Fourth of July morning, Will Stirman woke up with blood on his hands.
He’d been dreaming about the men who killed his wife. He’d been strangling them, one with each hand. His fingernails had cut half-moons into his palms.
Sunlight filtered through the barred window, refracted by lead glass and chicken wire. In the berth above, his cell mate, Zeke, was humming “Amazing Grace.”
“Up yet, boss?” Zeke called, excitement in his voice.
Today was the day.
A few more hours. Then one way or the other, Will would never have to have that dream again.
He wiped his palms on the sheets. He shifted over to his workspace-a metal desk with a toadstool seat welded to the floor. Stuck on the walls with Juicy Fruit gum were eight years’ worth of Will’s sketches, fluttering in the breeze of a little green plastic fan. Adam and Eve. Abraham and Isaac. Moses and Pharaoh.
He opened his Bible and took out what he’d done last night-a map instead of a Bible scene.
Behind him, Zeke slipped down from the bunk. He started doing waist twists, his elbows cutting the air above Will’s head. “Freedom sound good, boss?”
“Watch what you say, Zeke.”
“Hell, just Independence Day.” Zeke grinned. “I didn’t mean nothing.”
Zeke had a gap-toothed smile, vacant green eyes, a wide forehead dotted with acne. He was in Floresville State for raping elderly ladies in a nursing home, which didn’t make him the worst sort Will had met. Been abused as a kid, is all. Had some funny ideas about love. Will worried how the boy would do when he got back to the real world.
Will looked over his map of Kingsville, hoping the police would take the bait. He’d labeled most of the major streets, his old warehouse property, the two biggest banks in town, the home of the attorney who’d defended him unsuccessfully in court.
He had a bad feeling about today-a taste like dirty coins in his mouth. He’d had that feeling before, the night he lost Soledad.
Exactly at eight, the cell door buzzed open.
“Come on, boss!” Zeke hustled outside, his shirt still unbuttoned, his shoes in his hands.
Will felt the urge to hurry, too-to respond to the buzzer like a racetrack dog, burst out of his kennel on time. But he forced himself to wait. He looked up to make sure Zeke was really gone. Then he slipped Soledad’s picture out from under his mattress.
It wasn’t a very good sketch. He’d gotten her long dark hair right, maybe, the intensity of her eyes, the soft curve of her face that made her look so young. But it was hard to get her smile, that look of challenge she’d always given him.
Still, it was all he had.
He kissed the portrait, folded it, and tucked it into his shirt.
Something would go wrong with the plan. He could feel it. He knew if he walked out that door, somebody was going to die.
But he’d made a promise.
He put the Kingsville map in the Bible, and set it on the desk where the guards were sure to find it. Then he went to join Zeke on the walkway.
After chow time, Pablo and his cousin Luis were hanging out on the rec yard, trying to avoid Hermandad Pistoleros Latinos. The HPL didn’t like Pablo and Luis getting all religious when they could’ve been dealing for the homeboys.
Luis tried to joke about it, but he still had bruises across his rib cage from the last time the carnales had cornered him. Pablo figured if they didn’t get out of Floresville soon, they’d both end up in cardboard coffins.
Out past the guard towers and the double line of razor wire fence, the hills hummed with cicadas. Lightning pulsed in the clouds.
Every morning, Pablo tried to imagine Floresville State Pen was a motel. He came out of Pod C and told himself he could check out anytime, get on the road, drive home to El Paso where his wife would be waiting. She’d hug him tight, tell him she still loved him-she’d read his letters and forgiven the one horrible mistake that had put him in jail.
After twelve long months inside, the dream was getting hard to hold on to.
That would change today.
He and Luis stood at the fence, chatting with their favorite guard, a Latina named Gonzales, who had breasts like mortar shells, gold-rimmed glasses, and a wispy mustache that reminded Pablo of his grandmother.
“You want to see fireworks tonight, miss?” Luis grinned.
Gonzales tapped the fence with her flashlight, reminding him to keep his feet behind the line. “Why-you got plans?”
“Picnic,” Luis told her. “Few beers. Patriotic stuff, miss. Come on.”
Pablo should have told him to shut up, but it was harmless talk. You looked at Luis-that pudgy face, boyish smile-and you knew he had to be joking.
