ELEVEN

They were waiting. They had crept up to the forest fringes, staring at the once familiar objects in a circle, at the fires and figures near them, hearing voices, watching shadows.

They were nervous, glancing toward the moon and trembling. On occasion, they couldn't resist the urge to howl, but the men across there only turned in their direction as they spread their blankets by the fires. Then the forest fringes were deserted. They were backing toward the high ground, moving deeper through the forest. They were eager for the taste which, although it sickened, they nonetheless craved, but this was not the moment or the place. Higher, deeper in the mountains where the quarry would be less protected-that was what they wanted. So they shuffled through the underbrush, and far beyond the upper ridges, they heard rumbles that rolled down like thunder. The echo of gunshots. They moved toward it.

TWELVE

Slaughter waited in the darkness. He was lying on his bunk, pretending to sleep as through his half-closed eyes he glanced out through the bars toward where the two guards, having dimmed the lights, were tilted back in their chairs, their heads against the wall. He knew he had to move soon, but if too soon, he would rouse them.

He was cursing to himself. He had been safe. A cell to keep him occupied while everything went on without him. Now the force of choice was on him once again, and if he didn't act, he knew that Rettig then would understand him. Did it matter? Yes, he finally decided. He would not relive his past humiliation. He had come here for a fresh start, and if he ignored this opportunity, he would never feel whole again; he would have chosen a progressive pattern of defeat; he'd just keep moving pointlessly. Of course, he could pretend to Rettig that he hadn't understood the objects in the coffee, but he didn't know if he would be convincing. Even so, he wouldn't be convincing to himself. He had to do this.

Cursing to himself, he studied both guards. Then he sat up slowly in his bunk. Because he finally had understood these objects in the coffee. They were obvious, so much so that he wondered why he took so long to realize their purpose, that he wondered how much smarter Rettig was than he had ever guessed. The plan was simple to the point of genius. Perhaps that was the reason Slaughter took so long to figure it. The objects in the coffee were pure phosphorus. The liquid kept them from igniting. That had been the word that solved the puzzle for him. Still thinking that these things were explosive, he had wondered how to detonate them. Detonation made him think of fuses, a bright light burning. But the blast would warn the guards. These things must have a silent function then, but if they were indeed explosive, how the hell could he ignite them? Since he didn't smoke, he didn't carry matches. Bright light, matches and their phosphorus, ignition, and he had it, suddenly in high school, watching as his teacher drew the worms of phosphorus from jars of water, waiting as the worms, exposed to air, abruptly were on fire. Later he would think how close he'd come to missing the significance, but now he understood and didn't have a choice.

He got up slowly from his bunk and walked with caution toward the bars. He saw that all his friends were sleeping. He stood motionless and waited for some action from the guards. There wasn't any, and he knelt to reach through toward the second thermos. Then he slowly opened it and poured the coffee into plastic cups. Another red worm slid out, dropping. So there was another one, and he was reaching in the cup to grab the worm and drop it quickly into the cup that held the other, the coffee safely over them. There was one thing that still bothered him. He knew that phosphorus was poison. If some portions had dissolved, the coffee might make them sick. But then he thought that its foul taste might not be from the phosphorus but from the way the coffee was prepared to make it taste so bad. Rettig hadn't wanted anyone to drink it. So they all had tried a sip and spit it out. They maybe would be fine.

He watched the guards and guessed that there wasn't any point in waiting further. He dipped his finger into the coffee, grabbed the worms, and as they dripped, he pressed them around the bolt that locked his cell. He wouldn't have attempted this if he'd been in a new and well-made jail. But this place had been built in 1923. When he had first come down here, he had been appalled. Oh, sure, the locks would hold if someone lunged at them or tried to break them, but the metal wasn't pure enough or thick enough for him, and he had asked permission to revitalize the jail which the town council had denied him. What did he expect? they asked him. Hacksaws or a bomb. There had never been that kind of trouble here, and if he did his job right, none of that stuff would get in here. Well, he had a trick to show them now, and he was grateful that they hadn't acted. Phosphorus burned at high temperatures. Although not sufficient to melt steel, the heat would weaken this poor metal, and the lock seams weren't that good to start with. Hell, he didn't have a thing to lose. He had to try.

He stepped back, but the phosphorus remained inert. Or maybe he was wrong, and these things weren't what he had figured. No, the coffee still was dripping from them. They weren't yet exposed to air. The coffee had to dry, as suddenly he saw what seemed to be a spark, and in a flash the phosphorus was burning. White hot, sparks, a thick cloud rising. He was staring toward the guards. The hiss was louder than he'd expected, like a thousand sparklers blazing on July Fourth, and one guard moved a little in his chair as Slaughter lunged against the cell door.

But it held. The phosphorus kept blazing around the bolt and lock seams, and he lunged again, and this time he could see the seams begin to part. The guard was shifting in his chair and in a moment would be fully wakened. Slaughter lunged against the door again, the metal clanging, and abruptly he was weightless, stumbling forward, almost falling as he realized that he was out, the cell door swinging free, the phosphorus still hissing, blazing. He kept stumbling, his arms out for balance, as the guard was sitting upright in his chair, and Slaughter lunged against him. While the guard fell, upsetting his chair, Slaughter grabbed the rifle, and he swung to grab the rifle from the second guard who now was sitting up as well, his face grotesquely startled, wincing from the rifle blow against his shoulder, falling. Slaughter dropped one rifle, aiming with the other, and the two guards paused where they were halfway to their feet now, and the worst part had been managed.

"Stay exactly where you are. Don't move or even fidget," Slaughter told them.

"How the hell…?" They stared from Slaughter toward the dimming remnants of the phosphorus.

"What's going on?" the medical examiner asked.

In the cells, the men were moving.

"Nothing. We're just getting out of here is all. Remember," Slaughter told the guards. "Don't even scratch your noses."

He was shifting toward the table, pulling out the drawer and grabbing for the keys. He watched the two guards all the time he edged back toward the first cell, Lucas waiting.

"Here. The big key," Slaughter told him, and he moved again to watch the guards while close behind he heard the scrape of metal as the key was turned. The cell came open. Slaughter glanced at Lucas coming out. He concentrated solely on the guards then as the cells were in their sequence unlocked and the men came out.

"But how did…?" Owens said.

"I'll tell you later. You two, get on in there." Slaughter pointed toward the guards.

They hesitated.

"Damn it, move, I told you." Slaughter started toward them, and they raised their hands.