She nods. Her voice is shaky. "We take the children down there."
"It's got to be a wonderful place to grow up."
"Amen. Young man, I can't believe you found your way into such a place as this. Why are you here?"
Dusty grins and squeezes her fingers. "Oh, let's not dwell on the old me. People make mistakes."
She should know better. Something in the back of her mind tells her so. But it's as if everything in the real world has suddenly been separated into very distinct layers. She is three different people, and she cannot make the one understand the other. The grieving grandmother is numb. The physical woman is trying to get away from the noise and the smells. The spirit is praying, but it's not stupid. It knows the nice young man is leading her away for the wrong reasons. Maybe she doesn't care. Maybe she hopes Jesus will lift her from pain right before it happens. Maybe it will be more of a joy to be with her grandson in Heaven than to survive here in this place.
She hears Dusty say to Redfish, "Do you even know the way?"
"Naw, man, I just heard it's in the basement."
"I'm not going down there. That's crazy. Colder down there than up here."
"All I know is this kid is heavy. We need a room, like, now."
Kid is heavy. Mrs. Hoeck turns her head. The black man has a child slung over his shoulder. The child is wearing Ham's shoes. Or shoe—only one. How did a child get in here? What is going on?
Dusty says, "Ma'am?" She turns her head to him. "You don't worry about a thing, alright? You rest easy."
Dusty goes on ahead, trying several different doors. All locked, but he bangs his shoulder into each. One finally gives. He stands in the doorway and says, "Perfect." Then waves Mrs. Hoeck over. He guides her into the room. It's a bedroom, sort of. There's a bed inside, rumpled sheets. It smells like sex in here, and there are condoms in a basket, tissues around the trashcan. Dusty leads her over to a loveseat and helps her settle into it. Such a nice young man. She barely registers Redfish bringing in the child and slinging him onto the bed like a sack of red potatoes, ready to be boiled along with the crawfish. She looks forward to that, going home and having a crawfish boil with her family. With Ginny and Savannah. Little Savannah. She'll need to buy her a pretty dress for her brother's funeral. Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord.
"Goddamn, that was heavy." Redfish stretches his back. "Goddamn."
Dusty sits next to Mrs. Hoeck, on the edge of the cushions. "Forgive my friend's language. He doesn't know any better."
Mrs. Hoeck nods. "The Lord understands. We were all young once."
"Some of us never grow up."
Redfish stifles a laugh, turns it into a cough. In her mind, Mrs. Hoeck realizes she's being mocked, but it's all okay. It's all fine.
The boy on the bed doesn't move. The room stinks. Sex and feces. It is very cold. She hugs herself. Too cold. "Could you turn the heat up, Dusty? I'm shivering so bad."
"The power is out, ma'am. But let's see." He's up and looking around, goes to the bed. He tells Redfish to give him a hand, and then they're pulling the rumpled comforter from beneath the boy who isn't moving. They grunt and heave. They grit their teeth. Why doesn't the boy just get up? He is a rude little boy. He rolls to the edge of the bed, his face turned to Mrs. Hoeck. One eye wide and full of blood, the other swollen shut.
This is her grandson's face. She knows it is. She is screaming inside, but all she can do now is sigh, chatter her teeth, and hope that the embalmer can make him look natural again, like he's sleeping. It's always a hard thing to do, making dead children look natural.
The comforter is free. Ham's arm is hanging off the side of the bed now. Dusty holds it up. "This will keep you warm."
It is already a dark color, but it is stained even darker in so many places. Mrs. Hoeck says, "Thank you."
Dusty continues to hold it up. "But I'll have to ask you, ma'am, that before I wrap you in this, you'll need to remove all your clothing. We'll turn away until you're ready. I promise, ma'am, I'm afflicted with homosexuality, so this is not an inappropriate request."
She shakes her head. "That doesn't make sense. Any child of God knows I can't do what you ask."
Redfish stands beside Dusty, arms crossed with his thumb against his chin. "It's because I'm black, isn't it?"
"I won't take my clothes off."
Dusty looks at Redfish. "Do you want her?"
Shrug. "Not really. I know you don't, but, man, that would be just too much for one day. I can't afford to be caught dick-deep in her."
