The man spat at Holly, who merely nodded to the soldiers. They took Mehsud away as he shouted, over and over, “Allahu Akbar.”
After three more men were removed from Cell Block A, the colonel led his soldiers to Cell Block B.
“Francisco Colon, you are a serial rapist. At least six girls, none older than fourteen.”
“You fuck! I know my rights. You can’t revisit a sentence.”
“Did you ever wonder what happened to the girls you raped?”
“Everyone heard the shots from the courtyard. You can’t get away with this.”
“One of the girls, Judy Martinez, committed suicide six months ago. She had been in psychiatric care for four years. Apparently she could never come to grips with the fact that animals like you roam the streets. Her father paid ten thousand dollars to hear that you were dead.”
“Fuck you!” Colon lowered his head and launched himself at Holly. He didn’t get there. The men on either side dropped him on his face on the concrete floor, smashing his nose and releasing a torrent of blood. Semiconscious from the impact, he was carried to the courtyard.
The next man was a white man, medium-sized, with a full head of hair. He could even be called handsome. He was calm. “We heard shots. Are you executing people?”
“Robert Winston Carrington. You were convicted of running a Ponzi scheme that took in over twelve million dollars, most of which you squandered to pay for an extravagant lifestyle.”
Carrington glanced at the bloodstain on the floor from Colon’s nose, then his eyes came back to Holly. “I didn’t kill anybody,” he said.
“Did it ever occur to you,” Ezekiel Holly said conversationally, “that prisons exist for two reasons? The first of course is to keep the guilty in, and the second is to keep the victims out.”
“They were all greedy bastards and got what they deserved.”
“As we all shall, rest assured. Two of your victims committed suicide. Many were reduced to penury after a lifetime of work because they believed in you, trusted you. We are here tonight as surrogates for your victims.”
Holly nodded at the soldiers, and they took Robert Winston Carrington away. He walked with his head high. Maybe, thought Colonel Holly, he doesn’t believe he will really be executed. Or, perhaps, he doesn’t care.
Three minutes later another shot was heard.
When Colonel Holly and his soldiers left the prison at three that morning, thirty-two corpses were laid out side by side on the prison basketball court, where they were found by the day shift.
Warden Arlen Kirkpatrick was summoned, and he sent a man to Austin. When the man returned two days later, he reported that no one at the Bureau of Prisons, in the governor’s office, or at Texas Guard headquarters had ever heard of Ezekiel Holly. The governor’s signature on the letter was a forgery.
Perhaps fingerprints might have identified Colonel Holly, but all the other soldiers wore tactical gloves. When the Texas Rangers finally sent a man around to hunt for prints, more than a week had passed and the task was hopeless.
TWENTY-NINE
“We leave tomorrow,” Jake Grafton said on Sunday morning.
Boy, that was good news to me!
Sarah Houston was carrying the little girl around, everywhere, and gave me The Look every time she passed me, as if it were my fault the kid got raped. She didn’t even say anything about my neck wound. Mrs. Johnson was a nurse and bandaged me up after she had smeared some sort of antiseptic on it. My neck was so sore I couldn’t turn my head.
Willie Varner said, “Goddamn, Tommy. You keep lettin’ these sons of bitches shoot at you. It’s just a matter of time, dude.”
“Hey, Willie, I—”
“Don’t want to hear it. I done tol’ ya. Just a matter of time. Ain’t goin’ to cry at your funeral, Tommy. Sarah might, or Mizz Grafton, but I ain’t a gonna. See you in Hell, dude, and we’ll catch up then.”
“I can hardly wait. Thanks, asshole.”
“You’re welcome.”
I was fed up to here. I broke out the two sniper rifles from FEMA’s Walmart stash and took them down to the meadow. Put a target out at two hundred yards — measured with one of the laser rangefinders the military had thoughtfully included in the box — and laid down by the hangar. Used a box of MREs as a rest and commenced shooting. The rifles were .308 caliber, actual designation 7.62×51 NATO, and we had plenty of ammo. I played with them a while and got them zeroed. Just in case.
I am not a sniper: I am not good enough with a rifle, and I don’t have the patience for it. However, the concept of whacking bad guys from beyond the effective range of their weapons strongly appeals to me. I have no sporting instinct whatsoever and am a disciple of W. C. Fields: Never give a sucker an even break, and its corollary, do it unto others before they do it unto you.
When I got back to the safe house, the sun was down. In the twilight everyone was sitting around outside eating venison that I had shot, Molina and Yocke had butchered, and Jake Grafton had cooked on the outdoor fire. Burned on the outside, pink in the middle. Everyone but me complimented him on his outdoor culinary skills. To accompany the venison we also had Mrs. Price’s green beans and baked potatoes with margarine and ketchup, for those so inclined. With the smell of wood smoke in the delightful evening air and plenty of good, wholesome food, some of the folks around the fire looked like they were dumping some stress. The meal was filling and a nice change from MREs, but I wasn’t ready to sing Kumbaya.
I figured that there was a lot of shooting and dying coming up in the days ahead. Going to Washington to clean up the government wasn’t on my bucket list.
But what the hell! A man can only die once. That’s a good thing, by the way. We’ve all gotta go sometime, and, truth be told, the sooner you check out, the more shit you miss. That’s the gospel according to Reverend Carmellini. Amen.
The girl spent the evening sitting by Sarah Houston. Armanti was sitting with Mrs. Price. The Johnsons were huddled together, the parents taking care of the kids. Yocke and Molina sat engaged in earnest conversation, solving the nation’s problems, probably. The warriors kept by themselves, although they had included Willie Varner in their little group. They liked Willie’s brand of pessimism, I suspected: I certainly did.
After the fire died down to glowing coals, Sarah Houston picked up the kid and carried her into the house. I waited a moment, then tagged along. I found them upstairs in the bedroom we had been using, and the door was open a crack. I eavesdropped. It’s one of my failings. But, to paraphrase that great American philosopher Yogi Berra, you can learn a lot by listening.
“My name is Sarah too,” the girl said.
“We have a lot in common,” Sarah Houston said warmly.
“I saw that man shoot my parents. He was really mean. He hurt me terrible down there. Then Mister Tommy shot him and his whole head came off. After what he did to me, I was glad.” I knew that Mrs. Johnson, the nurse, gave the kid a vaginal exam and had to do some stitches, after she had numbed her.
“I suppose so,” Sarah Houston said. “Tommy is a good man. Was your father a good man?”
“Oh yes. He wasn’t tall, and he was sort of heavy, not a bit like Mister Tommy. But he loved me very much. So did Mommy.”
After a bit I heard Sarah Houston say, “I am sure you will miss them very much.”
“Mommy and Daddy loved me.”
“I am sure they did.”
“I like Mister Armanti too. He’s a real nice man. Sort of like a bear.”
The two sat in silence for a while, then the big Sarah said, “You and I are going to sleep right here. If you have a nightmare, you wake me up. Will you do that?”