“I guess,” said Connelly.
“I’m Peachy.”
“You’re what?”
“Peachy. That’s me. That’s my name.”
“Oh.”
Connelly held a hand to his head and rubbed at his temple. He wished he hadn’t vomited in a closed room, especially since he wasn’t going anywhere.
“What’s your name?” said the voice.
“Connelly,” he said.
“What’d you do, Connelly?”
“Puked.”
“No, I mean to get in here.”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“Not really.”
Connelly looked around. He thought over the last few days. The boy had only noticed him out of all of them. And there was only one person who knew what Connelly looked like who wasn’t in his group, and that happened to be the man he was hunting.
He stood up and went to the door. It was thick and heavy and the hinges seemed strong, as was the lock. There were two slots, one for food, one for the guards to observe him. He pushed on it. It did not even rattle.
“What you doing?” said Peachy.
“Nothing.”
Connelly tested the door, the ceiling, the floor, the wall with the window. They were all heavy, not even flexing to his touch.
Peachy chuckled. “Ain’t no popping out of these boxes. They might not look like much but they do their job.”
Connelly grunted.
“What you think they’re going to do to you?”
“I don’t know. I hope not much. Doubt that, though.”
“Maybe someone will bust you out.”
“You ever hear of anyone doing that in here?”
“No.”
Connelly shut his eyes. His legs trembled underneath him and his head throbbed. “Well,” he said. “I’m going to sleep now.”
“At least, no one’s broked out while I been in here. I been in here three months,” said Peachy. “I broke a man’s hand in a fight.”
“Okay.”
“He was a son of a bitch.”
“Okay. I’m going to sleep now.”
There was a pause.
“They kill people in here,” said Peachy softly. “Did you know that, Connelly?”
Connelly shook his head.
“I said, did you know that?” said Peachy again.
“No,” said Connelly.
“I just… I just thought you would want to know that.”
“Well. Thanks.”
“Connelly?”
“Yeah?”
“Think they going to kill you?”
He paused. “Yeah.”
“Why would they kill you?”
“Don’t think they need a reason,” said Connelly, and he lay down to sleep.
As he drifted off he heard Peachy’s voice say, “Shit.”
The door opened. Flat electric light bored into his darkened room. He lifted his hand to block it and someone said, “Up you get,” and grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his feet.
He was dragged out and led down a long low hallway at the end of which was an iron door that opened on a room with walls of cinderblocks. Again, a lone bulb in the ceiling. Plain, boring desk at the end. A small drain in the center of the cement floor. It was the sort of room in which wars were planned.
The men pushed Connelly in and the door clanked shut behind them. Pike and Roosevelt were sitting on two stools set in the floor. A third was empty. At the far end of the room was the sheriff, leaning on the desk and smiling at them. His men forced Connelly onto the third stool. It was absurdly small for him. Pike and Roosevelt did not look at him or at each other, though it was hard to tell through their bruised faces. Connelly guessed that some of the marks were fresh.
“How was your night?” asked the sheriff.
Connelly shrugged. He kept his eyes on the floor, then found himself looking at the drain set in its middle. Faint rust-red stains ran around its rim. The floor itself was scrubbed clean.
“You thirsty?” said the sheriff. “You look thirsty.”
“I’m pretty thirsty, yeah,” said Connelly.
The sheriff nodded and took out a small tin cup and filled it with water from a basin. He brought it to Connelly and Connelly drank it quickly.
“Yeah,” said the sheriff. “You were thirsty. Care for some more?”
Connelly shrugged, nodded. The sheriff filled the cup once more and brought it to him. Connelly drank just as fast, fearing some imminent violence would kick it from his hands.
“Rainwater,” said the sheriff. “Rainwater’s never been sweeter than it is in dry countries. Now. I’m going to ask you a question. Are you ready? I hope so.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Where’s your friends?”
“Friends?”
“Yeah. Your friends. Where they at, big boy?”
Connelly gave him a puzzled look and pointed to Roosevelt and Pike sitting on their stools.
He almost didn’t see the sheriff move. The only thing he sensed was the lightning bolt of pain that shot through his shoulder, from his wrist to the base of his brain, every ligament and nerve turned to razor wire. He looked up and the sheriff was gently patting a short, thick pipe in one hand.
“Like that?” he said cheerfully.
“No,” said Connelly.
“That’s okay. You weren’t supposed to. Where are your friends at?” he said more clearly.
Connelly didn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you answer, boy?”
“Don’t want to get hit again.”
“You won’t get hit again if you give me the right answer.”
“But I don’t know the right answer.”
“Hmm,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “Hmm.” He walked around like he was contemplating something and then he brought the pipe down on Pike’s forehead, stabbing down with the short base. Pike roared and bent over, a stream of blood flowing from his hairline.
“Did all of you like that?” asked the sheriff. “Did you? You going to tell me where they’re at now? Huh?”
None of them answered. Pike sat frozen, ignoring the flow of blood from his forehead. He could have been carved from wood.
The sheriff looked at them all, face fixed in disgust. “Reynolds?” he called.
“Yes, Sheriff Miles?” said a voice outside the door.
“Cuffs, please.”
