Brighter Than the Sun
Page 21
I tilt my head. “That works, too.”
The appreciation on O’Connell’s face is almost more than I can bear. I’m not used to such blatant gratitude. Even Dutch doesn’t show gratitude so much as bone-chilling fear when I save her life. Repeatedly. I bristle under his scrutiny. Step back as the door slides shut.
A small group of inmates wanders up and look at the carnage. They want no part of the riot, but they’ve been locked out of their cells. When they question me with a combination of wide eyes and gaping mouths, I say, “Don’t look at me,” and point to the guards behind the glass.
They turn their astonished gazes to the guards, buying me time to get back to my cell, which I inadvertently broke to save O’Connell’s ass, before the cavalry rides in.
21
I’ve been inside for almost ten years. I’ve gone through twelve cellmates. I’ve accrued enough money to buy a small country. I’ve earned another degree. No idea why other than because it was something to do.
Amador and Bianca have a great life that I’m only a little jealous of. They have two kids they bring to see me. His daughter, Ashlee, is almost five now. She has asked me to marry her when I get out. It feels kind of weird since she calls me Uncle Reyes and incest is frowned upon, but who am I to argue with true love? Stephen is still in diapers and giving them a run for their money.
Amador is worried about Kim. She doesn’t look well. I agree. Then again, she’s never looked well. I go see her often. I just don’t let her know I’m there. She barely eats enough to keep a chipmunk alive. She has become a recluse. Rarely going out. Rarely talking to anyone.
He tells me that there are Web sites dedicated to me. “You making those up yourself?”
I scowl and shake my head.
“There’s some crazy bitches out there, cabrón. Watch your ass.”
As much as I’m online, I’d never even thought to look, so the next time I’m on a computer, supposedly taking an online class on how to write your memoirs, I check it out. He’s right. There are fan pages dedicated to me. I shut them down in disgust. It’s like all those women who fill out applications to visit me. What the fuck for? They don’t even know me, and it’s not like we can date. I refuse them all.
But I got another postcard today. It’s the fourth one, I think. I didn’t really pay attention to them at first, but the last one I got caught my eye. They’re never signed, and they’re sent from all over New Mexico. But the last one had the words Wish you were here written on it. It wasn’t the writing that got my attention. It was the scent. Familiar. Sweet. Cheap. It set my mind racing.
But one thing is a given: I have to get out of prison, and I have to do it soon.
22
My new cellmate has Asperger’s. Not bad. Just enough to make him a little slower than the usual suspects. Then again, we’re in prison. Most of this population is slower than the usual suspects. The guy is huge, strong, and easily manipulated. I suspect that his cousin, who is inside as well, is the ringleader of their particular circus act. At first, they spend every second they can together. The dynamics are typical. Beau tells Jerry Lee what to do. Where to stand. Whom to hurt. And Jerry Lee follows him blindly.
Normally I stay out of that shit, but I have to put a stop to it this time. Only because I don’t need an adversary of Beau’s coming into the cell to off his cousin. I’ve been lucky so far, but I have a whole new appreciation for life and the living. Besides, Beau is a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve the air he breathes. He was slated for hell by the time he was six years old, if that tells you anything about him.
“He’ll be fine,” I tell Jerry Lee as they wheel his cousin out. “He won’t be running any marathons, but…”
Odd thing is, Jerry Lee isn’t all that upset. If I had to pinpoint his exact emotion, I’d say he was more relieved than anything.
My plan involves the shot callers of a couple gangs for whom I’ve done enough favors to warrant a favor of my own. Not that they’ll realize I’m collecting. It’ll all be over before they even know what hit them.
That night, I visit each one in their cells while they’re sleeping. I basically talk shit. Tell them the other shot callers are planning a war, and they need to get their armies ready. I do that every night for a week, until the tension in the prison is so high, you could bounce a quarter off it.
I give it one more day, one more night to plant the seeds of my plan, then instead of preventing war, I incite it. Humans are so easily manipulated. A whisper into the right ear while I’m in ghost mode, a perceived attack, and all hell breaks loose.
We’re out in the yard when it goes down. Men are glaring. Guards are watching. And then, in a split second, it begins. One group starts across the yard. They are trying to look nonchalant, but anytime a group of violent, dangerous men moves en masse, it raises a few flags.
Sirens blare from loudspeakers. Guards on the ground rush for their riot gear. Guards in the towers aim their rifles.
