No Man's Land (8 page)

Marty’s little boy smile crept over his face. “I sent him back
to L.A. Gave him a week off.” Before she could speak, he went on.

“With pay,” he added with a wink. “Kid’s gonna take his
girlfriend to Cancún.”

She arched her eyebrows. “And this is worth all of that?”

“This”—he waved the jewel case in the air—“puts us right
back on top of the food chain.”

She pointed to the console. Housed inside were the TV set, the VCR
the DVD player.

“Fire it up,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

She gave the words all the positive energy she could muster. She’d
been down this road before only to be disappointed. They hadn’t had
a true exclusive in a long time. Nothing that was worth the hoopla
anyway. A couple of two-day leads on mediocre stories, but that was
about it. After so many false alarms, she found it difficult to
muster a great deal of enthusiasm for anything unseen.

The screen rolled once, then flickered to life. Melanie watched in
silence as Driver accessed the control pod. At the point where Driver
looped the piano wire around the guard’s neck, she began to rise
from the seat, pushing herself sympathetically upward with her arms,
as if drawn on a string, until near the end, when her locked elbows
braced her above the seat bottom and her red mouth hung open like a
scar.

The screen rolled. She dropped back into the seat with a plop.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “Can we run that?” she asked.

“If we fuzz the face on the stiff, New York says we can put it
on . . . as is.” Marty checked his watch. “Maybe an insert on
tomorrow night’s show. All I need is the go-ahead from you and
we’ll pull the Norton piece. We can record you doing a lead and a
follow right here and e-mail it to L.A. They’ll take care of the
rest.”

Melanie leaned back in her seat. “It’s pretty graphic,” she
offered. “We’ve never done anything quite that intense before.”

Marty raised his hands above his head, brushing the low ceiling
with the jewel case.

“Breaking new ground,” he chanted. “Pushing the envelope.”

When she remained unconvinced, he went on. “Those forensic shows
are always in the morgue these days, prime time . . . showing burnt
dead bodies and such every night of the week.”

Melanie shrugged. “Those things are simulated,” she said.

“Paint and rubber.”

“What’s the difference?” he wanted to know.

She thought about perhaps explaining the difference to him but
immediately discarded the idea. Marty had been in Hollywood for so
long that, like so many others in the business, the distinction
between life on earth and life on the silver screen had been lost
somewhere in the bargain. Didn’t matter whether or not it was true.
What mattered was whether or not it looked good on the screen and
whether or not it put people in the seats, so to speak. “Good thing
they don’t put ratings on our private lives,”

she thought to herself.

She flicked a finger at the still-quavering screen. “This was
real, Marty. You could feel it. There was something . . .” She
searched for a word. “. . . something almost voyeuristic about
watching it.” She looked up at Marty. “Like I was watching a
snuff film or something.”

“We load the promos out there over the next thirty-six hours and
we’ll draw a bigger share than we’ve drawn in three or four
years. No way we can keep this one in the bag. It means too much to
all of us.”

“What about the inside source? You as much as said the
authorities are gonna know where this thing came from.”

“Ya pays yur money, ya takes yur chances,” Marty said, without
so much as a hint of a smile. “Come on, babe.” He was at his most
sincere now. “We gotta run with this. It’s now or never.”

She let a long minute pass before she folded her fingers over her
chest and gave him an answer.

The noise assaulted the ears like angry hornets . . . aloft, abuzz
. . . fifty stations spewing a swarm of jazz, honky-tonk, speed
metal, butt rock, rap radio . . . the shouts and grunts and groans,
the talk and the twang and the tonsils rolling out into the air,
where the concrete walls blended the bebop with the hip-hop, then
bounced it back to the inside track where the homies and the hurt
kicked back and relaxed.

