HAUNTED SONA

CHAPTER 10

A middle-aged man wearing thick glasses met Brad Bellick at the door. When he heard the name of the man who'd come calling, he looked wary.

"I just need a few minutes of El Cura's time," Brad explained. "Please."

As if on cue, the elderly man emerged from another room through a 1960s-style curtain of beads. He smiled when he saw Bellick, a fact that relaxed Brad immediately.

"Esta bien, Tomas," El Cura told his friend. "Tranquilo. Deje que entre el joven."

No explanation was forthcoming, but Brad guessed "Tomas" was in protective mode. Maybe he knew what had transpired there the last time Bellick had been there, during which El Cura had spiked the after-meal coffee. Whatever he'd slipped in had knocked Brad out cold.

But if hadn't killed him, though he'd first suspected he'd been poisoned. Instead he'd slept so serenely that night, more fitfully than he'd slept in all the time he'd been in that malignant place. And in the days that followed he'd found himself changing, even if he couldn't put that evolution into words.

"How you doin', El Cura?" Brad greeted him, returning his smile.

"Please—you call me Manuel." The old man waved an arm at a chair. "I am good, my friend. And you?"

"Fine. Thanks. I'm sorry, I can't stay long. I…have to ask you for a favor. Couple of favors, actually." He sat, going on apologetically, "And if I'm asking too much, just tell me, okay? No hard feelings. You're a real nice man."

He wasn't certain how much of that El Cura had understood. Maybe he had to speak slower? The middle-aged man either spoke little English or had no interest in serving as interpreter. The sweet old guy chuckled lightly and gave his shoulder an affectionate pat.

"I help you if I can," he promised. "Okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Manuel." Brad folded his hands on his lap, jumping right in. "Two favors, I need. First…would you—could you give me some rope?'

"Rope?"

Oh, boy. Brad thought for a moment before resorting to basically playing charades—a game he'd never been particularly good at. He pretended to climb a rope and then to tie it. "Rope. See? Rope."

"Ah, si! Lazo. Rope, yes!"

"There we go! Rope!" Bellick laughed. "You give me rope?"

"Oh, no, señor. I no have rope."

So much for that. Regardless, Brad patted El Cura's arm. "Thank you anyway, my friend."

"But I know who can give you rope."

"You do?"

"Yes. I tell you where to find him; you tell him I say to give it to you. How much you need?"

Michael had told him not to trust anyone. But, following his gut instincts, Bellick leaned in closer to El Cura.

"Enough to make a raft," he said.

El Cura blinked. "A raft?"

"Una balsa." So the other guy could be useful after all.

"Oh." The old man's smile evaporated. "For…down there. Under Sona."

"You know what's down there?"

"I know, yes." The lines in El Cura's brow deepened. "You are not the first to go down there. Other people try."

"Uh-huh. What is down there, exactly?"

"Down there? There are evil spirits." El Cura stopped to offer Bellick a cigarette, but he declined. He lit one for himself. "They will not let you and your friends leave so easy. They will do anything to stop you. They want you to stay here. To suffer. If they have to kill you, they will kill you."

"Yeah. I've heard they already tried." Bellick sighed.

"And, also…there is something else down there."

"What?"

"Something else. Well—this is what the legend says. But legends are legends. Maybe

is no true."

Though curious, Brad went on, "Please don't tell anyone about this."

"I no say nothing," the old man was prompt to ease his fears.

"Okay. I believe you. And I have another favor to ask, but first, I have a question about…what—what was that you gave me the last time I was here?"

El Cura shrugged. He took his time answering the question, first taking a couple of drags from his cigarette.

"Something to help you see," he said at last. "You have that power to see, but you never use it. I make a spell to you to—como se dice?—wake up that power."

Brad didn't speak, allowing himself to digest that bit of information. Now it made sense; the pieces were fitting together. In reality, he was relieved. He'd started thinking he was losing his mind.

Now he understood that his mind wasn't going, that his imagination wasn't in overdrive. He had seen things—figures, shadowy and undefined, walking among the living there on those grounds. He'd begun to hear things; footsteps where there were no feet, hollow laughter, voices carried on the wind.

