Page 49 of Thick

“Let’s roll,” he whispered.

Walking side by side as if we were old friends, we sauntered toward where we hoped the group of men would eventually be. As if choreographed, the Savages turned away from the cameras and faced the fence.

Four of Tink’s men walked between the Savage’s backs and the cameras. Four more were between us and officer Madden. Sandwiched Tink’s men and the Savages, we calmly walked past as if we were on a Sunday stroll.

“Keep walking toward the girl when you’re done,” Tink whispered through his clenched teeth.

Gravy’s eyes met mine as soon as we came into his vision. At that instant, he knew nothing. When the razor blades pressed against his throat, severing his carotid artery, he realized who I was.

I could see the recognition in his eyes.

I flicked my wrist just as Tink suggested. Blood didn’t spray everywhere like I’d written in the scenes of my books. At first glance, it seemed I’d done nothing but scratch him. Hoping my actions were enough to end his miserable life, I dropped the handkerchief and shank at his feet and continued walking.

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw him reach for his throat.

“What the fuck,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak.

Blood cascaded over his fingers, and then ran down his arm.

We walked toward Officer Madden. I gazed beyond her, choosing to focus on the fence, and not her. If Gravy died from his wounds, he wouldn’t be the first man I’d killed. The manner in which I did it, however, was much more personal than anything I’d done in the past. The brutality of my actions encompassed me, making my legs feel like rubber.

My ears began to ring.

“Turn around,” Tink said. “Act surprised.”

I managed to do as he’d asked.

Gravy was on the ground, motionless. The dirt around him was black, not red like I expected. Beside him, the Santa Ana winds caused the white handkerchief to dance atop the surface of the ground like a fluttering leaf.

His chest heaved up and down as he struggled to stay alive. There was screaming, commotion, and then sirens. At some point, I was pushed to the ground by a guard.

I locked eyes with Gravy. Lying twenty feet from him, I stared into his eyes, hoping that he could understand what it was that happened, and why. I decided he could and that he did. When he drew his last breath, it was as if he wanted to savor it. He took it in slowly, and then gasped one last time, all but choking on its sweetness.

His eyes remained open, gazing at me blankly, but they were now void of any life. Satisfied that he got what he deserved – if not for what he was going to do to my family, for what he had already done to the girl – I turned my head to the side and closed my eyes.

In groups of four, we were led to the cellblock. After being locked down for thirty minutes or so, our cells were searched.

After putting up quite a fight, Red was led away by the goon squad, professing his innocence as they dragged him off. My guess was that they found the other shank under his bunk. I felt no remorse for what happened to Gravy, or for what was sure to happen to Red.

A numbness washed over me, leaving me incapable of doing much other than simply thinking about what had happened, and how I would handle my future if things went awry.

I had no idea how long it would take them to view the surveillance footage, or to interview the ‘witnesses’. I knew if I was identified as the killer that my remaining days would be spent behind the walls of a Federal Penitentiary.

It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was what I was willing to give to save my family from the evidence that sealed their fate.

Chapter Seventeen

Bobbi

I stood in the corridor with Officer Turner, waiting to be taken in for an interview. With my eyes fixed on a piece of floor tile, I nervously rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet. The thought of someone dying while under my watch was devastating.

I had no idea what happened for sure, but I had my suspicions. After reading Tate’s book about Becker, I was reluctant to give any kind of opinion when questioned. According to the police officers in the book, opinions became facts when there was nothing else to rely on.

“How long have you been here, Madden?” Turner asked.

“Four months.” I looked up. “Four and a half, actually.”

I guessed him to be around fifty years old. Still in great physical shape despite his age, he still resembled the Marine he once was. He ran his hands through his closely-cropped hair and then looked me over. “Why’d you take the job?”