They moved along the edges of the cellblock walkways, trying to
separate themselves from the surrounding chaos. Driver and Kehoe were
on either side of Corso as they slipped among the acres of broken
furniture and burning mattresses littering the concrete floor. The
air was acrid and oily. Smelled of piss and Pall Malls. Here and
there, scattered knots of prisoners loitered. Some armed, some not.
Mostly up by the front windows where they could keep an eye on the
brightly lit perimeter and the front gate. At one landing lay a trio
of corpses, all piled helter-skelter on top of one another, throats
cut, bodies awash in a thick halo of dried blood. Halfway down C
Block, a hairy hand reached from the darkness of an open cell, caught
hold of Corso’s collar and jerked him backward into the darkness.
Whoever it was smelled of old blan-No Man’s Land kets and wet sheep
as he used his weight to drag Corso to the floor, where it took all
of Corso’s strength to keep from being yanked over onto his back.
Corso struggled for all he was worth. The guy moaned once and
adjusted his grip before Corso heard the voice. Kehoe’s. Yelling.

“Hey. Hey. What the fuck you think you’re doing? Get the fuck
offa him. You hear me, motherfucker. Get the fuck offa . . .”

Corso felt his attacker swipe at Kehoe with his free hand . . .
then, a moment later felt a deep shudder, followed by what could only
be described as a sudden loss of body tumescence, as if his attacker
had suddenly had the air let out of his balloon. Three seconds later,
the guy tilted sideways and fell to the floor without a sound. Corso
scuttled out from under and pulled himself to his feet. Guy looked
like some sort of caveman. Hairy all over like an ape. Like, in his
whole life, he’d never had a shave or a haircut. Corso shuddered.

Corso was still trying to process what had happened when Kehoe
reached down and wiped the boning knife clean on the dead guy’s
chest hair. One side of the blade, then the other. Real nice and neat
before he stuck it back into his pocket.

“One of those assholes can’t get a hard-on less he can smell
shit,” Kehoe said with a shake of the head. “Place is full of
them. Long as I been in these places I ain’t never . . .”

And suddenly the air was filled with shouts and the slap of
running feet. “Here they come,” someone bellowed. Driver moved
quickly to the opposite side of the walkway. Through three layers of
bars and steel grates, the area around the front gate was roiling
with activity. A phalanx of Bradley armored vehicles rumbled just
outside the gate. Along the main road a seemingly endless procession
of troop carriers discharged squad after squad of foot soldiers.

“Shit,” said Kehoe. “They’re comin’ for us with
soldiers. Party’s over.”

Driver shook his head. “Half an hour . . . forty-five minutes.”

he said. “It’ll take them that long to get staged and ready.”

“You got a plan, Captainman . . . I’m guessin’ now’s the
time.”

“Get the tanker truck. Bring it around between the buildings.”

“You want I should bring the driver?”

“Just the truck. We’ll fetch the driver later.”

Kehoe started to amble off. Driver stopped him with a hand on the
shoulder. He tucked a piece of paper into Kehoe’s shirt pocket.
“Keys for the oil truck and a bundle I put together . . . they’re
in the central elevator. Access code is in your pocket there.” He
took a deep breath. “You’re gonna need this too.” He reached
into his pants pocket and pulled out a dirty piece of blue rag,
stained here and there by some unidentifiable dark liquid. He offered
the bundle to Kehoe, who kept his hands at his side for a long moment
before finally taking it between his thick fingers. Something about
the feel sent a question to his eyes. Kehoe set the package gently in
the palm of his left hand. Using the tips of his fingers, he folded
away the edges until a severed finger appeared in his hand. The cut
at the butt end was rough and ragged. The fingernail needed cutting.

Kehoe pulled himself up to his full height and looked Driver in
the eye.

“Just how iffy we talkin’ ’bout here, Captainman?”

Driver held his gaze. “About as iffy as it gets,” he said. A
tense moment passed before Kehoe pocketed the finger and began to jog
back the way they’d come. Driver turned a quick right and started
down the stairs.

Corso collected his wits and trotted along behind. “What’s the
deal?” he wanted to know. “What’s so iffy?”

Driver threw a wolfish grin back over his shoulder. “Gonna see
if maybe we can’t get the hell outta here before the serious
shooting starts.”

Corso slid to a halt. “Hey now . . . ,” he began. “A little
prison riot was one thing. You screwed me into showing up for that .
. . but you know . . . like some escape attempt . . . I’m thinking
that’s maybe more than I bargained for.”

