She burst into giggles. "What's so funny?" asked Harshbarger. She shook her head, weakly. "Sorry, Tim. I wasn't laughing at you or your feelings. It's just…" She shook her head again. "I think you've just ended a debate that we've been having amongst ourselves for almost eight years now. Call it the Eggheads vs. the Dudley Do-Rights." She gave her companions a serene gaze. "I've always been one of the Dudley Do-Rights, myself. And I do believe we just won the debate." Morgan-Ash smiled, and stroked his beard. "So am I. Oddly enough, since I'm normally the most conservative of this lot of wild-eyed radicals. And, yes, I think we just won the debate." He gave Malcolm and Leo-who'd been charter members of the Egghead faction from the beginning-a gaze that was just as serene as Margo's. "Wouldn't you agree, gentlemen?" O'Connell and Dingley were eyeing the state police officer. His hands were the size you'd expect from a man that tall.
And they looked quite capable of taking many things apart, if he was in the mood. Which he so obviously was. "Guess so," said Leo.
Chapter 18 "Hey, Injun!" James Cook took a deep breath and kept walking. "I'm talking to you, sister!" The voice was coming from one level up. The line of sixty men he was in was making its way across the metal grating that porched the fourth floor of the five-tiered cell house. The metal stairs leading to the ground floor were packed.
He was trapped. He looked around for a screw. There. At the door. A guard. If he could get close enough to be seen, if he got stuck, at least he wouldn't bleed to death before they found him. The line moving from the back of the cell house to the door slowed to a snail's pace. He knew the score. He had just hoped it would be someplace else, someplace in the open. His uncle had explained it to him as soon as they knew he was going to be doing some serious time. "Boy, how you start is how you go, so be careful. You're looking at half a lifetime behind bars. So, as good lookin' as you are, you have no choice. If you don't want to be turned out and punked out, you're going to have to be one hell of a hog. You can't back down. You gotta beat the shit out of some big motherfucker. Hell, you might have to kill someone as soon as you get the chance. Whichever way you go, make sure the shitheads know you got heart, that you done it. But try to do it in a way the turnkeys can't pin it on you. There's no sense upping the ante to a lifetime behind bars." The old man looked grim. "And never forget one thing, either. There's no men behind them bars. Just animals.
Wolves and rabbits. And you'll be one or the other. So make up your mind as to which." It hadn't taken James more than a couple of days in the fish tank to realize his uncle was wrong. There were quite a few men behind the bars, actually. They were just hiding it from the wolves because they didn't want to become rabbits. He slowed his pace to match that of the line. Fear was the one thing he wouldn't show.
"Hey, squaw! What's your hurry?" Cook resisted the urge to drop his hands into his pockets. The voice was closer, but not close enough for him to play his hand. There was still a chance the guy intended to take it to a blind; someplace the guards wouldn't be so likely to see.
He walked with the line, not crowding the man in front of him and forcing himself to keep his breaths steady. Finally, they were through the door and onto the street. This was better, but not the best. He glanced around and spotted where he wanted the fight to take place. It was a small area of hard concrete and scattered gravel. It was the same area where he had picked up the small stones he now carried inside his pocket. The footing was good, too, which he'd need against a man a lot bigger than he was. He'd finally gotten a glimpse of the guy who was after him. He probably outweighed James by a good fifty pounds, and it didn't look as if much of it was fat. He hunched his shoulders, jammed one hand into each pocket, and picked up his pace.
He wanted the wolf to think he was scared, running. It worked. The large man with full sleeves-snake tattoos running from shoulder to wrists on both arms-hooted and followed him toward the open area away from the guards. Cook sped up, forcing the man behind him to break into a trot. When he was sure the guy was closing in, he stopped and turned around. He could see other prisoners a dozen yards away. They weren't here to help with the beating; they were just sightseers along for the fun. One on one, then. He had a chance. The man coming toward him had a pillowcase in his hand. James knew it would be filled with batteries, scrap metal or something equivalent. That was okay. It wasn't a banger. He had a chance. He pulled his hands from his pockets, slow and easy. He wanted one fight and one fight only. He wanted the rumors that followed this fight to tell he was bare-fisted.
The small pebbles he had tucked into his right hand wouldn't be visible. There were about a dozen of them, none bigger than a BB. He waited. He would let his assailant throw the first punch. That was for the audience. He knew the way he wanted to do his time. He wanted to be a man others felt safe around. A man who didn't look for a fight.