Back home in El Paso, Luis had always been the favorite at family barbecues. He held the pinata for the kids, flirted with the women, got his cheeks pinched by the abuelitas. He was Tio Luis. The fun one. The nice one. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
That’s why Luis had to shoot someone whenever he robbed an appliance store. Otherwise, the clerks didn’t take him seriously.
“No picnic for me,” Officer Gonzales said. “Got a promotion. Won’t see you vatos anymore.”
“Aw, miss,” Luis said. “Where you going?”
“Never mind. My last day, today.”
“You gonna miss the fireworks,” Luis coaxed. “And the beer-”
A hand came down on the scruff of Luis’ neck.
Will Stirman was standing there with his cell mate, Zeke.
Stirman wasn’t a big man, but he had a kind of wiry strength that made other cons nervous. One reason he’d gotten his nickname “the Ghost” was because of the way he fought-fast, slippery and vicious. He’d disappear, hit you from an angle you weren’t expecting, disappear again before your fists got anywhere close. Pablo knew this firsthand.
Another reason for Stirman’s nickname was his skin. No matter how much time Stirman spent in the sun, he stayed pale as a corpse. His shaved hair made a faint black triangle on his scalp, an arrow pointing forward.
“Compadres,” Stirman said. “You ’bout ready for chapel?”
Luis’ shoulders stiffened under the gringo’s touch. “Yeah, Brother Stirman.”
Stirman met Pablo’s eyes. Pablo felt the air crackle.
They were the two alpha wolves in the gospel ministry. They could never meet without one of them backing down, and Pablo was getting tired of being the loser. He hated that he and Luis had put their trust in this man-this gringo of all gringos.
He felt the weight of the shank-a sharpened cafeteria spoon-taped to his thigh, and he thought how he might change today’s plans. His plans, until Stirman had joined the ministry and taken over.
He calmed himself with thoughts of seeing his wife again. He looked away, let Stirman think he was still the one in charge.
Stirman tipped an imaginary hat to the guard. “Ma’am.”
He walked off toward the basketball court, Zeke in tow.
“What’s he in for?” Gonzales asked. She tried to sound cool, but Pablo knew Stirman unnerved her.
Pablo’s face burned. He didn’t like that women were allowed to be guards, and they weren’t even told what the inmates were doing time for. Gonzales could be five feet away from a guy like Stirman and not know what he was, how thin a fence separated her from a monster.
“Good luck with your new assignment, miss,” Pablo said.
He hoped Gonzales was moving to some office job where she would never again see people like himself or Will Stirman.
He hooked Luis’ arm and headed toward the chapel, the rough edge of the shank chafing against his thigh.
“Like to get a piece of that,” Zeke said.
It took Will a few steps to realize Zeke was talking about the Latina guard back at the fence. “You supposed to be saved, son.”
Zeke gave him an easy grin. “Hell, I don’t mean nothing.”
Will gritted his teeth.
Boy doesn’t know any better, he reminded himself.
More and more, Zeke’s comments reminded him of the men who’d killed Soledad and put him in jail. If Will didn’t get out of Floresville soon, he was afraid what he’d do with his anger.
He was relieved to see Pastor Riggs’ SUV parked out front of the chapel. The black Ford Explorer had tinted windows and yellow stenciling on the side: Texas Prison Ministry-Redemption Through Christ.
The guards only let Riggs park inside the gates when he was hauling stuff-like prison garden produce to the local orphanage, or delivering books to the prison library. The fact the SUV was here today meant Riggs had brought the extra sheet glass Will had asked for.
Maybe things would work out after all.
Inside the old Quonset hut, Elroy and C.C. were hunched over the worktable, arguing about glass color as they cut out pieces of Jesus Christ.
Will let his shadow fall over their handiwork. “Gonna be ready on time?”
Elroy scowled up at him, his glass cutter pressed against an opaque lemony sheet. “You make me mess up this halo.”
“Should be white,” C.C. complained. “Halo ain’t no fucking yellow.”
“It’s yellow,” Elroy insisted.
“Make Jesus look like he’s got a piss ring around him,” C.C. said. “Fucking toilet seat.”