I can’t let it end too soon. I need the guards on the absolute edge. The razor-sharp one where their trigger fingers flinch in reflex.
A guard is yelling through a loudspeaker, ordering the men to get on the ground. Most listen. Some do not.
Jerry Lee reacts in the exact fashion I expect him to: He freezes. His eyes round in utter panic. He can’t understand what they’re saying, and when the tower guard fires a warning shot into the yard, he is paralyzed.
Two shots are all it takes for the men to stop. Several are already bloody, but even those men get down. I’m already down. Have been since the whole thing began. But Jerry Lee is not.
I almost feel bad for using him as bait, but I know procedure. I also know the guard in the tower. I chose him quite purposefully. A former marine sniper, he’s an excellent shot.
When he aims closer to the ground by Jerry Lee, the only one left standing, I spring into action. My plan is tricky, but not impossible, because one of the things I’ve learned to do with the hours upon hours I have to think is stop time. I can’t do it for long, and I’m not really sure if time actually stops or if I go into another dimension for a short period. Another time zone.
Either way, just as the guard aims and pulls the trigger, I slow time. I don’t actually stop it until I see the bullet slicing through the air. It’s going to hit about two feet from Jerry Lee’s feet. I dive for Jerry Lee, cringing at how much that tackle’s going to hurt him when time bounces back.
“Sorry about this,” I say before knocking him to the ground. Then I position myself perfectly, hold my breath, and release time.
It bounces back with a vengeance, but I’m too busy letting a bullet rip into my skull to notice. Even for me, it’s a lot to take. I strain against my natural inclination to grab my head and curl into a fetal position as it presses about half an inch into my gray matter and exits the other side. I also fight the inclination to mutter holy shit and son of a bitch and what the fuck was I thinking?
It shatters my skull. Sends fragments onto the grass.
The alarms continue to blare. The inmates are ushered inside, and the entire place is put on lockdown as they call an ambulance.
O’Connell, the guard I helped out during the mini-riot a few years back, the sniper with one of the longest recorded shots in marine history, is the first to get to me. Deputy Warden Neil Gossett is next. He’s in a suit and tie. I laud him for coming onto the yard with no protective gear. O’Connell holds a towel to my head. I can only hope it’s clean.
The appreciation on O’Connell’s face is almost more than I can bear. I’m not used to such blatant gratitude. Even Dutch doesn’t show gratitude so much as bone-chilling fear when I save her life. Repeatedly. I bristle under his scrutiny. Step back as the door slides shut.
A small group of inmates wanders up and look at the carnage. They want no part of the riot, but they’ve been locked out of their cells. When they question me with a combination of wide eyes and gaping mouths, I say, “Don’t look at me,” and point to the guards behind the glass.
They turn their astonished gazes to the guards, buying me time to get back to my cell, which I inadvertently broke to save O’Connell’s ass, before the cavalry rides in.
21
I’ve been inside for almost ten years. I’ve gone through twelve cellmates. I’ve accrued enough money to buy a small country. I’ve earned another degree. No idea why other than because it was something to do.
Amador and Bianca have a great life that I’m only a little jealous of. They have two kids they bring to see me. His daughter, Ashlee, is almost five now. She has asked me to marry her when I get out. It feels kind of weird since she calls me Uncle Reyes and incest is frowned upon, but who am I to argue with true love? Stephen is still in diapers and giving them a run for their money.
Amador is worried about Kim. She doesn’t look well. I agree. Then again, she’s never looked well. I go see her often. I just don’t let her know I’m there. She barely eats enough to keep a chipmunk alive. She has become a recluse. Rarely going out. Rarely talking to anyone.
He tells me that there are Web sites dedicated to me. “You making those up yourself?”
I scowl and shake my head.
“There’s some crazy bitches out there, cabrón. Watch your ass.”
As much as I’m online, I’d never even thought to look, so the next time I’m on a computer, supposedly taking an online class on how to write your memoirs, I check it out. He’s right. There are fan pages dedicated to me. I shut them down in disgust. It’s like all those women who fill out applications to visit me. What the fuck for? They don’t even know me, and it’s not like we can date. I refuse them all.
But I got another postcard today. It’s the fourth one, I think. I didn’t really pay attention to them at first, but the last one I got caught my eye. They’re never signed, and they’re sent from all over New Mexico. But the last one had the words Wish you were here written on it. It wasn’t the writing that got my attention. It was the scent. Familiar. Sweet. Cheap. It set my mind racing.
