“I’m not somebody who’s got a quarrel with you,” he said. “I’ll cut you loose when I’m done. This here is between me and him. I’ve got a score to settle, and I’m only up to ‘five’ so far.”
Something was coming together in my mind—something about the man’s muscular build and the ragged, amateur tattoos: a prison body, and prison tattoos. “My God, you’re Anthony Delozier, aren’t you? You were in Starke until a few months ago.”
“I expect I’ll be going back again,” he said, “soon as I finish up my business here.”
He walked out of my field of vision, and I heard the dreadful sequence of the strap again. “Six,” Delozier counted. “Did you ever think there might come a reckoning?”
In response, I heard what I recognized as a strained, pained version of Cochran’s voice whisper, “Go to hell.”
“Seven, you son of a bitch. I hope it takes seven hundred to kill you.” There was another windup, and another blow of the strap. “How many of us did you beat? Eight. How many lashes? Nine. An eye for an eye. Ten. And a tooth for a tooth. Eleven. I thought you burned to death forty years ago. Twelve. I thought I’d put wings to my prayer. Guess I should’ve put a strap to my prayer instead.”
The phrase cut through the fog of my pain like a knife. “What did you just say?” My question was punctuated by another blow of the lash on Cochran. I raised my head and said, as loudly as I could, “Wings of fire. You put wings of fire to your prayer.” The lash stopped. The man’s legs walked toward me, and again he squatted. He stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost. “Jesus,” I said, “you’re Skeeter, aren’t you? We found your diary.”
“What are you talking about?” The twitch in his eyes accelerated; it reminded me of a fluorescent light that flickers as it’s heading toward burnout.
“We found your diary, Skeeter. It was in a Prince Albert can under a flagstone.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“It helped us. You helped us. You can still help us. Untie me and let’s call the police.”
My mind was racing back over the diary’s contents. “Your friend Buck. We found his bones. At least, I think we did. One of the sets of remains we found was wearing a compass around the neck. The compass you gave him to help him escape.”
His face—his iron-hard, lifer’s face—twitched and then crumpled, and he put a large, tattooed hand over his eyes and began to sob. His big body shook, and he sat down on the floor, wrapped his arms around his knees, and cried. After what seemed like a long time, the sobs subsided, but still he sat, hunched into himself, his broad back and shoulders rising and falling with deep, ragged breaths.
Underneath the sound of his breathing, I gradually became aware of another sound, and as its volume rose, I knew he heard it, too, because his breathing stopped while he listened. In the distance, a siren was approaching. He raised his head, unfolded himself, and got to his feet, the leather strap still clutched in one hand.
“Skeeter, untie me. Please.” He hesitated, then walked to the bedside and shook out the strap for a windup.
“FOUR-teen.” He grunted as he swung the strap at Cochran, putting all his strength into the blow.
“Skeeter, please stop. Let the police take it from here.”
“FIF-teen.” Under the rain of intensified blows, Cochran’s breaths grew labored now, wheezy. I’d heard such breathing before. It was the beginning of a death rattle.
“Skeeter, we’ve got a lot of evidence now. We found seven murdered boys. We found the chain around the door handles. We can bring this guy to justice.”
“Justice? What the hell is justice? . . . SIX-teen.”
“We can send this guy to prison for the rest of his life,” I said. “I know it doesn’t make up for what he did, but it’s the best we can do.” The siren was getting close now.
“It’s not the best I can do. SEVEN-teen.”
“Did you kill Hatfield?”
“Hatfield? The son of a bitch that ran the place? I like to think I’d’ve gotten around to it, but I hadn’t yet. If somebody beat me to the punch, I’d like to shake his hand. EIGHT-teen.”
“Skeeter, if you kill Cochran, you’ll never get out of prison.”
“Man, I’m in a place a lot worse than prison. I burned nine boys to death. Didn’t mean to. Didn’t know the doors were chained. Prison’s all I was ever fit for anyhow, thanks to fuckers like this. NINE-teen.”
The siren grew deafening, then fell silent. Blue strobe lights pulsed through the open doorway, casting surreal shadows as the strap rose and fell. “TWEN-ty.” Outside, a car door opened and closed softly.
I heard slow footsteps, then a low, gravelly voice. “Seth?” It was Judson’s voice. On the bed, Cochran groaned. “Seth?” Another groan. “This is Sheriff Judson. Anthony Delozier, if you’re in there, come out now with your hands up.”
“All right,” Skeeter answered. “I’m coming. Don’t shoot. Your man Brockton’s in here with me. He’s all right. But if you shoot, you might hit him.”