They both looked at Will, because the picture was Will’s design, based on one of his sketches.
“C.C.’s right,” he said. “Can’t have the Savior looking less than pure. Might disappoint those kids today.”
Elroy studied him.
He could’ve snapped Will in half, if he wanted to.
He was a former wildcatter with arms like bridge cables, serving forty years for second degree murder. His foreman had called him a nigger one too many times and Elroy had punched the guy’s nose through his brain. The left side of Elroy’s face was still webbed with scars from the white policemen in Lubbock who’d convinced him to give a full confession.
“You done shown me the light, Brother Stirman,” Elroy said, real sober-like. “Can’t disappoint those children.”
C.C. tapped the stained glass until it split in a perfect curve along the crack. “You both full of shit. You know that?”
Elroy and Zeke laughed.
C.C. was a nappy-haired little runt with skin like terra-cotta. He could talk trash and get away with it partly because Elroy backed him up, partly because he was so scrawny and ugly his bad-ass routine came off as funny. He also worked in the maintenance shop, which made him indispensable to Will. At least for today.
At ten o’clock, the buzzer sounded, signaling all trustees to their jobs, the rest of the inmates back to their cells. Pablo and Luis arrived a minute late, completing the flock.
Pastor Riggs came out of his vestry. They all joined hands for prayer.
Afterward, the Reverend went back in the vestry to write his sermon. The trustees settled back to their work, getting ready for the juvies’ visit at one o’clock.
Will wrote notes for his testimonial. Luis and Pablo got out their guitars and practiced gospel songs in that god-awful Freddy Fender style they had going. Elroy, C.C. and Zeke worked on the stained glass.
The panel would show Jesus in chains before Pontius Pilate. It was supposed to be finished by the time the juvenile hall kids got here from San Antonio, so they could hang it behind the preacher’s podium, but the trustees knew it wouldn’t be ready. Pastor Riggs had agreed they could work through lunch anyway. He’d seemed pleased by their enthusiasm.
Two civilian supervisors showed up late and plopped folding chairs by the door. One was a retired leatherneck named Grier. The other Will had never seen-a rookie, some laid-off farmhand from Floresville probably, picking up a few extra dollars.
Grier was a mean son-of-a-bitch. Last week, he’d talked trash to Luis the whole time, describing different ways HPL was planning to kill him. He said the guards had a betting pool going.
Today, Grier decided to pick a new target.
“So, C.C.,” Grier called lazily, palming the sweat off his forehead. “How’d you get two Cadillac jobs, anyway? Gospel and Maintenance? What’d you do, lube up your nappy ass for the warden?”
C.C. said nothing. Will kept his attention on his testimonial notes and hoped C.C. could keep his cool.
Grier grinned at the younger supervisor.
Reverend Riggs was still in his vestry. The door was open, but Grier wasn’t talking loud enough for Riggs to overhear.
“Good Christian boy now, huh?” Grier asked C.C. “Turn the other cheek. Bet you’ve had a lot of practice turning your cheeks for the boys.”
He went on like that for a while, but C.C. kept it together.
Around eleven, the smell of barbecue started wafting in-brisket, ribs, chicken. Fourth of July picnic for the staff. The supervisors started squirming.
About fifteen minutes to noon, Supervisor Grier growled, “Hey, y’all finish up.”
“We talked to the Reverend about working through lunch,” Will said, nice and easy. No confrontation. “We got these kids coming this afternoon.”
Grier scowled. Continents of sweat were soaking through his shirt.
He lumbered over to the pastor’s doorway. “Um, Reverend?”
Riggs looked up, waved his hand in a benediction. “Y’all go on, Mr. Grier. I don’t need to leave for half an hour. Get you some brisket and come back. I’ll keep an eye on the boys.”
“You sure?” But Grier didn’t need convincing.
Soon both supervisors were gone, leaving six trustees and the pastor.
Will locked eyes with Pablo and Luis. The Mexicans reached in their guitar cases, took out the extra sets of strings the pastor had bought them. At the worktable, Elroy pulled a sweat-soaked bandana off his neck. C.C. handed him a half-moon of white glass, a feather for an angel’s wing. Elroy wrapped the bandana around one end of it. Zeke unplugged his soldering iron.