But he would also be a man who wouldn't run. One who could inflict some damage when pushed. The big man hesitated. He had expected the Indian to turn and run, but he hadn't. Instead, James brought his fists up in an exaggerated fighter's stance. The big man sneered and swung his pillowcase, aiming for the head. James had counted on that.
A man this much bigger than he was would assume that his weight and strength would be enough. And he wasn't likely to know that James had done a lot of amateur boxing. He dodged the blow easily, then sent a left jab into the man's face, followed by another. Quick-quick. He had good speed and reflexes. Most important of all, he'd boxed enough to know you had to control the adrenaline. Watch. Take that extra split second to see what the opponent was doing before you threw another punch. If you lost that control, the adrenaline took over and you just started swinging madly. Against a man this much bigger, that was hopeless. His assailant was surprised, then furious. He howled something and drew back the pillowcase for another blow. His face was wide open. James hurled the pebbles right at his eyes. The man howled again and clutched his face. James kicked him in the groin. Not the full swinging kick he'd have used on a football. Just a quick snap-kick. Everything had to be quick. It was his only chance. It wasn't the kind of blow that would collapse a man, but any kind of blow to the testicles hurt like hell. The guy's hand came away from his face and went to his groin. Again, his face was open, but that wasn't James' target. The man had the sort of square heavy head that would just break knuckles if James tried a full punch. He gave him two more left jabs. Quick, stinging blows; designed more to confuse the opponent than hurt him. The man roared with fury and charged. Now.
James met the charge with his first full punch. A right cross with everything he had and all his weight behind it. But his hand was open, the thumb and fingers forming a vee, and he wasn't aiming for the face. The throat below was completely exposed. It was a blow that might have killed a smaller man. This one's neck muscles were just too thick for the impact to collapse the throat. But it took him down, it surely did. Down hard, and down final. James looked down at his assailant for a moment, gauging whether he needed to start kicking him. No. He was on his side, clutching his throat, gasping for breath.
His eyes were bulging. The fight was over. It hadn't lasted more than a few seconds. That would do more for James' reputation than any amount of pointless stomping. He just turned and walked away.
Carefully, keeping his face calm and expressionless, he headed toward the infirmary. The crowd parted, letting him walk through. Just as he reached the door to the infirmary he heard someone say, "Injun, you in deep shit now. That was the Butch. Luff's favorite boy." James stopped and turned around, to see who was talking. Making sure to turn easily-no spinning around, nothing that looked excited or nervous-and keep his face expressionless. But whoever it had been was not inclined to speak up again. Good enough. After a second or so, James went into the infirmary. Later, as he scrubbed the counter with the foul smelling mixture he had been given by Barbara Ray, James wondered what the nasty stuff was. Back home, when he cleaned the equipment at the firehouse, they used a bleach solution. This was not chlorine or alcohol based. The familiar odor of antiseptics was not present anywhere within the infirmary. Barbara, the LPN on duty, had told him they were out of the regular cleaners. They were using stuff from the machine shop and hoping it would do the job without causing too much damage. According to her, they were in the process of producing a little alcohol. So, hopefully, they would have at least one of the old tried and true products within a few days. The infirmary had changed since he first arrived. Its six beds were now reserved for C.O.'s and inmates who were critical. Now, inmates needing nonintensive medical care were housed upstairs in what used to be the psych ward. The psych patients had been returned to the general population or moved to X-row. The beds situated inside the holding cell just outside the examining room were occupied by two female guards and an infant. The C.O. with the baby was Kathleen Hanrahan. The other bed was occupied by a young and very pretty black woman who looked to be in rough shape. She had to be Elaine Brown, the one who took it in the gut right after the shit hit the fan. There was also one patient tied to a gurney inside the examining room he was cleaning. The guy didn't look like a guard or an inmate. And he looked like he'd been busted up pretty good. After a few minutes, the man gave a small moan and mumbled something Cook couldn't quite make out, so he moved closer, his heart in his throat. It had been a long time since he had heard Cherokee. His great-grandmother was the last one he had heard speak it, and she died when he was fifteen. But even so, he was sure that was the language the man was using. Its familiar rhythm caused his chest to squeeze tight in an ache for home. It took him a minute to translate what was being said. The man was in pain. He was also thirsty. Cook looked around and found a cup, then filled it from the water pitcher sitting on the medicine cabinet. The old man gulped the warm liquid down in three gulps, then gratefully patted his hand. "How did you know what he wanted?" asked Jenny Radford, the nurse practitioner who ran medical. She was standing in the doorway. Captain Blacklock and Lieutenant Hulbert were behind her. "He speaks Cherokee." "Heis an Indian, then. I thought he might be." Hulbert was nodding his head. "And you can understand him." "A little." Jenny's grin was almost contagious. "Great!" James shook his head. "Lady, you don't understand. I was a kid the last time I heard someone speak Cherokee. I haven't spoken it or heard it spoken in years." "Try," said Captain Blacklock. "Try hard. I want to know who shot him." Cook shrugged and looked at the man. "Who shot you?" he asked in English.
