The Four Stages of Cruelty (30 page)

My leg was numb. My mouth was pasty and my head heavy for lack of water. I kept nodding off and pinching my cheeks to remain awake. I suppose I lost that battle. How else to explain the dreamy shock, the slippage in my attention when it happened? A bang came from above. I looked toward the ceiling of the bubble.

“This is it,” Stone mumbled. “Finally.”

I knelt, the Remington in my arms, facing the door in order to brace myself from the kick of the gun when I shot. Peering out, I saw three inmates standing around the entrance to the bubble. They were lifting concrete chunks and heaving them at the shatterproof glass. They swung pipes that landed against the cage in heavy clangs. It seemed pathetic and useless, a choreography meant to intimidate and antagonize rather than accomplish anything, but the noise got me deep in that place where fear puddles and turns you a little helpless.

“They’re not getting in here, Stone.” I argued with myself as much as him. “You can hope all you want. They’re never getting in.”

But I gripped the Remington tighter just the same and wished I’d saved more shells.

One of the men outside raised his arms to hail me and
yelled. I couldn’t hear a word over the clanging. He gestured for the others to stop and yelled again, holding the business end of a CO shoulder radio up to his mouth this time.

I stood in plain sight to see him better, safe enough in the bubble. I didn’t understand. The inmate couldn’t contact me by radio with just the mouthpiece. The CO who owned it had probably destroyed the walkie-talkie receiver before he was taken. We were supposed to do that. It was the fourth or fifth most important thing to do in a riot, just before you got taken hostage.

I heard a
fitz
in my own console then, and lifted the console radio. Outside, the inmate waved as if I’d finally understood, and scampered away.

“Told you,” Stone said. “They’re fucking coming.”

I had a fantasy of turning the Remington on Stone and shooting him on the floor like a car-struck deer on the side of the road.

Once again the radio snapped and sparked, and this time I heard a voice.

“Officer Williams, are those your catlike steps?”

I knew then who it was, but I didn’t answer or acknowledge any connection between us.

“Hey now, Officer Williams, you got to listen better than that. We want in to the bubble. We’ll be there in five minutes, and you’re going to put down all weapons, open the door, and step aside. If you do that, I give you my word, you won’t be hurt.”

“Why would I do that?” I asked.

“You will do it,” he said. “I’ll show you why you’re going to do it.”

He stopped talking. I waited for more. Was he trying to sweet-talk me into complying? Was he as deranged as that? Then I heard a voice again, a direction that sounded as clipped as something an air-traffic control tower worker might say to a pilot. “Watch your monitor.”

My instinct was to resist any command, but my eye was drawn over to the console deck. One of the screens had come to life. They must have taken off the blanket, I thought, and then I felt a cold hand on my throat.

A hostage knelt on the floor of the range, back straight, blindfolded. At first I thought he was an inmate, because he wore inmate clothes, but I recognized the jawline, the uptightness of his posture, the slope of his shoulders. Ruddik.

Three inmates stood around him. They wore sacks with eyeholes over their heads.

One of them pulled Ruddik’s blindfold away.

“What are you doing?” I said.

A second hooded figure held the radio to Ruddik’s lips. He stumbled over the script, trying to remember.

“For the last eighteen months,” Ruddik began, “I’ve been a federal investigator in this prison, posing as a corrections officer.”

It was impossible not to listen. I felt sucked in by his confession.

“I have propagated a network of in formants. I have entrapped inmates with drug buys. I’ve traced a large-size payment to the Keeper. I’ve shown that the warden and the assistant warden profit from companies that provide the institution with supplies and facility maintenance. All of these
business dealings must be investigated further. I have… . The contraband problem in this prison—the root—the real criminals are the corrections officers.”

A hard kick to the back and a flinch of pain as he hesitated or forgot his lines. My stomach flipped over at the way his body jerked forward and reset itself.

“I have entrapped inmates unjustly. I have relied on false evidence. I have built up a dossier of false information about the criminal activities of innocent inmates. Because of this, I am directly responsible for the violence that has happened today.”

A change came over Ruddik’s demeanor. For the first time, I saw fear smear across his face, and his voice began to warble. The last sentences he spoke were unintelligible. “I have—” he said, and tried again, and again.