Will got up, went to the Reverend’s door.
For a moment, he admired Pastor Riggs sitting there, pouring his soul into his sermon.
The Reverend was powerfully built for a man in his sixties. His hands were callused and scarred from his early years working in a textile factory. He had sky-blue eyes and hair like carded cotton. He was the only hundred percent good man Will Stirman had ever known.
This was supposed to be a showcase day for Riggs. His prison ministry would turn a dozen juvenile delinquents away from crime and toward Christ. The press would run a favorable story. Riggs would attract some big private donors. He’d shared these dreams with Will, because Will was his proudest achievement-living proof that God’s mercy was infinite.
Will summoned up his most honest smile. “Pastor, you come look at the stained glass now? I think we’re almost done.”
The old preacher went down harder than Pablo had hoped.
Riggs should have understood the point of the glass knife against his jugular. He should’ve let himself be tied up quietly.
But Riggs acted outraged. He said he couldn’t believe everything he’d worked for was a lie-that all of them, for months, had been using him. He tried to reason with them, shame them, and in the end, he fought like a cornered chupacabra. Elroy, Pablo and Stirman had to wrestle him down. Zeke got too excited. He smashed the old man’s head with the soldering iron until C.C. grabbed his wrists and snarled, “Damn, man! That’s his skull showing!”
Pablo took a nasty bite on his finger trying to cover the preacher’s mouth. Elroy had blood splattered on his pants. They were all sure Riggs’ yelling and screaming had ruined the plan. Any second the guards would come running.
But they got Riggs tied up with guitar string and taped his mouth and shoved him, moaning and half-conscious, into the corner of the vestry. Still nobody came.
Elroy stood behind the worktable so anybody coming in wouldn’t see the bloodstains on his pants. C.C. and Zeke huddled around him, staring at the stained glass as if they gave a damn about finishing it. Zeke suppressed a schoolboy giggle.
“Shut up, freak,” Luis said.
“ You shut up, spic.”
Luis started to go for him, but Pablo grabbed his shirt collar.
“ Both of you,” Stirman said, “cool it.”
“We got Riggs’ car keys,” Elroy murmured. “Don’t see why-”
“No,” Stirman said. “We do it right. Patience.”
Pablo didn’t like it, but he got a D-string ready. He curled the ends around his hands, moved to one side of the door. Luis took the other side.
Stirman sat down in his chair, in plain sight of the entrance. He crossed his legs and read through his testimonial notes. The son-of-a-bitch was cool. Pablo had to give him that.
Pablo’s finger throbbed where the pastor had bit it. The copper guitar string stung his broken skin.
Finally he heard footsteps on gravel. The rookie supervisor appeared with a heaping plate of ribs.
Stirman smiled apologetically. “Pastor Riggs wants to talk to you. Prison major came by.”
“Hell,” said the supervisor.
He started toward the vestry and Pablo garroted him, barbecue and baked beans flying everywhere. The supervisor’s fingers raked at the elusive string around his neck as Pablo dragged him into the corner.
The rookie had just gone limp when Grier came in.
Luis tried to get him around the neck, but the old marine was too wily. He sidestepped, saw Zeke’s soldering iron coming in time to catch the blow on his arm, managed one good yell before Elroy came over the table on top of him, crumpling him to the floor, Grier’s head connecting hard with the cement.
Elroy got up. He was holding a broken piece of white glass and a mess of red rags. The rest of the glass was impaled just below Grier’s sternum.
Grier’s eyes rolled back in his head. His fingers clutched his gut.
C.C. slapped Elroy’s arm. “What the hell you do that for?”
“Just happened.”
They stood there, frozen, as Grier’s muscles relaxed. His mouth opened and stayed that way.
Five minutes later, they had his body and the garroted rookie stripped to their underwear. The rookie was only unconscious, so they tied him up, taped his mouth, crammed him and Grier’s corpse into the tiny vestry with the comatose Reverend.
Elroy and Luis got into the supervisors’ clothes. Grier’s had blood on them, but not that much. Most of Grier’s bleeding must’ve been inside him. Elroy figured he could cover the stains with a clipboard. Luis’ clothes had barbecue sauce splattered down the front. Neither uniform fit exactly right, but Pablo thought they might pass. They didn’t have to fool anybody very long.
