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  Mark had to agree.

  “And if all that wasn’t bad enough, we got Tree House and his boys, who love stickin’ my head in the toilet and grindin’ my face in the concrete.”

  Mark’s cool gaze drifted back to the man. That explained a lot about Pete’s misshapen nose and the bruises on his cheekbones, and his smell . . .

  If they attacked Pete again, Mark would have to fight. He couldn’t let them do that to someone so defenseless.

  Heaviness fell over him, and he knew this whole situation was going to get much worse before it got better. God, please help me.

  Something was going to break loose soon. He only hoped he’d have the power to stop it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  WORD TRAVELED FAST. SOON ALL OF THE INMATES WERE IN on the plan. Though the room was cold, a thin sheen of perspiration made Mark’s skin slick as he listened to the sinister scheme that would result in lost lives — and fifty criminals back on the snowy streets.

  “Just so’s you know,” Tree House told Mark. “You do one t’ing to keep dis from happenin’, and I’ll snap dat Petie’s neck right in two.”

  Mark’s chest felt so tight he couldn’t breathe. A threat against himself he could handle, but he couldn’t stand the thought that Pete would take the brunt of it.

  “Leave him out of this,” Mark said. “Why don’t we just let this be between you and me?”

  “Oh, it is dat,” Tree House said.

  “You won’t get away with it. Sheriff Scarbrough’s too experienced to fall for something so stupid.”

  “Sheriff Scarbrough’s sick as a poisoned mutt,” he said. “He too weak to fight back.”

  “He has a family,” Mark said, knowing his argument was weak. “So do the deputies. I don’t know what you did to get put in here, but I don’t think you want to add murder to your list of charges.”

  “Add murder?” Tree House laughed. “I already got t’ree life sentences breathin’ down my neck. You tink I want to spend de rest of my life sittin’ in dis cold, dark dump? I’m gettin’ out, and I don’t care who has to die. So don’t get in my way.”

  Mark had never felt more helpless. He glanced at Pete, going into the Porta-John, and wondered if he knew he’d become a pawn in this game.

  Lord, I need your help.

  Over the next few hours, Tree House lay on the bed, pretending to be sick. When Scarbrough or one of the deputies would come in with cups of water for the inmates, Mark’s cellmates all grew vocal about how sick he was and how they wanted him out.

  “He got what Blatt had,” they told the sheriff. “You got a epidemic startin’ in here.”

  “You don’t get him out,” one of the men said, “we’ll kill him ourselves.”

  Once, as Scarbrough considered the problem, he called Mark to the bars. “Just how sick is that man?” he asked.

  Mark found it surprising that the sheriff trusted him to provide the truth while incarcerating him for attempted murder. He glanced back at Tree House, saw his slitted eyes on him, just daring him to give the plan away. Gus, one of Tree House’s cohorts, inched up beside Pete, set his arm around his shoulders, and bent his forearm under his neck.

  Yes, he could snap it with one movement.

  Mark looked back at Scarbrough, wishing he could telepathically relate to him what was happening. But he’d have to think of another way.

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. I’m not a doctor.”

  He prayed that God would speak to the sheriff, tell him this was a setup. Surely Scarbrough had dealt with enough prisoners to know when he was being conned.

  “Get him out!” one of the prisoners from another cell called, banging his tin cup on the bars. “You want more dead bodies in here? You want us all to drop dead of some plague?”

  Tree House began to convulse slightly, like someone with a high fever.

  Finally, Scarbrough succumbed. “I’ll be back. We’ll get him to the hospital.”

  Mark’s heart stumbled. It was beginning. He couldn’t let this happen. Rolling his hands into fists, he turned back to his cellmates. Pete was still under the arm of his tormenter, his blood-shot eyes pleading. Mark’s throat grew tight, and every muscle went rigid.

  Time ticked by, and the men in the cells grew quiet. Tension rippled on the air.

  Finally, the big metal door creaked open again. Scarbrough and two deputies led in a couple of paramedics — George Mason and Will Truman — with a gurney. They drew their weapons as they came inside, just as they had when they removed Blatt.

