HAUNTED SONA
CHAPTER 8
Lincoln Burrows checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time since he'd been there, standing behind that steel fence. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this.
The Panama sun was scorching hot. It beat down on him, making his shirt cling to his back. He tried not to think about how thirsty he was, how he was aching for a cold glass of water to wash away the dryness in his throat. Again he stared out at the prisoners in the yard. Some noticed him but went about their own business, as if visitors from the outside, if not there for them, generated no interest to them. He searched their faces, looking for one that was familiar.
He was looking for his brother, but any of the other three—Mahone, Bellick, even T-Bag—would do. Anyone who could tell him where Michael was. He needed assurance that his younger brother was alive.
Linc sighed then, rubbing a crick out of his neck. People had told him that Sona was dangerous. That it harbored the worst of the worst in terms of criminals, who'd been left to their own devices, though guards still stood at the ready within the perimeters, their weapons poised to kill.
Some of the villagers—superstitious folks, to be sure—had been even more colorful in their descriptions. They'd crossed themselves when he'd uttered the word "Sona." The prison was haunted, they said, the most haunted place in all of Panama. They claimed that criminals ruled over one part of that patch of land and departed spirits ruled over the other.
But sometimes, they claimed, the ghosts would not stay in their part of Sona. According to the local newspaper itself, a team of psychics had come out to the place roughly a decade earlier. They had concluded that the legend of Sona was true and that the ghostly activity recorded there was among the highest they had ever seen on earth.
Linc Burrows did not believe in ghosts, but he'd found those stories mildly entertaining nonetheless.
One of those familiar faces that he'd been hoping to see appeared. He never thought he'd be happy to see Brad Bellick, but ironically enough, he was. Bellick looked like he was just passing by, wandering aimlessly, but he heard Linc call to him. Without delay he made his way over to the fence. The former C.O. looked to have lost a few pounds, which spoke of his experiences so far at Sona. He wore a sleeveless shirt and dark pants that showed every speck of dust on them. When he came nearer, Linc could see he was also sporting some strange beaded jewelry around his neck. Now if Bellick would just cooperate—and judging from past experience, that would take a miracle—Linc could breathe easier.
"Hey, how you doin'?" It was a nicety, a formality. Linc couldn't have cared less how Bellick was doing.
"Uh, well…" Bellick shrugged, then smiled. "As good as can be in this place. How about you? You see your brother?"
He's alive. A trace of hope sparked in him. "Not yet."
"I'll tell him you're looking for him."
"Would you? I'd appreciate that. I really need to speak to him."
"I know you do. Oh, and, uh, Burrows—you got a pen?"
"A—a pen? No." Linc scowled, his curiosity piqued.
"How's your memory? Can you remember something if I tell you?"
"Why?"
He wasn't in the mood for Bellick's deception. On the other hand, something in the man's demeanor made Linc humor him. Seeing him step closer to the fence, Linc did the same, listening to Bellick whisper the address of an abandoned warehouse.
"It's close by to here," he told Linc, still in a whisper.
"Okay, so? What's there?"
"You'll find them there."
"Who?"
"Maricruz and her aunt."
Linc stared at him, unblinking.
"Sucre will want to know that. Tell him they have food and water. They should be all right, but, uh…" Bellick swallowed hard and nodded. "You should hurry anyway. Her being pregnant and all."
Linc observed him. Why was he giving up that information so easily? He hadn't even asked for it. Dropping his gaze, he noticed Bellick fidgeting with the amulet dangling from the necklace, some trinket which had as its center a small seashell.
"I'll go tell your brother you're here."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks."
Waiting until Bellick was out of sight, Linc shook his head and gave a low whistle. That made no kinda sense whatsoever. Was he supposed to believe that Brad Bellick, a major creep if ever there was one, had turned over a new leaf? That he'd had some sort of epiphany that made him remember he was supposed to be a human being and have a semblance of a heart beating in him?
How's your memory? Can you remember something if I tell you?
Out loud, in a loud whisper, Linc repeated the warehouse's address to himself a few times. Even that might've been a mistake. Knowing Bellick, maybe that was a trap. The address was real, all right, and so was the warehouse—but maybe once he got there, there'd be somebody waiting there and it wouldn't be Fernando Sucre's girlfriend and her aunt.