He had no idea how to phrase the question in the old language. The old man looked at him then tugged at the straps holding him in place. He spat out a string of words and Cook shook his head. "Go slow. I can't catch what you're saying unless you slow it down." The old man surprised him; he slowed down and repeated himself. He was now speaking so softly that James had to bend over and put his ear just a few inches away. James still didn't understand. He shook his head.
"Say it again." The man repeated himself. Then, said it in English.
Perfectly understandable, although the accent was odd. James looked at Hulbert and Blacklock. He didn't think they'd heard anything understandable, that far away. So, he shook his head. "I don't know what he said." "Take a guess," Hulbert said. "I can't." Radford walked over and touched the old Cherokee's hand. "I was watching you, and I know you understood what he said. So, tell us." James took a step back. Damn! What a day! He wasn't going to tell these people anything.
They were stupid-too stupid to realize the old man understood everything being said. Stupid and nuts. And the old Indian was nuttier. He was claiming Spaniards shot him! Lieutenant Hulbert smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. "By the looks of you when you came in today, I would say you need a rest. I'll send you back to your cell. You haven't been here long. You haven't had much time to get to know everyone. Or the way things work. Maybe we could let you have the rest of the day off; let you visit a friend. Luff, or one of the other boys in the cell house might invite you over for tea." The guards were no different from the cons. Everyone knew that. They would use you, then leave you to die. They were worse than wolves; they were vultures. Vultures that picked you down to the bones but kept their hands clean. You would be dead, but they could pretend their souls weren't sullied. But James didn't let any of his anger show on his face. "You want something from me, I'll give it. But you have to give me something first. I want a roommate transfer. I want…" He thought fast, picking through the information he'd gotten since he arrived. A lot of it was just scraps and rumor, of course. What James needed right now-needed desperately-was protection. That meant protection from one of the bosses, not the guards. Unless they kept you in solitary, the guards had no way to keep a man safe, and James didn't want spend the next twenty years in solitary. Even if he got out alive, he'd be a jibbering nutcase by then. He decided his best bet was Boomer. He was the only boss who didn't care what race you were, as long as you weren't full white. And he didn't care what got you behind bars as long as you hadn't done some kid. But even so, to be in his cell and not be one of his men, that could get you killed.
It was a gamble, but it was his best chance. "I want Boomer moved into my house, and no one knows why. And it happens today. Now. I don't go back to my cell until he's sitting on that bottom bunk. And you keep me here during the day, every day. You can let it out that I was an EMT in my former life." "You were?" Jenny sounded pleased. "I think he's lying." Hulbert shook his head. "And we don't bargain with the inmates." "Believe what you want. I don't care. But if I tell you anything, especially what this guy just said, my life's worth nothing.
We both know that. Rats don't make it. Besides, things are different now. You can strike deals. And if you had any idea as to what was happening behind those bars you would be stalking the walkways for anyone who'd ride your leg." Captain Blacklock gave a small laugh.
"Maybe. But I'm not sure I need to deal with you. The way I heard it, you're life's not worth much one way or the other. We know about the fight with Butch Wesson." "You knew about it and didn't do a fucking thing to give a fish a hand." He gave the men in blue uniforms a cold stare. "It doesn't matter. When I'm sent back to my cell I'm done.
That bastard has friends, and they'll be looking for revenge and to save a little face. So, why not send me back to a new roomie? You do that for me and I'll sing like a bird." Blacklock returned the gaze calmly, for a few seconds. Then, shrugged. "Okay, you've got it. But you've got to have two roomies. We're tripling everyone up." "Okay, then. The Boom and Adrian Luff." Hulbert chuckled. "Well, I guess that'd be one way to solve your Luff problem." James Cook shook his head. "I want to live. And if you haven't noticed, I'm not some lily-white-ass. I either get the Boom on my side, or I die." Andy thought about it. Cook was right. The guards couldn't protect him.
