a bull looking for the gate. Mark sat down next to Blatt, guarding him with his presence.
Maybe this was why he was here.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE SHERIFF MADE A PRODUCTION OF GETTING BLATT OUT of the cell. Leading the paramedics in with a gurney, he had two deputies stand with guns drawn as the men lined up against the back wall. Then they brought the gurney into the cell, loaded Blatt onto it, and hurried him out.
Mark hoped the man survived the trip to the hospital.
Night had fallen hours before, turning the slits of windows above the cells to black. One of the deputies brought a lantern in and set it beside the door, far out of the reach of any of the prisoners. It gave off little light, only enough to keep those closest to it from tripping over each other.
Mark’s cellmates looked like shadows moving around the cell, getting ready for bed, fighting over the territory of the six beds. No attempt was made to disinfect Blatt’s mattress, and Tree House continued to claim it as his own. The upper bunk that Tree House had occupied before was quickly taken by one of the other inmates.
The sheriff brought in five small mattresses, thin enough to fit between the bars, and some threadbare blankets. Mark took one of each, found a spot, and tried to settle down for the night.
He was thankful the sheriff had let him keep his jacket. The temperature seemed to have dropped another twenty degrees since nightfall. The cold seemed soul-deep. He turned his collar up and shifted, trying to get comfortable on the thin mattress. The concrete floor beneath him was even colder.
Why hadn’t someone put a wood-burning oven in here or altered the room for a fireplace? He’d spent the last four or five months helping people without fireplaces put them in their homes, preparing them for winter. He hadn’t even considered the prisoners at the local jail.
A huddle of men had formed in a back corner of the cell. Something was going on. He thought of trying to listen in, but the truth was that he didn’t want to know what they were scheming. He was better off not knowing.
He thought back over the last two days — the accusations by Ellen Emory, the furor of the lynch mob. He hoped his mother was all right. And Deni too.
Maybe his being here would cause his arrogant, bloodthirsty neighbors to call off their dogs and leave the people he cared about alone.
He heard laughter from the corner, then someone sang out a line from the old reggae tune, “I Shot the Sheriff,” and there was more laughter. He heard Tree House’s deep, base voice, adding, “But I also shot de depu-tees.” More laughter.
Were they just fantasizing about overthrowing the law, or was there more to it? He sat up and tried to listen. The voices had gone back to whispers.
Slowly, he slid along the wall, moving closer to them. The darkness had its uses, he supposed. Maybe he could get close enough to hear without being noticed.
“They came for the sick dude, didn’t dey?” Tree House was saying in a whisper. “So I’m gon’ get real sick, myself. Dey gon’ come get me outta here. And when dey roll me on de gurney, all limp and weak and dyin’, I’m gon’ overpower Andy Griffith and dose Barney Fifes o’ his, get de closest one’s gun, and we gon’ stampede outta here over deir dead bodies.”
Mark’s breath caught in his chest. Was he serious about this? Were these men really going to attempt something so deadly? The others murmured in agreement.
How many of them were in on it? He counted the voices — one, two . . . maybe three men.
Sliding back to his mattress, he racked his brain for a way to get word to the sheriff. If they knew he knew, they’d attack him before he could open his mouth. What would they have to lose?
The whispers seemed to stop, and the cell went quiet. He saw a shadow shift in the blackness. Suddenly something was on top of him, knocking him back. His head hit the floor. A man’s weight mashed down on him, suffocating, crushing, but Mark gritted his teeth and flipped him over until Mark was on top.
“Get him, Tree House!” one of the men shouted.
Mark’s victory was short-lived. The big man’s hands came around Mark’s throat, cutting off his circulation and his air. He intended to kill him.
But Mark wouldn’t die.
His knee came up, knocking his tormenter off balance. He brought his fists up between the man’s stiff arms, making him release his hold on Mark’s throat. Suddenly it wasn’t just Tree House, but at least three other inmates around him, holding him down while Tree House got in his face, his perspiration dripping into Mark’s eyes.
“You listen to me, white boy. I’m in charge here, you got dat?”
Mark struggled and kicked against the hands holding him down. “I don’t care who’s in charge,” he said through his teeth. “Be the general, for all I care. The king. The stinking emperor.”
“You keep your mout’ shut about what you hear and stay outta my way, maybe I won’t have to kill you.”
“I’m not interested in anything I hear in this place,” Mark said.
“Oh no? Dat’s right. You above it all, aren’t you, white boy?”
There were six other white men in this cell alone, and he suspected a couple of them were holding him down.
“You understand what I’m sayin’, or do I have to explain it a little more clear?”
Mark struggled against the urge to spit in his face. If he did, he’d probably be dead before his skull cracked on the concrete. And that wouldn’t do the sheriff any good.
“I got it,” he bit out.
Tree House let him go and got up, and the others backed away. Shivering with rage, Mark sat back down on his mattress, his back against the wall. He didn’t want to wait to talk to the sheriff. He wanted to counterattack, knock out Tree House’s teeth, listen to
bones snap.
Help me, Lord. He didn’t know what to do with all this hate pulsing through him. Maybe he was more like Tree House than he thought. Maybe he was even like his dad.
Temptation ignited within him, its heat spreading through his veins.
He could hear Tree House moving to his left, talking to his friends, chuckling under his breath. He could reach him in three steps, have him on the floor face down before he took another breath —
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the defense of my life; whom shall I dread?
The verse he’d quoted to Beth days ago poured through his mind, unbidden, its power trickling down through his heart, washing out the pride and arrogance that pulsated through him, spraying down the fires of fear and hatred.
He wasn’t like Tree House. And the apple had fallen far from the tree. He’d wait quietly until he could get word to the sheriff. Somehow, he would warn him.
Despite his fatigue, Mark knew there wasn’t going to be any sleep tonight. If he drifted off, someone might ambush him again. Or worse.
What are you doing, God? Why are you letting this happen?
The questions instantly shamed him. Why couldn’t he be more stoic, like David, who’d written Psalm 56 when he was in a dark, cold cave somewhere, surrounded by his enemies? Or like Daniel, when they were throwing him into the lions’ den? Why couldn’t he be like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, when they’d been cast into the fiery furnace?
Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us . . . But even if he does not . . .
He thought of the three men standing in the flames meant to devour them. They had gone in with courage and bravery, looking not at those flames, but at the God who controlled them. And God had been there with them.
Mark didn’t think he had that kind of courage. He’d have been complaining that it was hot in the furnace, ignoring the fact that his hair wasn’t singed and his clothes didn’t even smell like smoke.
True Light Page 10