an instant. The ball continued its steady bounce, like the slow beating of a drum, bom… bom… bom. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The mystery prisoner began to walk along the cinder-block wall of the yard. As he walked, he looked about, face neutral, his moves easy and smooth. The others followed him with their eyes.
The yard was enclosed on three sides by the cement walls of Herkmoor, with chain link topped by concertina wire forming the fourth barrier at the far end. The prisoner walked alongside the wall until he came to the chain link, then turned to follow the line of the fence, staring out through it as he walked. Prisoners, Fecteau had noticed, always looked out or up-never back in toward the grim building. A guard tower dominated the middle distance; and beyond that, the tops of the trees rose above the prison’s outer wall.
One of the delivery guards looked up, caught Fecteau’s eye, and shrugged as if to say, “What’s going on?” Fecteau shrugged back and signaled them to leave, that the transfer of prisoners to the yard was good. The two disappeared back into the building, shutting the doors behind them.
Fecteau raised the radio to his lips and spoke in a low tone. “You reading me, Doyle?”
“I read you.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yup.”
“We better be ready to run down there and break things up.”
“Ten-four.”
They waited. The sound of the bouncing ball continued steadily. Nobody moved except the mystery prisoner, who continued his slow perambulation along the fence.
Bom… bom… bom, went the ball.
Doyle’s voice crackled over the radio again. “Hey, Gerry, this remind you of anything?”
“Like what?”
“You remember the opening scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?”
“Yeah.”
“This is it.”
“Maybe. Except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The outcome.”
Doyle snickered over the radio. “Don’t worry. Pocho wants his meat alive, only tenderized.”
Now Lacarra removed his hands from his pockets, straightened up, and pimp-rolled over to a point on the fence thirty feet ahead of the prisoner. He hooked a hand on the chain link and watched the prisoner come toward him. Instead of varying his route to avoid Lacarra, the prisoner continued his leisurely stroll, not pausing for an instant, until he had come right up to Lacarra. And then he spoke to him. Fecteau strained to hear.
“Good afternoon,” said the prisoner.
Lacarra looked away. “Got a cigarette?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.”
Lacarra nodded, still looking off into the distance, his eyes half closed, like two black slits. He began stroking the tuft of hair, pulling his lip down with each stroke, exposing a row of yellow, broken teeth.
“You don’t smoke,” Lacarra said quietly. “Isn’t that healthy.”
“I used to enjoy the occasional cigar, but I quit when a friend of mine developed cancer. They had to cut off most of his lower jaw, poor fellow.”
At this, Lacarra’s head swiveled toward him, as if in slow motion. “He must’ve been one ugly motherfucker after that.”
“It’s amazing what they can do with plastic surgery these days.”
Lacarra turned. “Hey, you hear that, Rafe? This boy’s got a friend with no mouth.”
As if on cue, Lacarra’s gang started to move again-all except the one with the ball. They began drifting in, like wolves.
“I think I’ll continue my walk now,” said the prisoner, moving to one side.
With a casual step, Lacarra moved to block the prisoner’s path.
The prisoner paused, and fixed a pair of silvery eyes on Lacarra. He said something in a low voice that Fecteau didn’t catch.
Lacarra didn’t move, didn’t look at the prisoner. After a moment he replied, “And what’s that?”
The prisoner spoke more clearly now. “I hope you’re not going to make the second worst mistake of your life.”
“What the fuck you talking about, second mistake? What’s the first mistake?”
“Murdering those three innocent children.”
There was an electric silence. Fecteau shifted, stunned by what he had heard. The prisoner had broken one of the most sacred rules of prison life-and what was more, had done it with Pocho Lacarra. And how in hell did he even know Lacarra? The man had been in solitary since he arrived. Fecteau tensed all over. Something terrible was going to happen-and it was going to happen soon.
Lacarra smiled, looking at him for the first time, showing more yellow teeth with a gap in the top, and then, through that gap, he ejected a gobbet of phlegm which hit the toe of the prisoner’s shoe with an audible smack. “Where’d you hear that?” he asked mildly.
“You tied them up first, though-big brave macho hombre that you are. Wouldn’t want a seven-year-old girl to leave a scratch on that pretty face of yours. Eh, Pocho?”
Fecteau could hardly believe his ears. This guy had a death wish for sure. Lacarra’s gang seemed equally stupefied, unsure how to respond, waiting for some kind of signal.
Pocho began to laugh: a slow, ugly laugh, full of menace. “Hey, Rafe,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t think this motherfucker likes me, know what I mean?”
Rafe sauntered over. “Oh, yeah?”
The prisoner said nothing. Now the others were still drifting in, like a pack of wolves. Fecteau felt his heart pounding in his chest.
“You hurt my feelings, man,” Pocho said to the prisoner.
“Indeed,” came the reply. “And what feelings are those?”
Pocho stepped back and Rafe came in, all slow and nonchalant, and then-fast as a spring-loaded trap-he swung on the prisoner’s gut.
The prisoner moved like a blur, one leg flashing out, and suddenly Rafe was doubled up, on the ground. Then, with a horrible sucking sound, he vomited.
“Knock it off!” Fecteau screamed down at them, raising his radio to call Doyle.
The others moved in fast while Pocho took another step away, letting the others do the dirty work. Watching, Fecteau was amazed, confounded, to see the prisoner move in a way he never thought possible, faster than he thought possible, some kind of martial art he wasn’t familiar with-but of course, he was up against six gang members who had spent their entire lives street-fighting and nobody could hold up to that. As for the gang itself, they were so surprised by the prisoner’s moves they had retreated, temporarily at bay. Another had fallen beside Rafe, stunned by a blow to the chin.
Fecteau turned and ran down the walkway, yelling into his radio for backup. No way was he going to break this up with just Doyle.
Lacarra’s voice rose up. “You gonna let this bitch kick your ass?”
The rest moved in and around. One lashed out and the prisoner spun, but it was a feint so another could move in while a third struck him in the gut-getting him good this time. And now they all moved in, fists flying, and the prisoner began to struggle beneath the blows.
Fecteau burst through the upper doors, no longer able to see the yard, ran down the stairs, unlocked another door, and dashed along the corridor. Doyle was just arriving, along with four other backup guards running from the station, riot sticks drawn. Fecteau unlocked the double doors to the yard and they jumped through.
“Hey! Cut the shit!” Fecteau screamed as they ran across the cement toward a small knot of Lacarra’s men, hunched over an invisible figure on the ground, kicking the crap out of it. Two others now lay on the ground nearby, while Lacarra himself seemed to have disappeared.
“Enough!” Fecteau waded in with Doyle and the others, grabbing the collar of one thug and jerking him back,