  “All right, everybody back against the wall.”

  Mark hesitated a moment, looking at Tree House, who lay curled in a fetal position on the bed, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of shivering and convulsing.

  “Go on, Mark. You too. Back against the wall.”

  Mark slowly backed across the floor. He stood beside Pete, who was again in Gus’s loose headlock. Scarbrough pulled out his keys and started to unlock the door.

  Suddenly, Mark thought of something. “I’ll bring him to you, Sheriff!”

  Everyone froze. Tree House’s eyes opened and seared on him. Gus’s arm tightened under Pete’s neck.

  Mark’s throat felt suddenly parched. He couldn’t swallow, and his breathing seemed restricted as his heart pounded in his head. Slowly, he went toward the bed.

  “You might want to check Pete too,” he said. “He’s getting a fever, I think.”

  Scarbrough’s gaze shot to the little man. Gus’s arm loosened. At least that situation was now on his radar.

  Tree House kept shivering, but he bit out a whispered warning. “Don’t do it, white boy. Tell him I’m too heavy.”

  Mark ignored him. He bent down and pulled Tree House up, slipped his shoulder under the man’s armpit, and tried to lift him. Tree House resisted, but Mark was strong, and he tried to force him to his feet.

  The man went limp and fell to the floor.

  “Just back up, Mark,” Scarbrough said. “We’ll come in with the gurney.”

  “No, I’ve got him.” Determined, Mark bent, grabbed Tree House under his arms, and dragged him across the concrete. He knew this was a lethal decision. He’d probably wind up dead because of it.

  “He’s draggin’ a sick man!” Gus shouted. “He’s gonna kill him!”

  The others joined in, a mob roar of protests. “Let go of him, Mark!” Scarbrough’s gun came up. “Mark, I told you to back against the wall.”

  Mark let Tree House go and gave the sheriff a pleading look. Something changed in Scarbrough’s eyes. He looked at the deputies. They got it, Mark thought. They knew he was trying to help them. He raised his hands and backed against the wall.

  Scarbrough put the key into the lock.

  Deputies Anderson and Jones kept their guns trained on the prisoners against the wall.

  “Gus, let go of Pete and move to the corner over there,” Scarbrough said. “Anybody moves, we’ll shoot. Got that?”

  Cold hard eyes registered the warning.

  Mark held his breath as the door came open. Scarbrough told the paramedics to wait, then he came in slowly, rolling the gurney beside him. He went to the big man lying on the floor, felt his clammy skin. “Okay, men. Come give me a hand.”

  The deputies came in and bent to pick up Tree House.

  Suddenly Tree House grabbed the gun in Scarbrough’s holster. Mark lunged forward, but the gun went off. Scarbrough dropped with a thud.

  “Freeze!” Jones shouted, but Tree House turned to the deputies and fired twice. Both men fell.

  The plan had worked.

  The cellmates rushed forward, trampling them, and crowded through the door. One of them grabbed the keys and guns from the bleeding men and unlocked the other cells. A stampede ensued as everyone rushed to escape.

  Mark fell beside the sheriff and checked his pulse. He was still alive. “Sheriff, hang on!” he cried. “Somebody help!”

  THIRTY

  THE TWO PARAMEDICS WHO HAD HIT THE FLOOR RALLIED and m
ade their way to the bleeding men. Mark held his breath as they worked on them, wishing he could help.

  Suddenly, Milton Asher, the deputy who’d been out on patrol, rushed inside, his gun trembling in both hands.

  “Three men down!” George Mason yelled. “The prisoners escaped.”

  As if Milt didn’t know where to direct his terror, he turned the gun on Mark. “Get back, Green! Hands in the air!”

  Mark got to his feet and raised his hands.

  “He’s not the one,” George said, checking the pulses of the two fallen deputies. “Anderson’s dead,” he said, moving to Jones. “Dear God, Jones is dead too.”

