“Never at all?”
“Well, I got an answering machine a couple of times.”
“Fuck,” Rand said. “That blows.”
“You said it, buddy,” Tig said. “Can we still count on you? If someone wants to start something?”
“Yeah,” Rand said, sounding offended. “Of course. They run the town, we run the prison. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Wettermore was next. The whole scenario amused him in a sour but genuine way.
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if Warrior Girl the Meth-Head Slayer was magic. I wouldn’t be surprised if bunnies wearing pocket watches started hopping through the joint. What you’re telling me is no nuttier than the Aurora. It doesn’t change anything for me. I’m here for the duration.”
It was Scott Hughes, at nineteen the youngest of the bunch, who handed over his keys, his gun, his Taser, and the rest of his gear. If the CDC wasn’t coming to take Eve Black, he wasn’t staying. He wasn’t anybody’s white knight; he was just an ordinary Christian who’d been baptized at the Lutheran church right there in Dooling and hardly missed a Sunday. “I like all you guys. You’re not like Peters or some of the other dinks at this place. And I don’t care that Billy’s gay or that Rand’s half-retarded. Those guys’re okay.”
Clint and Tig had followed him past intake to the front door of the prison and out into the yard to try and change his mind.
“And Tig, you’ve always been cool. You seem fine, too, Dr. Norcross. But I’m not dying here.”
“Who said anything about dying?” Clint asked.
The teenager arrived at his pickup, which stood on enormous bigfoot tires. “Get real. Who do you know in this town who doesn’t have a gun? Who do you know in this town who doesn’t have two or three?”
It was true. Even in exurban Appalachia (and exurban might have been pushing it; they had a Foot Locker and a Shopwell in Dooling, but the nearest movie theater was in Eagle), just about everyone had a gun.
“And, I mean, I been to the sheriff’s station, Dr. Norcross. They got a rack of M4s. Other stuff, too. The vigilantes show up after raiding the armory, no offense, but you and Tig can take those Mossbergs we got in the gun locker and shove em up your asses.”
Tig was standing at Clint’s shoulder. “So you’re just going to split?”
“Yeah,” Hughes said. “I’m just going to split. Someone needs to open the gate for me.”
“Shit, Tig,” Clint said, which was the signal.
Tig sighed, apologized to Scott Hughes—“I feel terrible about this, man”—and zapped his colleague with his Taser.
This was a matter that they’d discussed. There were serious problems with letting Scott Hughes leave. They couldn’t allow someone telling the town folks what a short roster they had, or outlining the limitations of the prison’s armaments. Because Scott was right, the prison’s armory was not impressive: a dozen Mossberg 590 shotguns, birdshot to load them, and each officer’s personal sidearm, a .45-caliber pistol.
The two men stood over their colleague, writhing on the parking lot pavement. Clint was queasily reminded of the Burtells’ backyard, the Friday Night Fights, his foster sibling Jason, lying bare-chested on the patio cement at Clint’s filthy sneakers. Under Jason’s eye there had been a red quarter-shaped mark from Clint’s fist. Snot had leaked out of Jason’s nose, and from the ground, he had mumbled, “It’s okay, Clint.” The grownups all cheered and laughed from their lawn chairs, toasting with their cans of Falstaff. That time, Clint had won the milkshake. What had he won this time?
“Well, damn, now we done it,” said Tig. Three days ago, when they’d had to deal with Peters, Tig had looked like a man in the throes of an allergic reaction, about to pitch up a bellyful of spunky shellfish. Now he just looked like he had a touch of acid. He lowered himself to his knees, rolled Scott over, and zip-tied his wrists behind his back.
“How about we put him in B Wing, Doc?”
“Okay, I guess.” Clint hadn’t even considered where to put Scott, which did not exactly increase his confidence in his ability to deal with the developing situation. He squatted to grab Hughes’s armpits and help Tig hoist him to his feet so they could bring him inside.
“Gentlemen,” came a voice from just beyond the gate. It was a woman’s voice, full of grit, and exhaustion . . . and delight. “Can you hold that pose? I want to get a good picture.”
3
The two men looked up, their expressions the very essence of guilt; they could have been Mafia button men about to bury a body. Michaela was even more delighted when she checked her first photo. The camera she carried in her purse was only a bottom-of-the-line Nikon, but the image was sharp. Perfect.
“Ahoy, ye scruffy pirates!” Garth Flickinger cried. “What are ye about, pray tell?” He had insisted on stopping at the nearby scenic lookout to sample the Purple Lightning, and he was feeling chipper. Mickey also seemed to have caught her second wind. Or maybe by now it was her fourth or fifth.
“Oh, shit, Doc,” said Tig. “We are surely fucked.”
Clint didn’t reply. He stood, holding Scott Hughes and gaping at the newcomers standing in front of a battered Mercedes. It was as if a weird reverse landslide were going on inside his head, one where things came together instead of falling apart. Maybe this was how true inspiration came to a great scientist or philosopher. He hoped so. Clint dropped Scott and the disoriented officer gave a moan of dissatisfaction.
“One more!” Michaela called. She snapped. “And one more! Good! Great! Now exactly what are you boys doing?”
“God’s blood, it’s mutiny!” Garth cried, doing what might have been an imitation of Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. “They’ve rendered the first mate unconscious, and soon will make him walk the plank! Arrr!”
“Shut up,” said Michaela. She grasped the gate—not electrified, fortunately for her—and shook it. “Does this have anything to do with the woman?”
“We are so fucked.” Tig said this as if he were impressed.
“Open the gate,” Clint said.
“What—?”
“Do it.”
Tig started toward the entry booth, pausing once to look doubtfully back over his shoulder at Clint, who nodded and motioned him on. Clint walked to the gate, ignoring the steady click of the young woman’s camera. Her eyes were red, which was to be expected after four days and three nights of wakefulness, but her companion’s were just as red. Clint suspected they might have been partaking of illegal stimulants. In the throes of his sudden inspiration, that was the least of his concerns.
“You’re Janice’s daughter,” he said. “The reporter.”
“That’s right, Michaela Coates. Michaela Morgan, to the great viewing public. And I believe you’re Dr. Clinton Norcross.”
“We’ve met?” Clint didn’t remember that.
“I interviewed you for the high school newspaper. Would have been eight or nine years ago.”