The polite young believer nods his head. "Go right on, then. Hold her for me, would you?"
Redfish steps up to Mrs. Hoeck and grabs her by her hair, the long tail making for a good grip. She yelps as he lifts, and her body follows, no resisting. She reaches for his fingers but can't do more than paw at them. He turns her so that she is facing the wall, her knees deep in the cushions.
Redfish whispers to her, "I'm sorry about this. It's going to hurt real bad. This motherfucker, I mean, this piece of shit, he's crazy."
The black man pushes her cheek against the wall, and she breathes harder as the shadow approaches. Dusty says, "I'll cut the sweater off, then."
The blade presses against her collar and then pricks the skin. He rips it down, his other hand holding the wool sweater and the orange shirt covering it, making deep cuts along the way. Mrs. Hoeck thrashes and screams and hates that her grandson can see it all with his one open eye. The black man smashes her face against the wall again and says, "Be still!" The white psychopath has nestled close to her behind, done with the sweater, which he pushes to each side. It falls off her arms.
"She's younger than she looks. That's very nice skin."
Mrs. Hoeck feels the blade saw through her bra strap and that's when she begins to heave, crying without sound, causing Dusty to pat her on the back with his damp hands and say, "Please, please, I know, but this has to happen."
Then Redfish's hand pulls away from her neck and he says, "Jesus!"
She thinks, In the flesh?
But then there's a gunshot that makes her go rigid. Redfish falls, and Dusty lets her go and rushes for the door. She collapses to the couch and turns her head—there's Zee slumped against the doorframe, gun in his hand, trying to slap off Dusty with it as the killer attacks with the blade, over and over, stabbing Zee in all of his fat while he does a terrible job deflecting. Dusty grabs the gun, but Zee keeps hold tight and says "Like hell."
He gives Dusty a big push, and he goes sprawling at the foot of the bed. Zee takes a few pained steps into the room, careful not to slip on his own blood, and when he's close enough he shoots Dusty three times.
Ham stares at his grandmother the whole time, as if he's not aware of what just happened. It shames her. She curls into a ball on the couch and tries to keep her sweater covering her as best he can.
Zee says, "I'm sorry, miss." Then he looks dizzy and then he collapses onto the floor, his legs out in front of him. He fluffs his shirt with his fingers. "I'd give you mine, but it's kind of dirty."
He leaks blood like a popped water balloon. The best he can do is scoot back, scoot back, but not far enough. He lies down, his head barely touching the wall, just enough to make his chin go triple. He coughs a few times and tries to clear his throat, and then nothing else.
She's always associated the smell of death with the chemicals in funeral homes, and also the flower arrangements ringing the coffin. She has never had to smell blood and feces and urine all together, the cold making them even more distinct. The cuts on her back sting, and she's cold. She gathers herself, stands from the couch—wobbly, has to grab the armrest until the room stops spinning. Ham is still watching her. She steps over to him, runs her finger over his eyelid, closes it. She leans over the little man and smells his hair. The blood is turning to thick goo there. She kisses his cheek and whispers, "I'll be with you soon. We'll go meet Jesus together."
Over by the sink, there are tissues and used towels and a bottle of personal l
ubricant. It's all she has, might as well stand in for the usual olive oil her pastor anoints the sick with. She takes the bottle, dabs a few drops on her fingertips, and rubs it around. Then she sits on the bed beside Ham, slides her fingers across his forehead, a cross, and prays through chattering teeth that he won't remember any of this over in the Glory Land.
Chapter 21
Colleen has a feeling. It's deep in her bones She knows Lafitte won't lose that fight. Not even a doubt. If she'd thought that for one minute, she wouldn't be here now, running down the hall hoping to find Grandma before the butchers have their way with her.
It wasn't even an hour ago she wanted Lafitte dead, but now she just wanted out with any crumbs of dignity she could carry with her. Lafitte's mother-in-law, that's her ticket. That's all she's got left. Lafitte's got his own hell to deal with. She'll keep her cash and let him suffer in her for as long as he can.