  Milt looked as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “Scarbrough’s still with us!” Will said. Mark’s thoughts of the gun still held on him fled as he watched them intubate the sheriff, trying to open an airway. Scarbrough’s lower jaw was bloody and broken, and panic seized Mark. The bullet had ripped through his face.

  He held his own breath as they cut into the sheriff’s trachea.

  “Pulse is weak!” George cried, pumping on his chest.

  Milt lowered the gun and took a heavy step toward his dead and wounded friends. “Oh . . . my God.”

  Mark let his hands fall, and began to pray.

  “Hold yourself together, Milt!” George cried. “Go get those prisoners before they kill more people!”

  Milt gave him an astonished look. “I . . . can’t.”

  George checked Scarbrough’s pulse again. “It’s stronger. Let’s move him.”

  Mark noticed Milt’s faltering. “Deputy, you have to go. They haven’t gotten far. You could overtake some of them!”

  Milt backed toward the door. “No . . . I have a family.”

  “Do it for your family!” George cried. “You have an obligation to this community!”

  “Not anymore. I’m all alone here. Grady and Black walked off the job a couple hours ago after they got their pay. Nothing is worth this!” He sounded like a little boy.

  Mark didn’t know what to do. “Milt, please.”

  But the deputy removed his badge and dropped it on the blood-covered floor.

  The paramedics moved Scarbrough onto the gurney. Milt waited for them to roll it past him. Then he made his own exit.

  “Mark, we’ll send somebody,” George called as they rushed Scarbrough out. “You’d better stay here.”

  Mark stood helpless, looking at the bodies they’d left behind. This was madness.

  He heard the front doors slam shut, and for a moment he thought of fleeing. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be numbered among the escapees — the killers who had gunned these men down.

  He looked down at the young fathers and husbands now lying dead and wondered who would tell their families. He thought of covering their bodies with sheets from the abandoned bunks. Then he realized he couldn’t disturb the evidence.

  His stomach churned, and he thought he might be sick. Struggling to hold it back, he knelt on the floor next to the bodies. He could guard them, he thought, until someone came to move them.

  He heard the door again and looked up to see Brett Stampley, who owned the blacksmith shop across the street. Another gun pointed at him. He almost didn’t care if Brett pulled the trigger.

  But there was no fear in Brett’s eyes. “George told me you’re not to blame. He said you tried to stop it.”

  The small acknowledgement melted what was left of his strength. The tragedy of it all rushed into his chest, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  “I can’t let you go,” Brett said. “But I can take you to clean up.”

  Clean up what? Mark looked down at himself, saw the blood on his knees, his hands, and the edges of his sleeves. Slowly, he rose. He was so tired his legs felt as though they’d buckle under him.

  Brett’s rifle at his back, Mark went out of the jail, through the desks, and into the defunct bathroom. There was some water there in a two-gallon jug. A towel lay on the counter; he wet it and tried to wipe off the blood.

  It was impossible to remove it all, but he got it off of his hands. Taking off his jacket, he scrubbed the army-green cloth. It helped, though the edges of the sleeves were still stained. He scrubbed his knees and the tips of his Nikes.

  Glancing up at the gun still trained on him, Mark said, “I appreciate it, Brett.”

  “No problem. I have to put you back in a cell now until they get more deputies over here.”

  “If I were going to leave, Brett, you know I’d have left by now.”

  Brett didn’t answer him. Mark studied his face — he looked apologetic, but unwavering. Mark supposed he couldn’t blame him.

  Raising his hands, he headed back into the dark, smelly room. He stepped back into the cell he’d been in, but didn’t close the door, and looked around at the place that had been packed so full before.

  He sat down on one of the bottom bunks and dropped his face into his hands. Two good men dead. Sheriff Scarbrough might not make it.

  The cell door clanged as Brett closed and locked it.

  Loneliness fell over Mark like the darkness, and he fixed his eyes on the windows at the top of the room. There was still daylight, even though the room was dark. He had to concentrate on that.

  There was still daylight.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “SO WHERE EXACTLY WAS MARK STANDING WHEN YOU SAW him?”