“What’s going on?” Stone called out.

“Good enough,” a voice on the radio said.

One of the hooded inmates stood directly behind Ruddik and held his shoulders tight. A second grabbed his head and tilted it back by the hair. Ruddik began to twist and buck. I saw a metal sword in the third inmate’s hand rise up to Ruddik’s throat.

“Oh, Jesus, no,” I said, and then yelled into the microphone, “Don’t!”

My limbs had gone all tingly. I pleaded for it to stop, for the event to reverse itself. Ruddik thrashed harder at the touch of the long curved blade, thrusting his body violently to the sides, but the man behind him held him upright with a knee pressed into his back, and the third man grabbed his hair and tilted his head back, exposing his throat.

I looked. I watched. It was all I could give him. I wanted him to know that my eyes were on him and that he was not alone with those animals. Stone screamed that I was next, sounding like a hyena shackled to the floor, a rabid, frothing beast. When the sword moved, I flinched, but it was just a graceful slide across Ruddik’s throat. The relief drained through me as I realized they’d spared him. They’d made the cutting gesture but faked the awful act. Then, most horribly, his neck opened up, the skin peeled away like a sudden manic smile, and a soft gray spray shot forth, gentle as a dolphin aspirating a puff of water into the air. The blood seemed to activate the hooded man’s fury. He began to saw across Ruddik’s throat with vigor, back and forth, while Ruddik’s torso twitched and fought for balance. The cut wedged its way beyond a balance point so that a great yawn suddenly opened and the weight of Ruddik’s head tipped backward. Then something soft happened, and the body fell forward, gracefully, like a tumbled tree, Ruddik’s head held up by the inmate’s fist.

“If you don’t let us in,” a voice said into the radio, breathing hard, “we do it again.”

One of the hooded men stepped on Ruddik’s back and forced the blood to roll out in a last great gush.

I threw up. I couldn’t stop the shaking, and I couldn’t stop myself from glancing up to Ruddik’s body on the ground, alone now, his head resting on his own back like a balanced stone.

I couldn’t ask God. I couldn’t ask Ruddik. I couldn’t ask Brother Mike. I had only one source for answers, and I paced
the room, screaming at him, walking circles. Every time my revolution brought me close to him, I got into his face. “Why are they doing this!”

Stone’s lungs, full of fluid, sputtered as he laughed.

So I smashed the butt of the Remington down on his knee.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Fuck you!” he said through snot and pain.

So I smashed the other kneecap like I was breaking rock.

He howled and moaned and twisted and tried to bring his knees up to his hands and roll around to grip them, but the zip cuffs just tightened. I found the CA bottle on the floor and shook it.

“Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know!” he said.

I sprayed it straight into my hand, cupping the liquid in my palm, and reached down for his face. He squirmed and twisted away. I held my hand next to his mouth and nose.

“Money,” he answered. “Hammond’s money.”

The liquid dripped through my fingers, little acid splotches. Hammond’s money?

“What do you mean?” I yelled. “Tell me everything.”

“You’re going to die,” he told me.

So I drove my finger into his eye slit and rubbed the eyeball hard.

I heard the banging outside and stood up, my breath heaving in my throat. I’d forgotten they were coming, as if days had passed since they’d spoken. I was more animal than human, some wild thing found in the forest who couldn’t understand language or even gestures.

A dozen men outside, four of them hooded, visitors calling, waiting for me.

When I didn’t move or answer, one of the inmates lurched a hooded man forward and twisted him down to his knees. The hood came off, and I saw that it was Brother Mike, dignified, tousle-haired. The blade rose and settled in on his neck.

I thought for one second about lifting the Remington up and roaring out, firing away, killing a few. Instead, I flung the shotgun against the wall and pulled back the iron slide and gave them entry. They tore the door away from my hands and poured in.