They hadn't even been able to protect the Martinez kid before the Quiver. Now, after it, no one was safe. "Okay, kid. You're in with Boomer. And if your records say you once worked as an EMT, you can have a permanent work posting here in the clinic. But I'm not giving you an upper-level Aryan to put between you and the Boom. You'll have to work it out on your own. I'll pull Paul Howard out of your cell for a few days. Six days, counting today. Then he gets popped right back in. The man is white, but he's level headed and doesn't mix with trouble. He and the Boom won't become the best of buds, but they'll be able to coexist." He then gave Cook a little headshake. "Just for the record, we didn't find out about the fight until it had already started. And by the time we got there, you'd ended it and were already gone. Believe it or not, I actually hope you live till tomorrow. But, just in case, what did this guy say?" Cook shrugged. "Ask him yourself. He speaks English."
Chapter 19 Jeff Edelman shook his head. "History isn't my area. I don't know any more about it than any one else does." "We don't need a historian," Joe Schuler hissed between clinched teeth. "We need a scientist. We need someone capable of reasoning this shit out. We have an Indian who swears he's from the mid-eighteen hundreds and was shot by a Spaniard named de Soto, who we know was from the mid-fifteen hundreds. He further swears that he ran across a small village filled with primitive people who can only be the early Mounds people. That culture existed still earlier. They're the ones who built the mounds you see around this part of the country. And to top it all off, everyone is fighting a bunch of animals they've never seen before, but which have to be things that died back in the Crustaceous Period. And, God help me, I believe every word of it." Jeff nodded, slow and easy.
"Okay, but I don't think there is any figuringthis shit out. I've already told you what I think. I think we've been dumped back in time.
Along the way we picked up hitchhikers, or maybe they got here first.
I don't know. But Joe, it doesn't matter. We just have to go with it.
See what we're dealing with, and do whatever we have to do." "It does matter." Joe scratched at his newly sprouted beard. "What happens if we do something to screw up the future? What if we do something that will let Adolph Hitler win World War II, or maybe prevent penicillin from being invented?" "Or kill our own grandfather?" Andy Blacklock stood up and walked to the window. "I don't think that's a problem. I think what we're doing now is actually in the present. We're still moving forward, but in another place." "Alternate universe?" Joe nodded. "Yeah, I've heard about them. On TV, and in books. It makes sense. In that other universe, or home place, the Cherokees are still traveling the Trail of Tears, de Soto is still butchering his way towards his own un-grieved demise, and the Mounds people are quietly disappearing from the face of the Earth. Yeah. That would be good.
Real good." "This is crazy!" Jenny exclaimed. "You're saying there are two of us now? Well, which one is the real one? Which one has the soul? The one back there or the one that's here?" Andy shook his head.
"I'm not saying that is the way it is. I'm saying an alternate universe makes the most sense." Jeff Edelman snorted. "Jenny, don't get pissy. If a theory makes any sense at all, we have to at least consider it. And I think Andy and Joe might be right. I think history is continuing. And I don't think we have to walk on eggshells because I don't think we can have an impact on the history of the world we came from. We're on a new timeline. And this change might have left behind a half-dozen or more possible universes. One for each disruption in the original line." From the window, Andy could see what had once been the parking lot and bluff. Now it was grasslands and sand. In the distance, he could see a volcano. Fortunately, it didn't seem to be active. "Does it really matter?" he asked. He turned to look at the others. "I don't believe there are now two of us. One at home and one here. I think we're gone. That the people back home are as confused as we are. I also don't believe we can change what happens in our future. I don't think we're in our own timeline or that we're in our own universe. Not that what I think matters. Even if everything we do and say is happening in our own past, we still don't have to worry about doing something that changes man's future." "Why?" Joe asked. Andy motioned for them to come to the window. "Look to the east, right above the tree line. See that bird? We're over a mile away. That thing is huge. It's a prehistoric creature. It died out when life on Earth was all but destroyed by a comet strike, or whatever. We had the Permian extinction about two hundred and fifty million years ago, according to Jeff. Then, about sixty-five million years before the Quiver, something-once again-wiped life's slate almost clean. "We don't know if that is going to happen tomorrow, next week, next month, or twenty million years from now. It doesn't matter.