Behind Corso on the walkway, a dozen armed prisoners sprinted
along the concrete. Scattered shots could now be heard from every
corner of the facility. Driver stopped and turned Corso’s way.
“Okay,” he said affably. “I can understand how you’d feel
that way, Frank. I was just trying to make sure my story got told
right, was all. Wanted to make sure everybody understood why I was
doing this. How it was all coming together.”

Driver grinned. “I’m a reasonable man, though. I’ll
certainly understand if you don’t want to come along.” He didn’t
wait for Corso to make a decision. “I’ve got some errands,”
Driver said.

“You take care of yourself now,” he said, throwing Corso a
threefingered salute as he continued down the stairs. Corso stood for
a moment, listening to the building chorus of gunfire. Somewhere
above, another salvo of automatic weapon fire was joined by another,
then a third, until the scream of projectiles and the clank of brass
swallowed every other sound. Corso found himself taking the stairs
two at a time, using his long legs to erase the distance between
Driver and himself. By the time he pulled even, Driver was using his
remote to open an outside door. “You can’t just leave me in here,
man,” Corso said.

“These crazy fuckers will kill my ass in a heartbeat.”

Driver paused to consider the statement. He fished in his pocket
pulled out an open pack of Juicy Fruit gum and, one by one, unwrapped
the slices and fed them into his waiting mouth.

“No doubt about it,” he said after a moment. “You best not
be out and about when the shooting starts.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You could try to hide,” Driver offered, his mouth wide and
wet around the gum. “Or maybe arm yourself.” He held the door
open. Raised his eyebrows. “Coming?”

Corso stepped outside. The air smelled of smoke and steel. They
were in a wide alley between the administration building and the
short side of the cellblocks. Down in a deep well of darkness, in a
spot where the searchlights held no sway. The crunch of broken glass
beneath his feet took him back thirty years. Took him back to the old
derelict cotton mill at Rasher Creek. The broken husk of another era,
when sweat was king and labor was cheap. A rotting shell of a
building whose windows had long since fallen victim to the stones of
boys, where, in the heat of a summer day, one could find solace in
the narrow, shaded alley between the mill and the creek.

Driver hooked the door open and hugged the darkness close to the
building as he started off into the gloom. He talked as he walked
across the manicured grass. “You could try to make a break for the
front gate.” Driver waggled a dubious hand. “Way I see it, that’s
way beyond iffy. Only real question is which side nails you first.”
He shrugged. “Or maybe give yourself up to the soldiers on their
way in. You could explain to them that you’re not really a con . .
. that you’re just in here on a lark.” His lips formed the
thinnest of smiles.

“This isn’t funny.”

Driver slowed. “I didn’t plan on this, Corso. I didn’t think
they could put an assault together this quickly. I figured there’d
be hours of dialogue. Threats and demands . . . that sort of thing,
before anybody got serious. I figured we could have a couple of hours
for an update. Things have changed.” He waved a hand.

“Maybe even a sequel.” He paused and swallowed a thought. “I
figured I could get you back out before the shooting started.” He
looked rueful. “Must be losing my edge.”

Corso could feel the bile rising in his throat. The cold mantle of
fear began to envelop him. “I haven’t got a lot of options here.”

Driver nodded his rueful agreement. “Your best bet is probably
to find an empty cell, jam the door shut, pull the mattress over
yourself and hope to God one of those Marines doesn’t shoot your
ass for fun.” He nodded at the open door and the shaft of yellow
light at the far end of the alley.

As if to aid Corso in his decision, another volley of smallarms
fire erupted from the cellblocks above. When he looked back, Driver
had a small black flashlight in his hand. He was bent at the waist,
shining the powerful beam at the lock on what appeared to be the
central back door of the Louis Carver Administration Building. Corso
watched as Driver fished a ring of keys from his pants pocket. Took
him three tries to find the right key. He pulled open the door and
inclined his head toward Corso. “What’s it gonna be, big fella?
You part of the problem or part of the solution?”

Driver stepped partially inside. Corso caught the door in his
hand, looked around for a moment and followed the rapidly retreating
shadow. The electricity had been turned off in the building, leaving
the hallways on auxiliary power, delineated by strings of small white
lights at foot level like on an airplane. Green EXIT signs floated
above occasional doorways as they made their way to the corner
stairwell and started down.