The sack was putrid, and Josh could barely breathe. Nothing but darkness. He stumbled at a step, not knowing it was there, and got shoved forward. He fell, expecting stairs and landing on floor. A minute later someone ripped the hood from his head and he looked up and around. Jacko stepped away and ripped the hood off Roy. It was a ruse, Fenton had assured them, a way of increasing the number of apparent hostages and holding off any violent attack. A jack slumped against the wall, his chin on his chest, the side of his head cracked like rotten fruit. A man in civilian clothes sat on the floor, his hands
behind his back, his face a melted mess, like candle wax. Officer Williams lay on the ground propped on one elbow, one knee up, staring, wild with hate. Cooper Lewis aimed a shotgun at her, paused in that fierce moment before firing, the aim of the barrels pinning her in place.

“It’s about fucking time,” the man on the floor said. “Cut me loose.”

“What happened to you, Boyd?” Fenton asked. “Where are all those guns you were supposed to get?”

“Ask this bitch before I choke her to death.”

Fenton smiled. “You’re the bitch.” He pulled the machete from Cooper Lewis’s belt, stepped toward the man, and drew the blade along his throat. Once again Josh wished he could have squeezed his eyes faster and kept them shut. The man fell back, coughing a pink spray, and his neck opened up to show the meat inside. Then his feet and knees started jumping and bobbing while his shoulders made twitchy shrugs and the blood that spurted out of his neck alternated between a fanning stream and abrupt, pulsing splashes. It took a long minute, all of them watching, before the dancing stuttered to a few final twitches.

Her face had been sprayed by the pink mist. Her mouth was twisted up with puckered disgust.

Fenton dropped the machete to the ground. “Let’s get on with it,” he said, and he hauled Officer Williams up, then led her by the scruff of the neck, like a child or an errant dog.

“That’s the way down, Fenton,” Roy said, nodding toward the back of the room.

Jacko flung open a large metal flap set into the floor. Fenton
forced Officer Williams ahead of him, and when they neared the open hatch, he heaved her forward, flinging her headfirst into the hole, and she disappeared into the dark pit. “What are you doing!” Brother Mike yelled. In answer, Cooper Lewis swung the barrel of the shotgun across the old man’s jaw, hurtling Brother Mike backward, clocking his head hard against the floor.

Fenton pounded down the stairs after her. Roy looked back for a moment and then followed, hobbling on his peg leg. Jacko waited, eyeing Lewis, eyeing Brother Mike. Josh breathed in and out, numbed by the quickness of it all. He’d misread Fenton’s soul. He’d thought Fenton killed Boyd as a way of protecting her, but nothing could have prepared Josh for the disdain that came next, the way Fenton threw her down the stairs. A bag of garbage to him, a lifeless manequin.

“Help me carry him down,” Jacko said. He meant Brother Mike, and he gave Josh a meaningful look. Do this with me. Don’t hesitate. Don’t get either of us in trouble. And so Josh, with all the cowardice in his heart, slung his arms through Brother Mike’s arms, clasping him to his chest, and eased his weight up while Jacko got the legs. Brother Mike was awake, but his head rolled, and his eyes looked glassy. They reached the stairs, and Josh backed down first, fearful of slipping and tumbling down. Jacko’s help gave way. Josh stumbled with the sudden shift in weight, but reset his feet, cradled Brother Mike better, and pulled him down as gently as he could, legs dragging down each step. Gasping hard now, Josh hauled him to the side of the room and propped him against a wall.

Turning, he got a better look at her condition. She lay
facedown on the floor, her torso twisted sideways, one leg bent, the other stretched long, the foot twisting slowly. She spit bloody drool from the corner of her mouth.

Fenton and Roy disappeared down the next set of stairs. There was no indication that anyone should follow. Josh looked around the room. A dark arched ceiling, an open cabinet with shotguns vertical inside, like a row of hockey sticks. Jacko stood before the cabinet, pumping each shotgun in turn, then dropping it with a clatter, bending over and tossing through empty shell boxes, increasingly desperate in his search for something. He muttered about bullets, and Lewis screamed at him to find them, and then Lewis screamed at Officer Williams. He called her a fucking bitch and stuck the barrels of the shotgun into the back of her head. Her arms rose up the way you do when you’re arrested, and her fists clenched into tight balls. Josh strode toward Lewis, reaching for the gun, and told him to stop. He heard Jacko yell, and Lewis turned. The shotgun snarled and bit the air, and a wind flipped Josh over.