If this is our own past, then the one thing we know is that we didn't make it. Whatever civilization we manage to start will disappear without a trace. So, we don't have to worry about which timeline we're in-ours or a new one. All we have to do is build our present. The one we want to live in and the one we want to leave to our children."
Jenny wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "So, we're the new Adam and Eve."
"What are we going to do?" Hulbert asked. "Go meet the Cherokees. Our guest says he was traveling with them on the Trail of Tears. By then, the Cherokee weren't even close to what any sane man would call 'wild savages.' They even had their own alphabet. I figure we can get along with them okay." Joe looked dubious. "Has it occurred to you they might be holding a grudge?" Andy shrugged. "Against who? Americans almost two hundred years back? A lot's changed since then. I don't see any reason to think they can't figure that out for themselves. I think Stephen McQuade already has. It helps, you know, that he can look around and see for himself that we're now a multiracial society." He picked up the pad he'd use to take notes while talking to Stephen McQuade, the wounded Cherokee. The Cherokees had been in southern Illinois when the Quiver caught them. So had the prison. "Yeah, it's starting to make sense." Everything we're running across is something that existed somewhere in this area, at one time or another. Not exactly where the prison is, maybe, but pretty close. The Trail of Tears passed through this area. So did de Soto. And I'll bet money the Indians McQuade spent the night with were Mounds people." He handed the pad to Edelman. "I think your theory about us getting shoved into the past and taking others with us is pretty accurate. Look at this.
All of these people were here in Southern Illinois, within a few miles of the prison. They were just here at different times." Edelman looked at Andy's notes. "If it's the real de Soto, we're in trouble. That bastard was nothing but a butcher. Everywhere he went he stole everything he could get his hands on, and enslaved anyone he could. Of course he only murdered, robbed, tortured and raped in the name of God and gold." Jenny gave him a strained smile. "Christians didn't exactly corner the market on that type of behavior, you know." "True enough,"
Edelman said. "But the conquistadores were right at the top of the class. It wasn't just de Soto. When I was in high school, I did a report on gold mines. During the 1500s, the Franciscan monastery was running the show in Cuba. Those Spanish monks were so ruthless, the Indians they enslaved to work the mines would commit mass suicide.
They would get their hands on enough rope to hang themselves, and then during the middle of the night they would say goodbye to each other, wrap those ropes around their own necks, then jump." Andy suppressed the urge to shudder. He knew the way things used to be done. He had the same history teacher Edelman had. Mr. Carter had refused to sugarcoat anything. He believed the only way to correct things was to make sure kids grew up knowing just how evil people could become if left unchecked. And he didn't restrict that lesson to the Europeans and Adolf Hitler. He had rubbed man's inhumanity to man in their faces using every civilization on the planet. He wanted them to know there was no such thing as the good old days. "When we get through with the Cherokees, assuming we can," Andy said, "then we'll try to work something out with de Soto. He'll be a lot tougher to deal with, I expect. But he might not be impossible. He was greedy. He wanted to be rich and move up the ranks in power. Once he realizes there is no gold, no Catholic church, no monarchy to give him land that does not belong to them, we should be able to come to some sort of agreement with him and his men. When the only thing of value is your next meal, a man's perspective tends to change. I speak a little Spanish, and some of the C.O.'s are fluent in it. We won't have trouble understanding each other." "I hate this place!" Jenny didn't look at any of the men in the room. She kept her eyes on the floor. "Andy, you're talking about dealing with people who act worse than the ones we have behind bars. If you strike a deal with de Soto, how do you justify keeping our murderers, our rapists, our thieves, behind bars?
How do you say, this devilis our friend, but that devil has to stay locked up?" "Jenny, we have no choice. We can't go back to our world.
We have to live in this one. We have to adapt, or we die." "Adapt, or sell our souls?" He walked across the room and stood directly in front of her. "I will do whatever I have to do to keep us alive. I'm trying, Jenny. The first thing we have to do is warn the Cherokees. From what McQuade told me about the shape they're in, they won't be able to survive an attack from de Soto. Then, we'll try to warn the Mounds people. Then, we will try to talk some sense into the conquistadores.
When we get back we will start releasing the nonviolent prisoners."