Past the control room. Zee's gone. Shit, how much abuse can he take and still live to tell? Damn, dude. But she keeps on. She follows the blood spatter, as best she can see in the dark. Her eyes have adjusted so that the darker streaks and dribbles make sense. She's pretty sure she slipped away from Ri'Chess unnoticed, but if not she was ready to end anyone who followed. Fuck this. It was time to leave through the front door.
It's not as if they could have gotten very far. If Colleen listens close she thinks she can hear sirens. They're on their way. They must be on their way. Still echoes of the noise behind her as the fight begins and the men cheer on…Lafitte? It sounds that way.
Ahead of her, the old lady's scream. A deep-throated horror. And a man's voice shushing her, telling her it has to be this way. Colleen runs. She turns corners. She forgets there might be guards still out there with happy trigger fingers. Familiar hallways. And then she sees the big man Zee standing in the doorway of a room, maybe the same room she'd been in earlier with Ri'Chess, goddamn him. She lifts the rifle to her shoulder and is prepared to take him out.
Then another gunshot before she lets one off. Colleen flinches and ducks and wonders where it came from. From Zee? That's, no, he didn't, did he?
A man shouts and Colleen sees one of the psychos attack Zee and stab the living fuck out of him. Zee stands like a concrete beam and takes it, slapping away the attacker. Colleen stands again and readies the gun and thinks that if he's already shot Grandma, then this thing is over. And it pisses her off. She starts getting teary-eyed and hates herself for it and goddamn it, goddamn Rome, goddamn Lafitte and Ri'Chess and all of them, goddamn them. Her tears make it hard to aim, but then Zee grunts and heaves and shoves his attacker down onto the floor. He lurches off the doorframe into the room and then there are three more shots.
A woman's voice. She's still alive. Colleen can't make out what she's saying, but then she hears Zee hit the ground like a little earthquake. He says something about his shirt being dirty. That's all. Colleen slowly sneaks closer to the door. She tries very hard to not be heard. Her feet are freezing. Her hands are shaking, rattling the gun. She makes sure to straighten her index finger alongside the trigger guard. She doesn't want it to go off because she's cold. Someone is moving around in there. It's darker in there than it is out in the hallway. She hears murmuring. She hears bedsprings.
Colleen peeks into the room. Grandma is sitting on the bed beside her grandson, rubbing his forehead, her shoulders rocking back and forth. Colleen lowers the rifle and steps into the room. There is fierce whispering, the woman's eyes closed, lips moving, and her hand on her grandson's cheek.
"Ma'am?" Colleen doesn't want to scare her. "Ma'am, are you okay?"
The old lady hums. She's humming a hymn. She turns to face Colleen, her lips not quite grinning, not quite trembling. There are ragged cuts along the woman's back where her sweater has been literally sawn off. But the woman had shrugged the shoulders back into place, almost daring someone to call her immodest.
Colleen said, "I bet if you turn that around, it'll fit better."
"It might, but then there will be no way to close it. He cut through my bra, too. I will be exposed. Better my back than my front."
"I'm sure I can find you something. Safety pins, paperclips—"
"That's sweet of you." Back to humming.
Colleen looks around, tries to open locked drawers. Checks the floor. Nothing, nothing, nothing. She wonders if she can twist a condom like a rubber band, tie the shirt together through a buttonhole, cut another one across from it. But then she hears one of the dead bodies fart and forgets all that. Scares the living shit out of her.
"Ma'am, we've got to go."
The lady stops humming but doesn't move. "Sweetie, I don't even know your name."
"Colleen, ma'am. I'm Colleen."
"Okay."
"Let's get out of here now. Please."
The humming starts again and Colleen wonders if she can get through to her. Lost her damned mind. Or no, the opposite. Not damned at all. The woman had Jesus, right? She's off in Jesusland.
"We can still be saved, you know. The police are on their way. We need to get outside." Not really. If they hunker down in here for a while, maybe, maybe, the SWAT teams will find them before the inmates do.
"I know, I know. But I can't leave without our boy. My grandson. He was…I needed him to be what his father never was. I brought him all this way to scare him straight, and…look at him. Just look."
Colleen doesn't want to look at the dead kid anymore. She nods and says, "It's not your fault. Every boy deserves to see his dad. What happened here, it's crazy. It's bigger than all of us. Even if you hadn't come, this would've happened."
