John didn’t have many happy memories from his childhood, but pot roast was one of them. Amos Warren had made killer pot roast. When they were out on a scavenging trip, he’d cook it in a cast-­iron Dutch oven, keeping it bubbling for hours over a bed of mesquite coals. When they were in town, he’d use a different Dutch oven, a shiny aluminum one, to cook the roast on top of the stove. Although John watched him do it often enough, he never quite mastered the art of making the stuff, but the cooks at the prison came surprisingly close.

Even on days when he wasn’t feeling one hundred percent, John still made the effort to go to the dining room for dinner on Saturdays. By the time a tray came to his cell it was usually dead cold. That evening, even though John was physically drained by his long encounter with Brandon Walker earlier in the day, he asked for an attendant to come wheel him to the dining room. He would have preferred having Aubrey do the job, but Aubrey’s shift ended at three. By dinnertime, he was long gone.

Jason, the kid who came to get him, was a new hire. He was competent enough, but he was young and naive. He also talked a blue streak, chattering away like a magpie. John didn’t pay much attention because he didn’t want to get involved. There was no point. He already knew the guy would be a short-­timer.

A strict seating hierarchy was maintained in the dining room. The various gangs stuck together, with their members sitting at predetermined tables. The far corner of the room held the tables for inmates who weren’t necessarily affiliated with any of the other groups. It was a form of exile that meant the ­people who sat there were farther away from the food lines and the trash cans than anyone else. They were also farthest from the door.

John liked to think of his usual table, the most isolated one in the room, as a United Nations of sorts. It certainly wasn’t the safest location, due primarily to the presence of two Anglo child molesters, one older—­a lifer—­and one several decades younger. The two weren’t necessarily friends, but they stuck together to watch each other’s backs. Everyone else maintained a certain distance, because they knew, without having to say so, who was wearing a target and who wasn’t.

There were several arsonists in the group, including two Korean brothers, twins, who had specialized in burning down dry cleaning establishments, and a Vietnamese guy who had torched his own nail salon. His ex-­wife, who happened to be inside the salon at the time, perished, which meant her ex-­husband was there for a stretch, twenty-­five to life. In addition, there were several unaffiliated Indians at the table—­a taciturn Hopi, a San Carlos Apache who wasn’t friendly with anyone, and a recently arrived young guy who didn’t talk much but who was most likely, John thought, Tohono O’odham in origin.

The Vietnamese guy, who went by the name of Sam, was the one with whom John had the most in common. He was the best educated of the bunch and had taken to heart John’s suggestion that he read his way through the encyclopedia as a way of passing the time. He was enthusiastic about it and was already halfway through volume C. Their occasional and mostly brief dinnertime chats often centered on esoteric things the two had learned from their individual courses of study.

Jason was still chatting away when he parked John’s wheelchair at the end of the table. That was his spot because climbing over the picnic-­style bench seating was impossible for him.

“Okay,” Jason said. “Gonna go have a smoke. I’ll be back for you in fifteen.”

The table was generally quiet that evening, but there was nothing out of the ordinary—­nothing that hinted something bad was coming. Jason was back from his smoking break and bending over to release the brake on the chair when all hell broke loose. The melee erupted in the middle of the room and soon spread to all corners. Inmates leaped to their feet while metal trays flew through the air and crashed to the floor. As sirens sounded and guards shouted warnings and orders, tables were overturned.

Knowing he was trapped in the corner with no way to escape, John watched as two men emerged from the fracas and started toward his table. With everyone else wildly throwing punches and contributing to the general mayhem, those two moved purposefully but almost in slow motion toward the corner. John’s initial assumption was that they were coming for the child molesters. It was only when he saw the shiv slice into Jason’s back that John Lassiter realized, too late, he was the real target.

He grabbed his tray and tried to use that as a shield, but the tray only managed to deflect the blow. The shiv plunged first into his side and then into his chest. His chair tipped over, spilling him out of it. He was lying on the floor on his side, looking up and waiting for the next blow, when Sam used his own tray to hammer the side of the attacker’s head. The little man’s swing was powerful enough to knock the offender unconscious. The shiv fell from the attacker’s hand. He toppled over and landed heavily on Jason’s too-­still body.

Through the din and the milling feet around him, John caught sight of someone else on the floor. It was the young Indian kid—­the Tohono O’odham. There was a gaping hole in his neck. He was trying to breathe, but John knew it was no use. He was about to drown in his own blood.

He’s dead, John Lassiter thought as his brain finally registered the pain in his own body and the blood pouring onto his hand. And so am I, but at least I’m out of here.

Then his world went black.

CUTTING THROUGH THE TAPE WAS a long, difficult process. Several times Tim whimpered and jumped reflexively, telling Gabe that the knife had cut into his friend’s flesh rather than simply into the tape. But at last, with a satisfying snip, the tape gave way. A moment later, Tim used his newly freed hand to peel the tape from his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he’d come after you. I didn’t think he’d come after any of us.”

Gabe’s muffled reply sent Tim’s fingers in search of the tape on Gabe’s face as well.

“Who?” Gabe asked when he, too, was able to speak.

Tim was already fumbling for the knife. “Henry Rojas,” he answered. “I saw him kill Carlos and Paul. I ran. I thought I’d be able to get away, but he caught me anyway. He said he’d shoot me if I didn’t tell him where the jar was. I thought he was kidding. Why would you shoot someone over a jar of peanut butter?”

“It’s peanut butter full of diamonds,” Gabe answered.

“Diamonds?” Tim asked. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Gabe said, “diamonds for sure.”

The blade of the knife slipped. Gabe felt it slice into the side of his arm. A trickle of blood meandered away from the cut. He winced but managed to stifle the cry that rose in his throat. After all, hadn’t he just done the same thing to Tim’s arm?

“How did he get all three of you?”

“Carlos had already gone to town. He told Paul that he was going to talk to the big boss and ask her for more money. He said that he didn’t know where she lived but that someone was going to meet him and take him to her.”

“The big boss is a woman?” Gabe asked.

“I think so,” Tim answered. “I know Carlos was scared of her. He told us before he left that we should put the jar in a safe place. That’s when I brought it over to you even though I knew you were busy last night. I worried about what your parents would say, but then they weren’t home, either. So I left the bag on your porch and went home.

“Paul and I played video games for a while, waiting up for Carlos to come back. Finally I got tired and went to bed. I was sleeping when something poked me in the arm.”

“A needle?” Gabe asked, biting his lip when the tip of the blade bit into his arm again.