I poked around the edges of the dump and pretty soon I found an empty bottle. Jack Daniels Tennessee Sipping Whiskey. There was a few drops left in the bottom of the bottle, and it was the same color as the gasoline, but it smelled different. Apple cider, gasoline, whiskey. Hard to tell them apart by looking. Easy by smelling.
I wedged the empty whiskey bottle down between some big roots then brought the jug of gas over and started pouring, I had to pour real slow because the mouth of the whiskey bottle was a lot smaller than the mouth of the jug. But I didn’t spill much, and pretty soon the bottle was full up to the bottom of the neck. The gallon jug was about half empty now, I hoped Cockroach wouldnt check to see how much Id used. I capped both bottles and headed back from the dump. I started worrying about how I could hide the whiskey bottle. So I took off my t-shirt and held it in my hand so it hung down and hid the bottle. Up close, you could tell I was hiding something, but if somebody just saw me from across the yard Id probly be okay.
Just as I got to the tractor shed, Cockroach yelled at me from across the yard. Hey, boy. I set down the jug and hid the whiskey bottle and my shirt behind a post. Let me see that jug. I held it up for him. Bring it on over here. I walked across the yard with it. Shit fire, boy, did you pour half a gallon of gasoline on that mattress after I told you not to use much?
Nossir, I said. The jug tipped over and some of the gas spilled before I could catch it. Im sorry, sir. I didnt mean to spill any. I didnt use too much, I did just like you said. Just enough to make that mattress burn good.
He looked at me like he was trying to decide whether to believe me. Wheres your shirt, boy? Did you burn that up?
Nossir. It was hot with that fire, so I took it off. I just laid it down over there in the shed. Ill get it when I put this gasoline back where it goes.
He frowned at me. You was best friends with that boy run off last night, wasn’t you?
You mean Buck, sir? We got along okay.
You a faggot too, boy? He licked his lips when he said it, and I felt the buzzard claw grab my stomach again.
Nossir, Im not a faggot.
You look like a faggot to me, boy. Maybe we need to find out if your telling me a lie.
Nossir, I said, I wouldnt lie to you, Mr. Cochran.
He didnt say anything for a while. Just kept looking at me. Alright, go on now. Its almost dinner time.
Yessir, thank you sir, I said. Ill just put this back and get my shirt and go get cleaned up for dinner.
I took the glass jug back to the shed and set it down beside the lawn mower. Cockroach had walked away, so I picked up the whiskey bottle of gasoline and covered it with my shirt again. Then I walked back to the dorm. But first I stopped at the chapel to pray. Please god, I prayed, help me kill Cockroach. Then I hid the whiskey bottle behind the radiator.
Does god answer prayers? He never has answered any of mine before.
Put wings to your prayer, the preacher said in chapel last Sunday. What that means, he said, is work to make them come true.
Tonights Saturday night, and that means most of the guards will go into town, but not Cockroach. He stays here on Saturday nights and gets drunk.
I will slip out after dinner tonight and put wings of fire to my prayer.
“Doc?” Stu’s voice jolted me back to the present place and time. “You okay?” I looked around and was surprised to find myself in the command post, and surprised to see that the briefing room was now empty except for Vickery, Angie, and me.
“He calls the guard Mr. Cochran,” I said. “Cockroach is the boys’ nickname for Cochran.” I pointed at the newspaper article Stevenson had dug up. “Look. According to the paper, Cochran was the guard who died in the fire.”
Angie had been out of the room when Vickery had passed out copies of the story; now she snatched the copy from my hands, and her eyes zigzagged down the column of old print until she found it: “ ‘Also lost in the fire was guard Seth Cochran, age 31, who died a hero’s death while attempting to rescue boys from the burning building.’ ”
“Wait a minute,” said Angie. “Cochran died trying to save boys’ lives? Are we talking about the same Cochran? Cockroach? The sadist who got off on torturing kids? I don’t buy it. It doesn’t fit.”
I had to agree with her on that. “But our boy Skeeter, according to this final diary entry, might have set the guards’ quarters on fire that night,” I pointed out. “If that’s the case, he put wings to his prayer, and his prayer was answered. He got Cockroach.”
“He got Cockroach, all right,” Vickery agreed. “But he got nine of his classmates, too.”
“Or maybe he just got eight,” Angie pointed out. “Maybe Skeeter was one of the nine. We still don’t know who he was or what happened to him. Did he run away after he set the fire, or did he get caught in the flames, too? Be good to know who he was and what happened to him.”