"I can't leave without my boy."
"Lady, I can't carry him."
"It's okay. I can stay. You need to leave, I understand."
I need you. Without you, I'm in trouble. "Look, what if we wrap him in the blanket and leave him under the bed, or in the closet. We can tell the police to get him later."
The humming turns to singing. "I have a home prepared where the saints abide, just over in the glory land. And I long to be by my savior's side, just over in the glory land…"
She keeps on and Colleen says, "Shit."
Can't carry him out. Granny won't leave him. How about grab her hand and run, drag her along kicking and screaming. It doesn't matter how Colleen gets her out, as long as she does.
"Over in the glory land…"
"Stay put," Colleen says. She makes sure the hall is clear. "I'll be back."
Off to the infirmary.
*
Somewhere there's got to be a wheelchair. She doesn't even know where she's going, but figures it has to be marked, right? No time to be careful, either. If she ends up surprised by roving gangs of cons out in the halls, she's going to shoot them all. Just fucking shoot everyone. Even those greedy fucking guards, thinking they're going to get some folding money out of extortion, kidnapping, and murder. Really, she wonders if they'd be happy getting paid in cigarettes, even.
She thinks about the layout of the place—would they really want the infirmary hell and gone away from the inmates? Would they risk transporting bleeding or seriously ill men? Hurry, hurry. She doesn't want to risk anyone getting between her and Granny.
Echoes of men laughing, rapping, singing. Echoes of men beating each other. An occasional gunshot, but Colleen wonders who has all the guns now. Too many doors lead to empty rooms, still unfurnished, waiting for the official "opening day". But there has to be an infirmary, and there has to be wheelchairs. She wonders if there might be sick inmates in there, stocking up on hypodermic needles and god knows what drugs. Could be worse than what's going on in the cellblock. Really.
More doors, more darkness, more emptiness. Louder echoes.
And it is too fucking cold
Another door, another empty room. Maybe soon it will have a desk with a phone and a computer and a red alarm button underneath in case there's an emergency, and a nice spinning office chair…
Yes. That'll do. An office cha
ir. Colleen retraces her steps back through the long hallway, past the dead guards, past the entrance lobby where that bitch prison guard is long gone, and back to the office where Garner had tried his little game. There it is, the nice spinning, rolling office chair, knocked onto its side. That and a few zip ties, got to be some around here, especially with all the dead guards in the hall. They're all good.
*
The woman is in the same position, singing a different hymn, softer now. She strokes her grandson's hair over his ear. The smell from the shit of three dead men and a little boy is blooming. Colleen wishes Zee had made it. They could use him right about now. She says, "Look, see? We can take him with us now. Ma'am? See what I found?"
The old lady has that frightening angelic look all the Jesus people get when they're freaking. "You're sweet, dear. Bless you."
She rolls the chair closer. "Can I, then? Let me move him?"
When the woman stands up, Colleen pushes the chair against the bed and works without thinking too much. She grabs the boy's legs first, and the snapped one surprises her. She hadn't noticed how bad…never mind. She pulls him by his thighs instead to the edge of the mattress. She slips her arms under his shoulders, pulls him up to her. Her cheek rubs against the cool blood that's drying on his head. She bounces with him, one two three, and then lifts, aims his butt for the chair and nearly falls over getting him there. Ham's head lolls and Colleen steadies the kid, a hand on his chest.
She turns to Grandma, who watches with her hands clasped, fingertips kneading one palm. "Can he hold on like that?"
Colleen nods to the zip ties she set on the ground. "Pass me those and we'll see."
*
They roll out with Granny manning the chair and Colleen taking the lead with her rifle. Ham's hands are tied together behind the chair's metal back post, and his feet are double-tied on top of the base above the wheels. His snapped leg bone is flopping, but it's not in the way. Just unnerving. Granny didn't want to do it at first, but Colleen convinced her. She may have pointed her gun when she said it, but she said, "Ham would've wanted you to," but no, Ham probably wouldn't have wanted this at all. So embarrassing.
The Baddest Ass (Billy Lafitte #3) Page 13