Elroy and Luis put the supervisors’ IDs around their necks. They tucked the laminated photos in their shirt pockets like they didn’t want them banging against their chests.
C.C., still in prison whites, made a call from Pastor Riggs’ desk phone, pretending he was the Maintenance Department foreman. He told the back gate to expect a crew in five minutes to fix their surveillance camera.
He hung up, smiled at Stirman. “They can’t wait to see us. Damn camera’s been broke for a month. We’ll call you from the sally port.”
“Don’t screw up,” Stirman told him.
“Who, me?”
With one last look, Pablo tried to warn Luis to be careful. He couldn’t shake the image of his cousin getting shot at the gate, his disguise seen through in a second, but Luis just grinned at him. No better than the stupid gringo Zeke-he was having a grand time. Luis threw Pablo the keys to the Reverend’s SUV.
Once they were gone, Stirman picked up the phone.
“What you doing?” Pablo asked.
Stirman placed an outside call-Pablo could tell from the string of numbers. He got an answer. He said, “Go.”
Then he hung up.
“What?” Pablo demanded.
Stirman looked at him with those unsettling eyes-close-set, dark as oil, with a softness that might’ve been mistaken for sorrow or even sympathy, except for the hunger behind them. They were the eyes of a slave ship navigator, or a doctor in a Nazi death camp.
“Safe passage,” Stirman told him. “Don’t worry about it.”
Pablo imagined some Mexican mother hearing those words as the boxcar door closed on her and her family, locking them in the hot unventilated darkness, with a promise that they’d all see los estados unidos in the morning.
Pablo needed to kill Stirman.
He should take out his shank and do it. But he couldn’t with Zeke there-stupid loyal Zeke with his stupid soldering iron.
Thunder broke, rolling across the tin roof of the chapel.
“Big storm coming,” Stirman said. “That’s good for us.”
“It won’t rain,” Pablo said in Spanish. He felt like being stubborn, forcing Stirman to use his language. “That’s dry thunder.”
Stirman gave him an indulgent look. “Hundred-year flood, son. Wait and see.”
Pablo wanted to argue, but his voice wouldn’t work.
Stirman took the car keys out of his hand and went in the other room, jingling the brass cross on the Reverend’s chain.
Pablo stared at the phone.
Luis, Elroy and C.C. should’ve reached the back gate by now. They should’ve called.
Or else they’d failed, and the guards were coming.
In the corner, wedged between the unconscious supervisor and Grier’s body, Pastor Riggs stared at him-dazed blue eyes, his head wound glistening like a volcanic crater in his white hair.
Out in the chapel, Zeke was pacing with his soldering iron. He’d done an imperfect job wiping up Grier’s blood, so his footprints made faint red prints back and forth across the cement.
Stirman pretended to work on the stained glass. He had his back to the vestry as if Pablo posed no threat at all.
Pablo could walk out there, drive the shank into Stirman’s back before he knew what was happening.
He was considering the possibility when Zeke stopped, looking at something outside. Maybe the lightning.
Whatever it was, his attention was diverted. The timing wouldn’t get any better.
Pablo gripped the shank.
He’d gone three steps toward Stirman when the guard came in.
It was Officer Gonzales.
She scanned the room, marking the trustees’ positions like land mines. Stirman and Zeke stood perfectly still.
Gonzales’ hand strayed toward her belt, but of course she wasn’t armed. Guards never were, inside the fence.
“Where are your supervisors?” she asked.
She must’ve been scared, but she kept an edge of anger in her voice-trying to control the situation, trying to avoid any hint she was vulnerable.
Stirman pointed to the vestry. “Right in there, ma’am.”
Gonzales frowned. She took a step toward the vestry. Then her eyes locked on something-Pablo’s hand. He had completely forgotten the shank.
She stepped back, too late.
Zeke crushed her windpipe with the soldering iron as she tried to scream. He grabbed the front of her shirt, pulled her down, Gonzales gagging, digging in her heels, clawing at Zeke’s wrists.
