HAUNTED SONA

CHAPTER TWO

They'd seen his hands shaking…and they'd interpreted it to mean what would have come naturally for them to believe. That he was weak; that he was scared.

Not good.

Alex Mahone leaned against the wall, realizing he still had his once-trusty, hollowed-out pen on him. Only now it was empty and of no use to him. With the last of his pills gone, he wouldn't be numb to pain anymore. There'd be no calming him down, no convenient shutting down of his emotions. No protection from the hand life had dealt him. Now he had nothing except his misery to keep him company.

Pushing away from the wall, he began to walk. There was nowhere to go, really, but he was so restless and jittery that he had to do something with himself. At least if he was moving, he could work off some of the nervous tension pent up inside him, ready to blow at any moment.

Forget I ever existed.

Was it the withdrawal from the drugs or the pain brought on by the memory of that last conversation with Pam making his heart beat at a frighteningly fast rate? Alex couldn't tell.

How the hell had this downward spiral happened to him? It wasn't supposed to have been this way. He recalled now his father, that very last time he'd beat Alex so hard that he'd drawn blood. He could remember being a thin, small boy, before he'd shot up in height and built himself up physically, thinking, Next time he's gonna kill me.

And he remembered how he'd determined, some years later, that he would someday have the kind of life he'd always wanted to have. With all his heard, he'd wanted that. He'd set about to having it. Beginning with his training in the special forces and, subsequently, college. Both experiences that had prepared him for that better life he'd dreamed of, which had flourished with his prestigious job and a loving little family. He'd done it—he'd achieved his dream. He'd had a life.

Now it was gone. How had that happened? How had everything gone so totally wrong? If he lived to be a thousand, he could never figure it out.

"El Cura wants to talk to you, americano."

Alex was being addressed, and he knew it, yet he kept walking as if he hadn't heard a word. The man who'd spoken to him apparently wasn't all that keen on being ignored, however. Roughly he grabbed el americano, as he'd called him, by the arm and yanked him back a step.

"Ey, you deaf or something, pendejo?" Bald and built, he reminded Alex of a homely and scary version of Fernando Sucre.

Mahone pulled his arm out of the inmate's grasp. Glaring at him, he demanded, "What do you want?"

"It's not what I want. El Cura wants to talk to you. El Cura—the Priest. That's what we call him."

"Oh. Well, I don't need The Priest. But I'll take The Lawyer, if he's got some free time for me."

Though Alex expected him to retaliate, Sucre's evil cousin actually chuckled. "This will be more helpful to you than a lawyer, I'm sure. El Cura doesn't speak to everyone. You should be honored. Come with me."

Alex only hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, with a nod, he followed the younger man and his three companions. That was when he noticed that the inmate who'd spoken was limping, even though he moved well, like one accustomed to his disability.

El Cura doesn't speak to everyone. Maybe this was another Sona hotshot, like that Lechero character. Someone who could provide protection while he was within those walls. Or was that nothing more than wishful thinking on his part? With a heavy dose of dread, he wondered what that protection could wind up costing him. Could it be any worse than any price he'd already paid?

On the way there they passed another inmate lying on the floor in a fetal position. Alex tried not to stare at the man, as much for his own sake as for the man's, to spare him that indignity. It had been rough enough seeing Bellick in the pathetic position he was in. Mahone didn't even want to imagine what had happened to him. His stomach churned at the thought of anything even remotely similar happening to himself. There in Sona, anything was possible.

But then he glanced back over his shoulder at the figure on the ground. A thin man, not very big in stature, with a shock of blond hair. The man seemed to sense Alex's stare and lifted his head ever so slowly. When he did, he revealed a face filled with cuts and bruises, like the nasty, large black-and-blues on his arms. He appeared to have been through quite a struggle but had lost the fight.

Theodore Bagwell. There could only be one of them—or so Alex hoped to God there couldn't be two of those running around. What was that animal doing here? That was probably the most dangerous of the escapees from Fox River, and yet there he sat in a crumbled heap on the floor, about as threatening as an injured bird that had fallen to the ground. He seemed to recognize Alex; those sharp eyes of Bagwell's—and he may have been crazy, but he sure as hell was an intelligent maniac—glinted with recognition at him. Distinctly, he opened his lips and was mouthing some words to him, trying to soundlessly communicate with Alex.

"You are making El Cura wait, americano!"

Hastily whirling around, Alex muttered, "Okay, okay. Sorry."

What had T-Bag tried to say? It looked like two words, or so it had appeared to Alex. The first word began with an "e" and there was an "f" or a "v" in there, judging by way his teeth had come down on his lips. Two syllables. The second word had two syllables as well, but it had begun with…what? An S? It sorta looked like he was saying "Even Steven." Was that it?

A taunt. That was it; he was taunting Alex. Mahone could almost imagine that white trash prince coolly singing out with that Southern twang of his: Well, well, well! Lookee what we have here. Even Steven, Mr. FBI Man! You tried to hunt us down, but now here you are, my fine, respectable gentleman of the law, here in this hellhole with us common criminals. I do say, that is quite an unfortunate turn of events, sir.

