BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Lett sneered now, rocking his head back, laughing. “What about her? You fucking idiot. You really thought I’d fall for that old trick? The honey pot? She’s working for you! She was playing me for the fool. She’s nothing but a whore native and a hustler and a viper to boot.”

32.

Lett woke up in his cell, his hood back on. Maybe an hour had passed since he had to face Lansdale, hopefully for the last time. Maybe it had been a day, considering how thirsty he was. He couldn’t remember things. He might’ve said or done something expedient, though, because his cuffs were off. And they left him alone for now. He tried to piece the episode together. That thug Frankie was there. He had said things about Kanani and Jock to divert attention from them, to ward off Frankie.

He felt a chill all over himself, persistent, in his every fold and crevice. He was naked, he realized. Stripped naked. He curled up, but that only made his shoulders and buttocks feel colder, more exposed. He sensed his cellmate over in the other corner.

“Are you there?”

His cellmate grunted.

“Who are you?”

His cellmate snickered.

***

Footsteps. The wheel spun, the door flew open.

“Where’s Lansdale?” Lett shouted. “Get Colonel Selfer. I demand to speak to them. It’s my right!”

“Shut up,” Frankie shouted back. “What’s a haole know about rights, eh?”

“Go to hell,” Lett said.

“Get up,” Frankie said. “Both of you.”

Lett heaved himself up, his head whirled inside the hood and he swayed; he used the wall to steady himself. But he was up.

“Why aren’t you up?” two others were screaming at his cellmate, “Get the hell up,” but the cellmate only laughed a sickly cackle. Thuds sounded, groans. They were kicking at him. The cellmate laughed harder. The dogs growled, moving in.

“Wait!” Lett shouted. “Please. Let me help him . . .”

They paused, stood back. Lett felt his way over using his toes as feelers, the dogs nudging at them with cold noses. His shin found his cellmate’s chest. The cellmate held Lett’s ankle with both hands, grasping it like a child on a bottle.

Lett crouched down. “Just do as they say. All right? Can you understand? I’m with you.”

The cellmate rose from the floor along with him, holding on, hanging on his shoulder. They stood side by side, their shoulders pressed together.

“Move out,” barked a guard, and each of them got a stiff jab in the side.

No cane or bat jabbed like that, Lett knew. That was cold steel.

***

They were led along, prodded if they slowed. Lett’s hood was still on. Doors opened, shut, opened. They never exited outside yet the air had changed, and Lett’s breathing seemed to create a faint echo. It was as if he’d been led into a giant bucket standing on its side.