His heart was pounding. It wasn’t that bad, he told himself, as soon as his breathing came back. On one knee, both hands on the floor, he looked down and saw cloth and bloody skin hanging from his shin, and tried to hobble up. But when he put weight on the foot of his injured leg, he dropped over as though he’d been kicked, all numbness and fire from his hip down. It calmed him to lie on his back and look up at the ceiling. His hand was pressed into the shin, and when he pulled it away, something came with it, heavy and wet, like a piece of liver.

Jacko put a hand on Josh’s chest and told him to stay still.
Lewis came into his vision, the shotgun still in his arms, and asked him if he was all right, then screamed at Jacko for startling him.

Suddenly Roy stood over him, returned from wherever he’d been. There was a sneer of disgust on his face. It was anger, Josh thought. He’s pissed at me.

“What’s going on up here, you goddamn fools?” Roy asked, not taking his eyes from Josh.

“He shot him,” Brother Mike said.

“Shut up!” Lewis screamed, and thrust the gun at Brother Mike this time.

Take the gun from him, Josh said, but he wasn’t sure the words came out.

“How you feeling, kid?” Roy asked him.

Every nerve in his body felt seared by the shock of what had been done to him, but he felt surprisingly okay. He was going to be fine.

“I’m all right,” he said. “It fucking stings like hell.”

Jacko laughed. Roy looked to Lewis.

“You’re smart. Fenton loves this kid, and you shoot him in the fucking leg. You figure what happened to Boyd up there was an accident?”

“I know it wasn’t no fucking accident,” Lewis said.

“Great, your IQ must have jumped fifty points. It’s a thrill to be working with a crew of such fucking geniuses. Maybe you want to tie Josh’s leg off and make sure he doesn’t bleed for the next few hours.” Roy waited for Jacko to come into action, shook his head in dismay at Lewis again, and descended once more down the second stairs.

“I’m okay,” Josh said.

Jacko told him, “Hold still. We’ll get this tight.”

Josh couldn’t feel where his knee or foot was, all of it asleep and numb. He propped himself up on his elbows and watched Jacko work the stretch of cloth around his thigh.

“I think I got it,” Jacko said.

“It’s seeping,” Officer Williams said. “Tie it tighter.”

He looked over, surprised by her voice, pleased that she seemed stronger. She was sitting up. Her face was scraped, but her eyes were clear. He felt very calm staring at her.

“You shut the fuck up!” Lewis said.

Her mouth opened and closed. Then she stared at the floor, about halfway to Josh, and said nothing.

A silence came over them all. The only noise was the scuff of Cooper Lewis’s shoes as he walked around and around the room.

Minutes went by. Lewis stopped pacing and stood facing the wall, his forehead touching it, like a chastised student. A long while. At least twenty breaths. Then he muttered, “Bitch,” and started pacing again.

Josh felt an old hate surge up in him. He remembered, out of nowhere, the sensation of Lewis’s finger pushing in past his lips and rubbing his teeth. Would that memory ever go away? Something flinched inside him, and he gasped, a piercing sound like a kettle whistle in his throat. He looked down at his leg and pulled himself back on his bottom, away from the source of the sudden pain, the leg trailing after him.

“Kid’s not even twenty, Cooper,” Jacko said. “And you fuck him up like that.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Lewis said, and paced the room faster.

“You need to calm yourself down, Cooper,” Brother Mike said.

Lewis stopped, turned on them again, and screamed, “I’m fucking sorry, all right! I didn’t mean to fucking do it!”

And he began to pace again. Officer Williams kept her eyes averted from him. No matter how close he came, she didn’t look up, only flinched when he screamed bitch in her face and walked away again.

Josh wanted to keep the animal away from her. Then he clenched up again, some throb that pulsed through his thigh and shot up into his chest. It felt as though his leg were stretched out over a hot, roaring flame and the rest of him lay on the floor in front of the fireplace.