He remembered some odd things from his childhood. Unrelated, spooky things, like the time he'd dreamt that his beloved grandfather had died. Brad was ten at the time. He'd woken the next morning to learn that his grandfather had been rushed to the hospital. He'd had a massive stroke and three days later left the hospital…in a casket.

And there were other incidents. Similar. Just as strange. He wanted to ask El Cura if, strung together, they meant something, yet there wasn't enough time for that. Besides which, by admitting he'd cast that spell on him, El Cura had, more or less, answered that question anyway.

"What is the other favor?" the old man asked.

Brad touched the amulet around his neck. "This, Manuel. The macuto. Could you give me two more of them?"

El Cura smiled knowingly. He crushed out his cigarette before asking, "For your friends?"

"Yeah. If you can."

"It is not a problem." Nodding, the old man rose to his feet. He motioned to Brad to follow him. "Come. You will bless them for your friends."

There were several of them, though only two would be needed. Buried under thick cobwebs and both the carcasses of dead cockroaches and live, scurrying ones, under rat feces and years of neglect. No one had bothered to dispose of them, like everything else in that, the world's sewer.

Yet they were long. Around twelve feet long. Sections of steel fitted together. Maybe not long enough, but they would have to do. Pipes, mostly rusted over, probably there since the prison was first built. They'd been replaced by new pipes—or rather, newer pipes. Those, too, had seen better days.

Michael and Alex had found their oars.

Mahone brushed away the disgusting gook, wiped his hand on his pants, and tested one. He looked from its top to the bottom, inspecting it.

"Well, it's fine," he muttered. "As long as the water's not twenty feet deep. Or more. We keep calling them oars, but they're not oars. We're pushing the damn raft with these things."

"Well, unless we can get to a Home Depot from here," Michael joked. That took effort, since he wasn't much in the mood for humor. "It's the best we're gonna get."

"Great. Then we have everything we need."

"Yep. Everything we need." Taking a grim glance around, Michael nodded. "Let's go hide our little treasures."

Everything we need. He wished he could be as optimistic, though it just wasn't in him right now. They'd managed to get the table's legs off, even if it had raised some curiosity from a few of the other men. Had they believed Mahone's explanation? That they were just bored and needed something to do? Or were the men there simply so numb from the despair in that place that no one cared?

Accidentally, Mahone, walking on ahead, banged the pipe he was carrying against the low ceiling. It made a loud, clanging noise.

"Easy," Michael urged behind him.

"Yeah, I know." Alex dipped the pipe down, walking faster in the direction of the freight elevator.

They had a long walk from that point. Long and arduous, since the heat that day was nearing unbearable. He had swayed before, feeling like he was about to pass out. He would've, too, had Alex not been there to catch him by the arm and hold him steady.

Compounding the difficulty was that sneaking suspicion Michael had that they were going to be caught. Either by a guard or some inmate with a taste for blood, or even Lechero himself.

He looked around again. Where was that angel? He wondered. She'd been on his mind so much lately. Who was she? And why had she been crying? Could she see him at all times, even when she wasn't making herself visible before him?

How he wished she was there now. It was as if her presence brought him courage.

"Are you doing all right?"

Michael drew in a sharp sigh. Up ahead, Alex had slowed down. He was apparently waiting for Michael's answer.

"I'm fine. Right as rain." Hadn't Alex said those same words before, but to Lechero? They'd sounded fake then, but not as false as they sounded now, coming from Michael's lips. "Oh…not really. I'm not fine."

"No? I thought something was up with you. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just keep walking."

That was all he needed—to confide in a man of Alex Mahone's caliber. He was alone in Sona, but he preferred his solitude, however painfully lonely, to opening himself up to a true enemy like Mahone.

Yet his common sense was no match for the emotions causing a bitter tempest inside him.

"I spoke to my brother this week," he began.

"I know. He said he's coming for us with a boat. Or so we hope."

Michael closed his mouth, then spoke again. "He doesn't know where she is. Or he does and he—he won't tell me. And I don't know why."

That time Alex stopped walking altogether. "Or maybe you're reading more into it than there is, kid."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"No, I mean it. Maybe he really doesn't know where Sara is, but you're letting yourself think he's hiding something from you. This place, it does things to your head."