Yet within himself Linc sensed that that was the case. He didn't know how he could tell that, but Brad Bellick was telling him the truth. There was something sincere, something almost caring in the way he'd said, They'll be all right, but you should hurry anyway. Those didn't sound like words that should have been coming from his mouth, but they were.
Linc didn't have any more time to give the matter thought. He and Michael both spotted each other at the same time, when Michael was on that second level. He watched as his brother picked up the pace and headed down the stairs so fast that he fretted Michael would stumble. He smiled all the way through the yard until he came to stand on the other side of that fence.
He was alive. After all the horror stories he'd heard about Sona, Linc had come to fear he would come to the prison and find he was too late, that Michael was gone. He remembered the first time he'd seen him in Fox River, the shock he'd experienced when he realized what his brother had done. This seemed to cut through him even more painfully, now that that fence was between them.
"I'm gonna get you out of here, Michael." He hadn't planned for those to be his first words to his brother, yet they were, spoken from the deepest part of his heart.
Michael's grin was doleful. He shuffled his feet, nearing the fence and speaking low.
"I don't have a lot time, Linc," he whispered. "I have so much to tell you. Just don't have the time right now…but we're gonna need a boat."
"A boat?" This was even more confusing than the encounter with Bellick. "Where am I supposed to get a boat?"
"Don't worry. Doesn't have to be as big as the Christina Rose. I wish I could tell you more, but I don't have the specifics because we found all this underground. This place behind us…" Ever so subtly, Michael tossed his head to indicate the prison. "…underneath there's like these catacombs or caves, they're…they go on and on, but I'm not sure for how far. Felt like we traveled a good four or five miles, I think. The caves end at the ocean. If you can find the opening to the cave, you'll find us. We're thinking about leaving here on Saturday night. Late. But we'll need you. We can't do this without you."
"Who's 'we'?"
Michael licked his lips before going on. "It looks like it's gonna be me and Mahone. We might need Bellick, too, but I haven't spoken to him yet."
Linc's expression hardened. He'd trust those two about as far as he could throw each of the bastards. He approached a different matter, more out of his own curiosity. "There are caves down there? How'd you find out about that?"
Michael coughed out a dry laugh. "You wouldn't believe it."
"Try me."
Was that color flooding his brother's face? "The ghosts led us there. Well, part of the way. My angel led us straight to the ocean."
Shocked to hear that explanation coming from Michael, Linc was a sudden loss for words. Recovering, he tried to gather his thoughts together, trying to decide which question to ask first.
"Your angel," he clarified. "That's what you said, right? Your angel?"
"Linc, why didn't Sara come with you? Is she all right?"
"I don't know where she is." Good. Even to his own ears, that response sounded natural.
As it should have. He'd practiced it enough. He knew to expect that question, that a visit to Michael wouldn't pass without mention of Sara Tancredi.
"I'm not totally in agreement with you doing this with Mahone," Linc took the opportunity to change the subject abruptly. "Bellick, maybe—but not Mahone."
"I don't have a choice, Linc. We'll need to get a raft down there, now that we don't have the boat. Or something we can use that will float like a raft."
"What? I thought you said you need a boat."
"That's—that's for the ocean. Look, it's confusing, I know. There's the ocean and then there's this waterway, like a canal, in the cave itself. Just let us worry about it. In the meantime, Linc, I need to know Sara's all right." Michael's eyes grew stormy, reflecting his emotion. "She means everything to me, Linc. Find her."
Linc avoided meeting his eyes. "Let's focus on getting you out of here first, all right? One thing at a time. Right now, getting that boat is my priority. And I swear, if either Mahone or Bellick causes us any trouble, I'm tossing both their asses overboard."
"That's fine." Michael's tone was dismissive, the expression in his eyes faraway. "And afterwards, I'll find Sara myself. I've been dreaming about her a lot lately. I want to see her in something other than my dreams, Linc."
Finally, Linc met his gaze. He almost told him, coming very close to the admission. Luckily, he bit his tongue. He couldn't tell him. Not yet.
There was no telling what the truth would do to Michael, but Linc knew it would affect him and his will to survive.
"Saturday night," he repeated.
"Late," Michael reminded him. "I wish I could give you a definite time, but I can't."
"And if for some reason you're not there—"
"Oh, we'll be there. We have to be."