But one thing is a given: I have to get out of prison, and I have to do it soon.
22
My new cellmate has Asperger’s. Not bad. Just enough to make him a little slower than the usual suspects. Then again, we’re in prison. Most of this population is slower than the usual suspects. The guy is huge, strong, and easily manipulated. I suspect that his cousin, who is inside as well, is the ringleader of their particular circus act. At first, they spend every second they can together. The dynamics are typical. Beau tells Jerry Lee what to do. Where to stand. Whom to hurt. And Jerry Lee follows him blindly.
Normally I stay out of that shit, but I have to put a stop to it this time. Only because I don’t need an adversary of Beau’s coming into the cell to off his cousin. I’ve been lucky so far, but I have a whole new appreciation for life and the living. Besides, Beau is a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve the air he breathes. He was slated for hell by the time he was six years old, if that tells you anything about him.
“He’ll be fine,” I tell Jerry Lee as they wheel his cousin out. “He won’t be running any marathons, but…”
Odd thing is, Jerry Lee isn’t all that upset. If I had to pinpoint his exact emotion, I’d say he was more relieved than anything.
My plan involves the shot callers of a couple gangs for whom I’ve done enough favors to warrant a favor of my own. Not that they’ll realize I’m collecting. It’ll all be over before they even know what hit them.
That night, I visit each one in their cells while they’re sleeping. I basically talk shit. Tell them the other shot callers are planning a war, and they need to get their armies ready. I do that every night for a week, until the tension in the prison is so high, you could bounce a quarter off it.
I give it one more day, one more night to plant the seeds of my plan, then instead of preventing war, I incite it. Humans are so easily manipulated. A whisper into the right ear while I’m in ghost mode, a perceived attack, and all hell breaks loose.
We’re out in the yard when it goes down. Men are glaring. Guards are watching. And then, in a split second, it begins. One group starts across the yard. They are trying to look nonchalant, but anytime a group of violent, dangerous men moves en masse, it raises a few flags.
Sirens blare from loudspeakers. Guards on the ground rush for their riot gear. Guards in the towers aim their rifles.
I can’t let it end too soon. I need the guards on the absolute edge. The razor-sharp one where their trigger fingers flinch in reflex.
A guard is yelling through a loudspeaker, ordering the men to get on the ground. Most listen. Some do not.
Jerry Lee reacts in the exact fashion I expect him to: He freezes. His eyes round in utter panic. He can’t understand what they’re saying, and when the tower guard fires a warning shot into the yard, he is paralyzed.
Two shots are all it takes for the men to stop. Several are already bloody, but even those men get down. I’m already down. Have been since the whole thing began. But Jerry Lee is not.
I almost feel bad for using him as bait, but I know procedure. I also know the guard in the tower. I chose him quite purposefully. A former marine sniper, he’s an excellent shot.
When he aims closer to the ground by Jerry Lee, the only one left standing, I spring into action. My plan is tricky, but not impossible, because one of the things I’ve learned to do with the hours upon hours I have to think is stop time. I can’t do it for long, and I’m not really sure if time actually stops or if I go into another dimension for a short period. Another time zone.
Either way, just as the guard aims and pulls the trigger, I slow time. I don’t actually stop it until I see the bullet slicing through the air. It’s going to hit about two feet from Jerry Lee’s feet. I dive for Jerry Lee, cringing at how much that tackle’s going to hurt him when time bounces back.
“Sorry about this,” I say before knocking him to the ground. Then I position myself perfectly, hold my breath, and release time.
It bounces back with a vengeance, but I’m too busy letting a bullet rip into my skull to notice. Even for me, it’s a lot to take. I strain against my natural inclination to grab my head and curl into a fetal position as it presses about half an inch into my gray matter and exits the other side. I also fight the inclination to mutter holy shit and son of a bitch and what the fuck was I thinking?
It shatters my skull. Sends fragments onto the grass.
The alarms continue to blare. The inmates are ushered inside, and the entire place is put on lockdown as they call an ambulance.
O’Connell, the guard I helped out during the mini-riot a few years back, the sniper with one of the longest recorded shots in marine history, is the first to get to me. Deputy Warden Neil Gossett is next. He’s in a suit and tie. I laud him for coming onto the yard with no protective gear. O’Connell holds a towel to my head. I can only hope it’s clean.
