Part 25 (2/2)

Jacko read, ”'Humpty Dumpty stuffed in a cave. Humpty Dumpty dug his own grave.' That's it. What the h.e.l.l does Humpty Dumpty have to do with anything?”

”Shut up and let me think,” Roy said.

Twenty seconds went by, and Roy said nothing. The quiet tightened and strained in Josh's throat.

”Crowley used to sing a Humpty Dumpty song all the time,” Josh said, unable to let another second go by. ”The first day I met him, he was singing, 'Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a f.u.c.k of a fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again.'”

”Why was he singing that?” Jacko asked.

”I thought he was talking about himself because his arm was broken and it was like he'd fallen and couldn't be put back together.”

”Fell a few times,” Cooper Lewis said. ”Sure as f.u.c.k.”

”Humpty Dumpty is Hammond,” Roy said. ”You just count the letters in Humpty and add the D. Take away the umpty, which is empty. We coded him that way.”

Josh couldn't tell if Roy was telling the truth or making up lies on the spot.

”So this message means what?” Jacko said. ”Hammond's dead?”

”How does that help us?” Fenton asked.

”He's telling us to look somewhere,” Roy said. ”The account number must be written on another page.”

And he began turning.

”Maybe there's a picture of a grave inside,” Jacko suggested, and he took the book from Roy's hands and flipped faster, but found nothing.

Cooper Lewis laughed. ”Look all you want. Wobbles has been playing us.” And he turned the homemade machete again with an easy twist of his wrist.

Josh breathed out and knew he needed to begin talking. He wanted to tell them about the caverns and tunnels underneath Ditmarsh and all the demons that lived there. He wanted to tell them the stories Crowley had told him about the Beggar. He felt that if he could tell a story that was long enough and convincing enough, the sun might come up and turn these trolls to stone. But he had no such story in him.

”Crowley wrote 'dig' on the door when he was locked down in the old hole. I think that's Hammond's grave,” Josh said.

They all stared at him, even Brother Mike.

”Bulls.h.i.+t,” Cooper Lewis said.

”How do you know that?” Fenton asked.

”A guard told me. It's the truth. He wrote 'dig' before he died. That must be what he's telling us. We need to look down there.”

It caught them. The idea of Crowley writing 'dig' was just strange enough and distracting enough to be worthy of pursuit. He could sense that they were on the edge between believing him and dismissing him, and that they needed a push. But he had nothing left in his mouth.

”Hammond was down there a long time,” Roy said. ”That's where he dug his grave. I bet he scratched the account number into the rocks. That's what Crowley's telling us to do, right here on this page. Go down there and dig and find it for ourselves. I bet that's why the jacks put him down there. Crowley told them it's where Hammond put the account number, only Crowley never gave it up, and that's why they let him rot.”

It still seemed possible for the story to go one way or the other. Then Jacko moved it to the place where they all believed in it and needed to do something.

”How are we going to get in there?” Jacko said. ”We can't break in. We've been trying to get those weapons.”

”Breaking in is not a problem,” Fenton said. ”I just need to turn my attention to that obstacle.”

He pulled Brother Mike up from the floor.

46.

My leg was numb. My mouth was pasty and my head heavy for lack of water. I kept nodding off and pinching my cheeks to remain awake. I suppose I lost that battle. How else to explain the dreamy shock, the slippage in my attention when it happened? A bang came from above. I looked toward the ceiling of the bubble.

”This is it,” Stone mumbled. ”Finally.”

I knelt, the Remington in my arms, facing the door in order to brace myself from the kick of the gun when I shot. Peering out, I saw three inmates standing around the entrance to the bubble. They were lifting concrete chunks and heaving them at the shatterproof gla.s.s. They swung pipes that landed against the cage in heavy clangs. It seemed pathetic and useless, a ch.o.r.eography meant to intimidate and antagonize rather than accomplish anything, but the noise got me deep in that place where fear puddles and turns you a little helpless.

”They're not getting in here, Stone.” I argued with myself as much as him. ”You can hope all you want. They're never getting in.”

But I gripped the Remington tighter just the same and wished I'd saved more sh.e.l.ls.

One of the men outside raised his arms to hail me and yelled. I couldn't hear a word over the clanging. He gestured for the others to stop and yelled again, holding the business end of a CO shoulder radio up to his mouth this time.

I stood in plain sight to see him better, safe enough in the bubble. I didn't understand. The inmate couldn't contact me by radio with just the mouthpiece. The CO who owned it had probably destroyed the walkie-talkie receiver before he was taken. We were supposed to do that. It was the fourth or fifth most important thing to do in a riot, just before you got taken hostage.

I heard a fitz in my own console then, and lifted the console radio. Outside, the inmate waved as if I'd finally understood, and scampered away.

”Told you,” Stone said. ”They're f.u.c.king coming.”

I had a fantasy of turning the Remington on Stone and shooting him on the floor like a car-struck deer on the side of the road.

Once again the radio snapped and sparked, and this time I heard a voice.

”Officer Williams, are those your catlike steps?”

I knew then who it was, but I didn't answer or acknowledge any connection between us.

”Hey now, Officer Williams, you got to listen better than that. We want in to the bubble. We'll be there in five minutes, and you're going to put down all weapons, open the door, and step aside. If you do that, I give you my word, you won't be hurt.”

”Why would I do that?” I asked.

”You will do it,” he said. ”I'll show you why you're going to do it.”

He stopped talking. I waited for more. Was he trying to sweet-talk me into complying? Was he as deranged as that? Then I heard a voice again, a direction that sounded as clipped as something an air-traffic control tower worker might say to a pilot. ”Watch your monitor.”

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