Stirman got hold of her ankles. They dragged her into the corner where they taped her mouth, bound her hands. Zeke slapped her in the head when she tried to struggle.
Pablo just watched.
He was a statue. He couldn’t do a damn thing.
Stirman rose, breathing heavy.
“Bind her feet,” he told Zeke.
“In a minute,” Zeke murmured.
He tugged at Gonzales’ belt. He started pulling off her pants.
“Zeke,” Stirman said.
“What?”
“What are you doing?”
“Fucking her.”
Gonzales groaned-dazed but still conscious.
Zeke got her pants around her thighs. Her panties were blue.
The phone in the vestry rang.
“Zeke.” Stirman’s voice tightened.
Officer Gonzales tried to fight, huffing against the tape on her mouth.
Pablo wanted to help her. He imagined himself driving the shank into Stirman’s back, coming up behind Zeke, taking him, too.
He imagined the back gates opening, himself at the wheel of the Reverend’s SUV, the plains of South Texas unfolding before him, Zeke’s and Will Stirman’s crumpled bodies far behind in his wake. He just wanted to get back to his wife.
The vestry phone rang again.
“Zeke,” Stirman said. “Get off her.”
“Only take a minute.” He was untying the drawstring of his prison pants. His hands, arms and neck were pale sweaty animal muscle.
Pablo took a step forward.
Stirman’s kidneys, he told himself. Then Zeke’s carotid artery.
Stirman turned. He saw the shank, locked eyes with Pablo.
“Give me that,” Stirman ordered.
Pablo looked for his courage. “I was just…”
Stirman held out his hand, lifted his eyebrows.
Pablo handed over the shank.
Stirman walked behind Zeke, who was now in his underwear, straddling Gonzales’ huge bare thighs.
Stirman grabbed his cell mate by the hair, yanked his chin up, and brought down the shank in one efficient thrust.
It should have ended there, but something inside Stirman seemed to snap. He stabbed again, spitting cuss words, then again, cursing the names of people Pablo didn’t know, swearing that he had tried, he had fucking tried to forget.
Afterward, Gonzales lay with her clothes half off, her gold-rimmed glasses freckled with blood. Zeke’s body trembled, waiting for a climax that was never going to happen.
“Get the phone,” Stirman said.
Pablo started. The vestry phone was still ringing.
He stumbled into the pastor’s office, picked up the receiver.
“Damn, man.” C.C.’s voice. “Where you been?”
C.C. said the way was clear. They’d taken down two more guards-one at the gate, one in the watchtower. The keys to the armory had yielded five 9mm handguns, a 12-gauge shotgun, and several hundred rounds of ammunition. Elroy and Luis were manning the sally port, waiting for the SUV.
Pablo put down the receiver. His hands were cold and sweaty. Some of Zeke’s blood had speckled his sleeves. He took one last look at the bound supervisor, Pastor Riggs, Grier’s body slumped at their feet.
No other choice, he told himself.
He went into the chapel.
Stirman was kneeling next to Officer Gonzales, dabbing the blood from her glasses with a rag. Zeke’s dead arm was draped across her waist. Gonzales was shivering as Stirman told her it was okay. Nobody was going to hurt her.
Stirman rose when he saw Pablo. He pointed the shank at Pablo’s chin, let it glitter there like Christmas ornament glass. “I own you, amigo. You are my new right-hand man. You understand? You are mine.”
No, Pablo thought.
As soon as they got through those gates, Pablo and Luis would take off by themselves. They would head west to El Paso, as far from Will Stirman as they could get.
But Stirman’s eyes held him. Pablo had blown his chance. He’d frozen. Stirman had acted. Stirman had saved Gonzales. Pablo had done nothing.
Pablo clawed at the fact, looking for leverage. He said, “Who are Barrow and Barrera?”
Stirman’s jaw tightened. “What?”
“You were saying those names when you…” Pablo gestured to Zeke’s corpse.
Stirman looked down at the body, then the terrified face of Officer Gonzales. “Couple of private investigators, amigo, ought to be worried today. Now get the SUV.”
Eleven minutes later, right on schedule, Pastor Riggs’ black Ford Explorer rolled out the back gate of the Floresville State Penitentiary, straight into a summer storm that was starting to pour down rain.