But as Mahone was led through an open door, he forgot about T-Bag. For the time being, at least. He turned his attention instead to the frail-looking elderly gentleman dressed completely in white—white pants, an oversized white shirt, white sandals—seated on the floor. From his lips dangled a lit cigar as he pounded away on some dough, which he was energetically kneading and forming into tortillas. He could have been eighty, ninety, perhaps a hundred years old, with all those lines on his face and the delicate skin of his hands stretched over bones and not much flesh at all. Most of his hair, except for some fine strands of white, was gone.

Behind him was what appeared to be a shrine. Small glasses of water and some darker fluid, perhaps coffee or dark rum, were placed before strange, somewhat ominous hand-crafted dolls. It didn't take long for Alex to figure out that this was no Lechero, that this man did in fact have influence, but not of the variety that could provide any sort of protection for Alex while within the walls of that prison.

"Sit down," the man who had summoned him ordered.

Suppressing a sigh, Alex chose to do as he was told and not make waves. Still, talk about a waste of time. "The Priest." Now it made sense. El Cura, as in the priest of whatever voodoo-hoodoo nonsense the old man practiced. But to dismiss the man without hearing him out? Alex suspected that could be potentially hazardous to his health. Besides, it wasn't like he had back-to-back meetings to fill up his time now. He could humor the old man and spare him a few minutes. Not to mention avoid ticking anybody off at him.

A young man wearing glasses crouched down beside the ancient man, who puffed thoughtfully on his cigar for some seconds before removing it from his mouth. In a scratchy stage whisper of a voice, he uttered some words in Spanish. The younger man evidently was the translator.

"El Cura says he called you here today," came the translation, "because he has a message for you."

"Oh. A message." Alex nodded soberly. Somehow, he managed to keep a straight face.

More Spanish. "He says you have spirits that are around you." More Spanish; some waving of those old arms. "Spirits that are always with you."

"Uh-huh."

"Spirits of those that you have done harm to when they walked with you in this life. They came in here with you."

Another nod of his head. El Cura wasn't all that impressive. Not in Alex's opinion, anyway. That description could have gone for…oh…everybody in that prison.

Some more words from the self-proclaimed seer. The translator explained, "One was a young man. El Cura says he sees him sitting with you at a table. You're bringing him something…something to drink. He was in some kind of trouble, this boy…and there was a girl. A girl that was important to him. He wanted to be with her. But you didn't let him."

Mahone said nothing, only swallowed hard. That sort of sounded like somebody Alex had known not too long ago. But they were really just moree lucky guesses, more generalizations. He'd never believed in such things and he wasn't about to start believing now. How could anybody take those things seriously?

"The spirit says you killed him. You murdered him." The translator paused, allowing El Cura to speak. "He says he sees one of the spirits pointing to something, um—uh, either a fountain or something else, something outside, in a yard. Birds go to drink from that fountain. There is something under the fountain that doesn't belong there."

Feeling his hands begin to shake, Alex shoved them into his pockets. He licked his lips and said nothing, concentrating instead on keeping the emotion from showing on his face. Inside, however…inside, he felt fear rising in him.

This is all a joke, he told himself. None of this is true. Just coincidence. I don't believe in any of this, I don't believe, I don't believe, I don't believe.

El Cura stopped to ground out his cigar on the floor. He was quiet for some moments, his yellowed and dim old eyes staring vacantly at Mahone. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger, louder, startling Alex.

"He says there is another spirit that follows you," the translator said. "Whether that spirit means you good or harm, that's not clear right now. Your friend—the one they call Michael—something is here with him, too. Something is always with him."

At that, Alex spoke. "Michael, yes. I know him. But he's not my friend."

He was surprised to see that his words had merited a translation to El Cura. The old man looked from his interpreter to his visitor. Though he didn't smile, the elderly man had a gentleness about him. Looking directly at Alex, he spoke once more.

"The spirit that follows Michael," the translator said, "is a good spirit. And pure. It's an angel. That spirit is protecting him."

"Oh? Yeah? That's nifty." Alex was at a loss for words. Though it was petty and small of him, he thought, Figures. I still can't get rid of Shales. Damn guy's tormenting me from the freakin' afterlife. And Pretty Boy Scofield? He's got a bodyguard from the Great Beyond. What else is new?

He cleared his throat. "Tell El Cura I said thank you, but I don't really believe in ghosts."

The translator obliged. Emphatically, the old man spoke again, this time at length. Yet as the translator opened his mouth to speak, El Cura stopped him with a hand on his arm. The old man turned and addressed Alex. His English was broken but he spoke with a staunch determination to be heard.

"Men have died here," the seer told Mahone. "Always, they die violently. They lived violently. Water no under this place. Blood is under this place. And all those who die here are still here. All are evil. If you no believe now…you will."