A calmness came back when the pain subsided again, and he tried to think it through. He’d end up in the infirmary, maybe in his old cell. Cell number 3. Crowley had been in DI-2. And then he remembered, all over again, that Crowley was gone. Somewhere below them, Roy and Fenton were digging in the place Crowley had spent his last few days. A wind chime. He looked up at Officer Williams. The soft line of her chin and nose. Your friend’s a wind chime. He remembered her in the car, sitting beside him, how free he’d felt and how useless that freedom had been. Crowley died in a dark cave. Humpty Dumpty dug his own grave. He kept thinking about that final command, the call to dig.

“She’s going to make it up to you,” Lewis said. He stopped his pacing so suddenly everyone looked up. “Yes, sir. She’s going to make it up to you.”

“Don’t make it worse,” Brother Mike said.

Lewis plunged his hand down as if into water and grabbed her by the back of the hair, twisting her head up, forcing a gasp out of her.

“You say one more word, one more word, and I pull this trigger.”

He stared Brother Mike down until he was sure the old man complied; then he turned his attention to her.

“Make it up to Josh,” he told her. “He’s only twenty, right, Jacko? You remember what that was like.” A laugh, then serious again. He leaned over and hissed something into her ear, her face pulling away from his breath.

“Do it,” he said.

“You do it yourself,” she answered. He twisted her hair in his fist and pushed her toward Josh. “Do it,” he repeated.

She didn’t move, as if hoping he would go away.

“I will pull this trigger right now unless you do it. Five, four.” And he pressed the gun barrels against the back of her head again.

Something in her changed, a collapse in the sternness of her face, and she was crying as she started across the floor on her hands and knees toward Josh. Lewis thrust her forward with his shoe on her rear, forcing her to crawl faster.

No one spoke. They all watched silently, fearful of their own lives and sick with the shame. But there was nothing they could do in the face of that insanity.

She reached Josh where he lay, frozen and confused, and Lewis said, “Three,” and she moved again, just her hands this
time, trembling as she unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down over his hips.

“You see?” Lewis said, a smile come over him. “Now you know he’s only twenty. Look at the fucking boner rising up. Good to go even when shot. Do it! Two, one.”

Josh couldn’t help the erection. He wanted to tell her that. It was not in his power to stop it. And suddenly he was thinking of Stephanie, and his drawings of her, and the night when he’d arrived at her house with his father’s gun and demanded that she be with him again, that she kiss him, make love to him. It was his punishment to relive that awful moment, to have his erection surge upward in spite of all the shame he felt and even the injury to his leg, with the others watching, with Brother Mike watching, a gun at her head, and her trembling hands touching him as she wept.

And then the fumbling stopped and her hands fell away.

“I can’t,” she said.

He shut his eyes. He did not want to see her life end in a spray of blood and brains.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

Roy stood at the top of the stairs, very still, watching Lewis.

No one had the courage to speak up.

“You sick skinner bastard,” Roy said. “Did someone fuck your mommy and make you watch when you were a snot-nosed kid?”

Lewis’s gun lifted to Roy. “She’s going to make it up to him. She’s going to suck him off. Or she’s going to suck on this gun.”

“Oh, she is, huh?” And he waited, as if daring Cooper Lewis to act.

“Did you find it, Roy?” Jacko said. “Can we get the fuck out of here now?”

Josh wanted to hear yes, but Roy shook his head instead, eyes still on Lewis. “It says dig all right. But I guess we need to dig deeper. I never seen Fenton so mad.”

Josh knew what he had to do. He struggled to pull his pants back up, embarrassed and angry, and he called out for their attention.

“I know where he is, Roy,” Josh said. “You get Lewis away from us. You tell Fenton to let her go, and I’ll tell you where Hammond is.”

He wondered if they understood what he was offering them. Roy only stared.

“What do you mean where Hammond is?” Roy asked. There was no mockery in his tone, no dismissal.

“He’s here,” Josh said. “In Ditmarsh. I figured out what Crowley was telling us. You’ll never find him unless I tell you.”

“He’s here?” Roy asked again.

“I’ll tell you where when you let her go.”

Roy tipped his head back and laughed. “In Ditmarsh all along.” He bellowed down the stairs into the darkness for Fenton to come up.

“They’ll kill him,” Brother Mike said. “He’s helpless.”

“What do you want from me?” Josh asked.

Brother Mike didn’t answer.