Despite himself, Michael wanted to grasp onto that explanation, to accept it as gospel truth.

"You're really the bright optimist today, aren't you?" he said, giving a short laugh.

"What do you and me got besides hope?" The dim light fell on Alex's face, making him appear somehow less dangerous, younger, more vulnerable. Almost child-like. "You've got an angel watching you. If you do, I'd have to think Sara does, too. She's an innocent in all this."

"I hope so. I guess that was true when you were with her, that an angel was watching over her."

Alex scowled. "She was never in danger with me."

"Because you didn't have that chance, I guess."

"No, I had every chance to hurt that girl." Alex looked cross. "But I didn't touch her. Even afterwards, when she got me so angry, I refused to hurt her. I'm not the monster you think I am, Michael."

Turning, he continued to stalk through the corridor, taking lengthy strides of his long legs. Michael felt a twinge of regret, just a flicker, for having made that hurtful accusation. Following that was a burning anger directed at him.

Wonderful. Now he was putting himself through a guilt trip for having hurt Alexander Mahone's feelings.

"What, um…what did she do to make you angry afterwards?" he asked conversationally.

"She stopped off for doughnuts."

"What? I don't get it."

"You had to be there." Mahone's mood lifted enough that he chuckled.

It was a nice sound, Alex's laugh. Michael had noticed that before, too, though he hadn't wanted to see it. It had a genuine quality to it, making it sound so…big brotherly.

Michael shook his head in frustration. Mahone and big brotherly. Not two words he could deal with hearing together, even if it was only in his own inner thoughts.

Alex slowed down again, venturing a smile at him. "She really loves you, that girl," he said. "I know I'm not telling you anything you don't know, but…"

"But tell it to me anyway. Why do you say that?"

"Because she let us catch her. She could've gotten away, jeopardized you and Lincoln, but she let us catch her. She sacrificed herself to let you have your freedom." Alex's smile grew wider "If that's not love, I don't know what is."

Michael looked away. "If anything's happened to Sara, you know, Alex, I—I wouldn't care anymore, whether I got out of here or not. I wouldn't care."

"Hey—look at me."

If that moment hadn't been so emotionally charged, Mahone would have looked rather amusing, almost surreal, standing there in that darkened corridor, holding the long pipe at his side like Moses would have held his staff. But the way he looked at Michael, with such kindness, completely unfeigned, his big hand fully cupping around the younger man's shoulder, made Michael struggle inwardly.

Because he could almost like this man right now. He could almost forget how much trouble Mahone had been to him, how much pain he'd caused him, actually torn his heart in two when he'd taken away his father. He could almost forgive him, almost release him from the bitterness he was harboring against him.

And the next words out of the man's mouth made him fight back a fresh river of tears.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Michael. I don't know any more than your brother does, where Sara is or whether or not something bad's happened to her."

Michael rubbed his neck. "The thing is, you didn't do anything to her. But what if they sent someone who doesn't have a problem with hurting her, Alex—"

"Hey, hey, Michael." Mahone's voice was hoarse but gentle. "You know Sara better than I do. But from what I saw, that girl would not want you giving up. She wouldn't want you to spend one single day in this place. She'd want you to get out of here."

"Yeah." He nodded, afraid to trust his own voice. "It's weird, though, you know? I feel like—I don't even know how to explain this."

"Try."

"Ah, well…we don't have time for this."

"Yes, we do. And I'm listening. Go on."

Michael closed his eyes. "I feel like—and I know this makes no sense—but like she's not here anymore. I don't mean Sona, I mean that she's not in this life." His hands moved to his face, swiping at the tears he couldn't hold back any longer. "And I feel like I'm just going through the motions."

Alex said nothing. At first he faltered; being physically demonstrative to someone he didn't know well obviously didn't come easy to him. He moved shakily, hesitantly, like someone afraid he'd be pushed away. But then he slid his arm behind Michael's and, in an endearingly awkward manner, lightly patted his back.

"That's all right, kid. That's all right," he said as he withdrew his hand. "Wherever she is, you know she's thinking about you."