"Release them, or let them out of their cells?" Joe asked. "That's going to depend on what we find out there. Until I know more, I'm not willing to hand any of them a gun or a knife. Every gun and every box of ammo given away is less we have to defend us from dinosaurs, Spaniards, and I don't know what else. So, how do they take care of themselves? You've seen the things roaming around outside the walls.
If I open the gate and send them down the road, unarmed, they're dead.
And if I unlock the gates, and then let the prisoners remain inside the prison, every one of us could wind up murdered in our sleep. The decision on what we do with and for the prisoners waits. Now," Andy said, "get the department heads together. We have a trip to plan."
Lieutenant Hulbert stood at the door to the cafeteria waiting for Marie Keehn to finish briefing the kitchen staff on food preparation and storage. He felt foolish, but didn't care. He figured the woman would probably laugh at what he was going to say, think he was paranoid, but he was going to say it anyway. He had to. She was amazing. She was also as far from his so-called type as any woman could get. He preferred athletic looking women. Usually light complexioned blondes. Sometimes redheads. But they were always slim and muscular. She was none of these things. Instead, she was dark haired and dark eyed. Tiny but curvy. Almost, but not quite, chubby.
Buxom. Voluptuous in miniature. He smiled at the thought then frowned.
She was damn good with a gun. She worked well under pressure, didn't lose her head. And when instincts counted, hers were right on the money. And she could smile. And laugh. That's what it was. The other stuff was just gravy on the potatoes. It was that laugh. She had a dry humor and knew how to take a joke. And she was smart. He hoped she was very smart. She was staying behind with Joe. And Collins. He didn't like that. He wanted her with them. But Andy had been stubborn about it. He insisted Joe might need her. She was the only sharpshooter besides Hulbert the prison had. And since Hulbert was going, she had to stay. Andy was probably right, although that hadn't stopped Rod from arguing. Instead of sending half their force, Hulbert wanted only a handful to go. He wanted to just make contact and begin the negotiations for peace. But Andy had shot that down. No negotiating.
There wasn't time. With de Soto roaming around loose out there, not to mention dinosaurs, the Cherokees needed to be behind the walls of the prison. They were already worn out from the trials they'd undergone in the course of the Trail of Tears. The same went for the Mounds people.
Once everyone was inside, then they would figure out what to do about the animals and about the Spaniards. Rod hadn't bothered to point out that the prison, with over two thousand prisoners, was not exactly "safe." Everyone knew that. But everyone also knew there were Utahraptors beyond the walls, and Spanish conquistadores, and who knew what else. Hulbert had argued a smaller group could travel faster, which meant safer. He had pointed out that emptying the prison of well over half its guards might be for nothing. They might not be able to find Watkins or the Mounds people. Or, both groups might refuse to join them. Or, once Andy met with them, he might not want them to join the guards inside the walls. But the bottom line was, there always had to be someone in charge, someone calling the shots, and that someone was Andy. So that meant Hulbert was leaving and Marie was staying behind. And that also meant Jenny went with them. Andy hadn't wanted the R.N. to leave the facility. He believed the prison was the safest place for the women. But Jenny insisted she was the only nurse in good enough physical shape to make the trip. And a nurse had to go. Even though Jenny had explained how risky the trip could be, Stephen McQuade was refusing to give them directions to the Cherokee camp. He was going with them, or they would have to find the camp on their own.
McQuade was still in guarded condition and there was too much that could go wrong. So, a team of six guards had been assigned to carry his stretcher. Three teams of two. And Jenny was going and Marie was staying and Hulbert and Andy both wished like hell it was the other way around. "What's up?" Marie said, exiting the lunchroom. "We need to talk. I'm leaving with Andy and you're being left here with Joe."
"Doesn't surprise me." The look she gave him was different from the one Jenny had given Andy when they had argued over who was going and who was staying. Marie wasn't mad. She was disappointed. Disappointed in him. "I tried to get him to let you come along, but he wants you here. Joe has to have someone with sharpshooter status." "I see." He watched as she thought about what he said. He could see the war of emotions going on below the surface, and he could see when that war ended. She accepted the logic in Andy's decision faster and easier than he had. "Marie," he looked at the wall behind her, not at her face. He couldn't look her in the eye. "I don't want you to turn everything in. Hold back a little something you can carry with you at all times. Even in the showers." She didn't ask why or what. Instead, she said, "That's against the rules." "And you've never broken one?"