But the silhouette in the doorway wasn’t Valencia’s. The outlined shoulders were massive, the hands huge. The form was Leonia’s. Alice recovered from her surprise a second too late.
Leonia charged like a Brahma bull. Her heavy hand arced through the air and a homemade knife glinted in the light from the hallway. Alice grabbed Leonia’s wrist in midarc and squeezed. The two women wheeled around the room, crashing into cardboard boxes as they fought for the shank. Alice’s arms spasmed with effort. It wasn’t enough. Leonia threw her backward.
Alice fell against the boxes and slid down. Leonia was on her in a split second. The shank hovered above Alice’s chest. Her heart thundered. Adrenaline poured into her bloodstream. She forced herself to think. To act. “No!” she shouted, and kneed Leonia brutally in the pubic bone.
“Ugh,” Leonia grunted in pain and released her grip. Alice rolled to the side, whipped the screwdriver from her waistband, and whirled around.
“You bitch!” Leonia shouted, getting up, and Alice grabbed Leonia by the hair, wrenched her neck backward, and stabbed the sharp screwdriver into Leonia’s throat.
Leonia’s eyes flared wide in shock. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Blood welled around the screw-driver. Leonia struggled to stand up, still alive.
“Shit,” Alice said. It was harder to kill somebody than most people realized, especially a bull like Leonia. Alice shoved the screwdriver deeper, wedging it into the soft tissue near the jugular. She couldn’t pull it out or she’d be covered with blood. Tough to explain to the prison laundry. Suddenly the door opened and Alice turned.
Valencia stood shocked in the doorway, and Alice knew instantly what to do. “Help me, for fuck’s sake!” she whispered, and Valencia stepped forward, already starting to whimper.
“
“Take her knife!” Alice ordered, and Valencia bent over and took the shank from a stricken Leonia and handed it to Alice.
“Thank you,” Alice said, taking the knife. “Now hold the screwdriver.”
“Hol’
“The screwdriver! Now!” She grabbed Valencia’s hand and placed it on the screwdriver. Valencia turned her head away, like a kid at the dentist, which was convenient. Alice raised the knife and brought it down into Valencia’s chest, burying it deep.
Valencia emitted a baby’s squeak and collapsed to her knees, falling heavily to the floor. It was a solid hit. Alice stood over them both, panting hard, waiting until they’d bled enough. It had gone well. Two birds with one stone. It would look like a prison fight with the inmates killing each other. Alice even took the extra step of wrapping Leonia’s hand around the shank, just to be sure. Her tracks were covered. All the prints were right. The guards would stay quiet or they’d incriminate themselves.
Alice waited until she was sure they were dead, then left the room and slipped back into her cell with Dexter’s help. She undressed in the dark to the sound of her roommate’s bogus snoring and eased silently into the saggy bed. Later she’d deal with Shetrell, pay her a little visit. It was too risky to do right now, and Alice felt tired. She was fake-sleeping by the time the sirens went off much later, signaling that they’d found the bodies.
49
Surf was hiding by the entrance to Della Porta’s rowhouse when Rosato ran out like a bat out of hell, the dog bounding beside her to the Ford. Shit! She hadn’t turned out the light upstairs so he didn’t know she was coming. He’d missed his chance to get her in the entrance hall. Fuck! Rosato was running so fast he didn’t run after her. She would’ve made him easy, maybe screamed.
Surf stepped behind the tree as the Ford roared out of the space. Then he darted to the TransAm, climbed in, and twisted on the ignition. He stopped abruptly. Hold on a minute. What was going on? Rosato hadn’t been in a hurry to get to Della Porta’s but she was in a real big hurry to leave. Why?
Surf peered over the rumbling hood of the car at Della Porta’s apartment. Rosato had left the light on. What was she doing up there anyway? Why did she run out?
Surf switched off the ignition and got out of the TransAm.
50
Bennie pulled up, confused by the sight. It was the dead of night, but the prison was alive with activity. Light blasted through its slitted windows into the night and alarms screamed from the watchtowers. Vehicles of all sorts clogged the entrance: black cruisers from the Department of Corrections, white squad cars from the city cops, news vans with tall poles for microwave transmission, and three fire rescue trucks. What had happened? An escape? A fire? Bennie steered into the parking lot with an excited Bear running back and forth on the backseat.
A Philadelphia cop came toward her. “Back it out!” he shouted over the din, waving her off with a black Maglite.
Bennie stuck her head out the window. “My client’s in there. I have to see my client. Lawyers on trial have twenty-four-hour access.”
“Not tonight, lady.”
“What’s going on? Has there been a fire?” Fright gripped her stomach. As furious as she was at Connolly, she didn’t want anything to happen to her.
“I said, back it out, lady!” the cop shouted, but Bennie pulled beside the entrance, yanked up the emergency brake, and leapt from the car. “Hey, wait!” the cop bellowed after her, but she ran toward the hubbub. Her breath came in ragged bursts and she realized she was afraid. She didn’t know why, or how, but she was afraid. There could have been a fire. The rescue trucks. Or a fight, a riot. She raced toward the crowd of officials and reporters, then shoved her way to the entrance.
“Whoa, there,” said a tall prison guard, blocking the front door with another guard in a black shirt. “Nobody’s going in here tonight.”
“But my client, my twin, is in there,” Bennie heard herself say.
“Sorry. We have orders not to let anyone into the facility. Even family.”
“What? Why? At least give me some information. What’s going on? Is it a fire, a riot?”
“A problem,” the guard said, glancing at the other.
“What kind of problem? Come on, tell me. Jesus, it’s all over the news, right?” Bennie gestured at the news vans, and the guard softened reluctantly.
“Knife fight. Two women inmates killed.”
“No!” Bennie cried. “Who? Do you have names?”
“Next of kin ain’t been notified, right, Pete?” He looked at the other guard, who shook his head. “Can’t tell you nothin’ ’til then. It’s procedure.”
“Just tell me, was Alice Connolly killed?”
“Connolly?” The guard shook his head. “That’s not one of the names. You’re okay.”
Still the news struck Bennie like a deadweight. She couldn’t understand the dull pain at the core of her chest. She should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. A knife fight. Something felt very wrong. “Who was killed? Tell me.”
“That’s all we can tell you. You want to see your twin, call in the morning and arrange it with the warden. They’ll be in lockdown all night. Open for business as usual tomorrow morning.”
Bennie turned away without a word. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t see. Television klieg lights were everywhere. Sirens blared. Reporters yakked into microphones. Bennie’s gut torqued with emotion. It was hard to breathe. She found her way to the fringe of the crowd. She gulped cool air and regained her footing.
