Four Walls

blessed shade. A bunch of guys were playing cards-gin rummy, from the looks of it, and a couple of guys on the far end were playing some kind of fantasy card game or other. Some were watching one of the two large TVs that were set up. Bolton couldn't see what was on, nor did he care much. He hated television-didn't even own one.

Then he glanced over toward the weight yard, and that got his hackles up. Fischer's boys were slowly moving in the general direction of the weight yard.

After yesterday, no way that was good. Hell, even without the brawl, you didn't want skinheads and Muslims anywhere near each other, even if they were separated by a chain-link fence. Yesterday's disaster proved that pretty thoroughly.

Bolton could see that Sullivan was walking the fence perimeter, keeping an eye on el-Jabbar, who was spotting for another one of his people. Bolton started moving closer to the weight yard. Sullivan could probably use the backup with Fischer hanging that close.

Everything happened very quickly after that.

One of the skinheads-they all looked alike-shoved something into a gap in the fence. The bitter taste of adrenaline welled in the back of Bolton's throat, and he ran quickly toward the weight yard-but it felt like he was moving in slow motion, all of a sudden, even as the hand went between two links in the fence.

Something squirted-it looked like blood. The bitterness in Bolton's throat intensified. Even though he was running at full speed, it felt like he hadn't gotten any closer to the weight yard.

'Shit!'

'He killed him!'

'Son of a bitch!'

Just as Bolton finally got there, the skinheads gathered around each other, like a giant crew-cut sphere. The Muslims started going crazy, banging against the chain-link, the sound of their hands against the metal echoing into the bright sky.

'You're a dead man!'

'They killed Vance!'

Sullivan's voice sounded over the din. 'Everybody get down! Now! On the ground!'

Grabbing his radio, Bolton gave the code for a stabbing. 'Red dot in the weight yard, red dot in the weight yard!' Then he whirled around. 'Everybody down! Now!'

Slowly but surely, everyone in the yard got down on his stomach. They knew the drill.

About half a dozen COs came running into the yard. Two of them, Andros and Jackson, started shoving the Latin Kings to the grass.

Bolton jogged over to the skinheads. 'I said get down! On your stomachs, hands on head, fingers interlaced, now!'

Nobody moved until Fischer nodded. Then they all went down.

As they did so, Bolton noticed a toothbrush on the ground. It was covered in blood and had what looked like a safety razor attached to it.

'I said down!' That was Sullivan yelling to the inside of the weight yard.

One of the Muslims said, 'There's blood all up in here, yo!'

'Tough,' Sullivan snapped.

Looking up, Bolton saw that the tower officer was out on the catwalk, his M16 at the ready. The Blazer belonging to the mobile unit had stopped just outside the yard fence, and Bolton knew the CO inside had chemical agents ready in case a riot broke out-or in case the Muslims didn't listen to Sullivan.

But, just as the skinheads had behaved at Fischer's signal, when el-Jabbar said, 'Obey the CO,' in his light, pleasant voice, the Muslims obeyed. El-Jabbar was eloquent and charismatic, something you didn't see very often on either side of the fence in RHCF, and Bolton had actually found himself using el-Jabbar as a template for one of the characters in his novel because of the distinctive way he spoke.

Hakim el-Jabbar motivated people. Right now, Bolton was grateful for that, because he motivated them to lie down in the weight yard with the corpse and the blood.

Bolton blew out a breath of relief. They'd had only one other stabbing since Bolton started working here, and it had been a mess-the convicts had rioted for an hour. This one, though, seemed to have calmed down before anything could happen.

Ursitti came running out to the weight yard, breathing heavily. 'Talk to me, Sullivan.'

'We got a stabbing here, LT,' the CO said. 'Shivved through the chain-link.'

Captain Russell, the superintendent in charge of security, came jogging out to the yard also. Russell was always scowling, so it was usually hard to tell when he was pissed off and when he was just being himself.

Not right now, though. Right now, he was definitely pissed off.

'Sir,' Bolton said, pointing down at the toothbrush, 'I think we got our murder weapon right here.'

'Don't touch it,' Russell said. 'Don't touch anything. We'll get CERT in here to take the inmates back to their dorms.' He took out his cell phone, pushed two buttons, then said, 'This is RHCF. We've got a red dot. We need NYPD in here right away.'

Some guys from the Corrections Emergency Response Team came running toward the weight yard. Ursitti looked at them and then turned to Bolton. 'Get these guys back to their dorms. Once the yard's secure, we'll put the Muslims away.'

'Yessir,' Bolton said, but on the inside, he was groaning. It would take at least an hour to get all the inmates cuffed and frisked and brought back to their dorms, maybe more, all of it out in this damn heat. And with a dead body, classes would be canceled, so he'd probably wind up outside for the rest of the day anyhow.

'Shit!' That was one of the Muslims.

'Shut the hell up, Melendez!'

'There's a dead body up in here!'

'We know,' Sullivan said, 'shut up and-'

'Not Barker, Washburne!'

Bolton felt his eyes go wide, and he ran to the fence and peered in. He saw an array of bodies lying down on the floor of the weight yard, mostly in a row. Two stood out. One was Vance Barker, who was on his back, a gaping, bloody hole in his throat, his big brown eyes wide open. Sweat was still beaded on his bald head, and his mouth hung open, which combined with the slit throat to make it look like he had two mouths and was drinking blood through both of them.

The other body was on its side, with a full head of short-cropped hair, aside from the small round bald spot on the crown. Bolton could see a gash on his forehead, just above his salt-and-pepper beard.

It was Malik Washburne. While Bolton was happy to admit that Barker's death wouldn't be mourned by many beyond his immediate family-if them-he was devastated at Washburne's body lying on the ground. Washburne was one of the good ones-well, as good as a con could be. And he used to be a cop. Bolton's father had known him, back in the day.

Ursitti was wincing. 'Damn it.'

'Doesn't matter,' Russell said. 'NYPD'll sort it out. Let's get these people locked down, now.'

Jay Bolton really hated his job.

6

STELLA BONASERA HOPED THAT the young women who worked at Belluso's would be understanding of the need for her to take blood and DNA samples from each of them and would let her do so without comment.

Hope, as the saying goes went, springs eternal. They all had questions.

'Why do you have to take my blood?' Jeanie Rodriguez asked. 'I mean, I get DNA, that's all over everywhere, but why blood?'

Stella didn't want to admit that they'd found minute traces of blood in the bruises on Maria's knuckles. It