  Deni knew her voice had a gestapo edge, and Blake Mahaffey and Randy Kraft — the boys who’d placed Mark in the vicinity of Zach’s shooting — were getting antsy.

  “I don’t know,” Blake said. “It was in the woods.”

  “Third tree from the left,” Randy said. “Is that what you want?”

  So Randy was a comedian. The sarcasm rankled her. “I think people will expect you to have a little more than that when you accuse someone of murder.”

  “We never accused him of murder,” Blake said. “We just said we saw him.”

  “In a place where he wasn’t!” she pointed out.

  The two boys looked at each other, rolling their eyes. “Get real,” Randy said. “You’re not here as a reporter. You’re here as Mark Green’s girlfriend.”

  Deni’s chin came up. “The Crockett Times assigned me this story. I’m just trying to verify what you told the sheriff.”

  “Face it, Deni. Your boyfriend is a liar.”

  Fire rose to her face, and her eyes flashed. She wanted to take a swing at the smart aleck — but she knew a physical response wouldn’t get the result she wanted.

  Instead, she’d skewer them with words. Already today she’d collected a number of quotes from teens who had nothing good to say about these two boys.

  Randy’s ex-girlfriend said she’d broken up with him for hitting her. Blake’s eighth-grade science teacher claimed he had little familiarity with the truth. A group of Jeff’s friends told her both boys had had a drug problem before the outage.

  The article she planned to write about them would amount to clear-cut character assassination — not her usual modus operandi. But the community had a right to know that they couldn’t trust the boys’ story.

  She heard a horse’s hooves galloping up the street, and she looked up and saw Blake’s father riding up the dirt driveway.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?” Blake called out.

  “I just heard there was a shooting at the jail. Two dead.”

  Deni gasped.

  “Prisoners escaped. I have to warn your mother. You boys need to get inside.”

  He jumped off the horse and handed the reins to his son.

  “Two dead?” Deni cried. “Who?”

  “I don’t know, but we have to stay armed. No one’s safe.”

  She pictured Mark shot and bleeding. Without another word, she bolted for her bike. Pedaling with all her might, she flew through the streets of Crockett.

  Please God, don’t let Mark be dead.

  Near the sheriff’s station, she saw county vehicles park
ed haphazardly in the street. Deputies she didn’t recognize were roping off the area, keeping her from getting closer.

  “What happened?” she cried, ignoring the barricade.

  “Stay back, lady,” one of them ordered.

  “Is Mark Green all right? Was he shot?”

  They ignored her, so she shouted, “I’m a reporter for the Crockett Times! I demand to know what’s happening!”

  But her insistence fell on deaf ears as the deputies wrestled her back.

  THIRTY-TWO

  SIRENS HERALDED THE ARRIVAL OF CHIEF DEPUTY Wheaton from Birmingham. Mark sat up and waited, his eyes on the metal door that closed him in. Finally, the door opened, and three uniformed men came in. Mark got up and went to the bars.

  Hands on their sidearms, the men froze at the sight of their dead comrades. The deputy who seemed to be in charge cursed.

  Mark stood quietly watching as they examined the bodies of Jones and Anderson. It had been about half an hour since the shootings. He wondered if the escapees had been caught — or the town warned. Had his mother and Deni been told?

  After a few minutes, the chief deputy straightened and came toward his cell.

  “I’m Chief Deputy Archie Wheaton,” he said in a shaken voice. “Second in command to the sheriff. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “Yes, sir. But first — is Sheriff Scarbrough gonna make it?”

  “He made it to the hospital alive.”

  Mark let out a long breath of relief, then began to tell him the story, biting out the words with weariness that ached like toxins through his body. “I tried to stop it, Deputy. I really did. You have no reason to believe me. But George and Will, the paramedics, saw the whole thing. They’ll tell you.”

  “They already did.” The deputy studied him for a moment, then spoke. “Well, as you can see, we’re in a mess here. The deputies here have walked off the job. I’ve pulled men from the substations to search for the escaped prisoners . . . but I don’t have the resources to keep you here. Mark, I’m gonna let you go for now.”