It wasn't pretty and it wasn't state-of-the-art, but it would do in a pinch. The real question was: Would it hold his weight and Michael's? And Bellick's, if they needed him to come along?
Alex banged a fist hard on the table, testing how much it rattled from the motion. An old table made of wood. The legs were rotted, pretty much, and that was no problem. They'd be ripping the legs off it anyway. Prisoners from the past—and had someone carved in the date 14 enero 1942?—had left their names and artwork to fade on its surface, some reminder that they'd been there. No longer of much use, the table had been left, forgotten, in a room where mostly clutter and garbage gathered, a room that stank even worse in the unforgiving heat.
Well, they had their raft. It would be heavy and cumbersome, but between them they'd get it down there. It'd definitely fit in the freight elevator, no problem.
Only thing…what would they use for oars?
"Throwing a party, muchacho?" The question had come from the doorway.
Tensing, Alex turned on his heel. He relaxed when he saw it was one of the other inmates, a scrawny, nasty man around Scofield's age who'd never seemed to have learned to mind his own business. His real name now escaped Alex, but other prisoners called him by his nickname, Indio.
"Yeah, I'm throwing a party," he tossed back, hoping that would get Indio off his back.
"Oh, oh. No good. You are not inviting me." Indio smiled, but under the veneer was clear malice.
He wouldn't do anything to Mahone himself. That would have required some degree of courage, and Indio was one of the more cowardly inmates. When he fought, he did so with his friends, usually stacking the odds at three thugs to one man. Alex didn't have time for it, nor was he much in the mood for being ganged up on.
"Of course we're inviting you! Don't be silly. Just haven't sent out the invitations yet." Mahone flashed his most charming smile, his tone genteel. "Hey, you won't wanna miss it. We're having a DJ and a cash bar, and—oh, we're catering the affair. Plus, get this—we're flying in Jennifer Lopez! She'll be singing and dancing for us."
Even though he knew it was a joke, that really made Indio's day. It was common knowledge around Sona that Indio was a big J-Lo fan. It didn't matter that the inmate was uglier than sin and his breath was as sweet as decaying cheese. Just the mention of her endeared Alex to him. For a short time, though. Indio didn't like anyone on a permanent basis, or so experience had taught Alex.
"Ah, Jennifer! Que sexy, mami!" Indio, laughing and satisfied that there was nothing of interest going on in that room, continued lusting out loud after the famous actress and singer on his way out to the yard to join his usual cohorts.
Mahone also stepped out, and wisely so. For now, the table could stay where it was; no one would be taking it. He suspected it had been there for decades and it wasn't going anywhere. When the time came, he and Michael could stealthily remove it and transport it, the quicker the better, down to the elevator.
Or maybe they'd find a more suitable "raft". That was okay. He wasn't married to the beat-up old table. If Scofield or even Bellick found something they thought would work better, then great. More power to them. Anything was preferable to swimming, though. Although he could have done it, Alex wasn't about to swim all that way. The leeches were reason enough to avoid going for that toxic swim. His skin was still tender where they'd latched onto him. But what bothered him even more were those other things buried right beneath the surface. Neither the table nor another makeshift raft was guarantee that they wouldn't be shaken off, either. That was a chance they just couldn't afford to take.
He headed in the direction of the elevator. He had his reasons. Realistically, it made more sense to avoid that area, not to draw attention from the other inmates, especially not Lechero or anyone associated with him. Among his reasons was the privacy factor—the fact that the other men avoided that section of the prison.
Right now, the one thing Alex needed was his privacy. Glancing over his shoulder and assured that he wasn't being followed, he continued down the corridor, moving as fast as his legs would carry him without breaking into a full sprint.
As he walked, he reached into his pocket. His old friend, the hollowed-out pen, was there. But now it was no longer hollow. Holding it to his ear, he grinned, hearing the barely audible tinkle. Alex stopped when he was far enough down the dimly lit hallway to lean against the wall. Then, slowly, he tapped the pills he'd gotten from an inmate called Rubio, who was said to be able to get just about anything, into his hand.
Rubio had complied too easily, Alex recalled. And he hadn't specified what his price would be. That was cause for alarm, but Mahone couldn't think of that right now. He was trembling inside and out, standing there, alternating between staring at the pills and peering out for any unwelcome visitors, either of the live or dead persuasion.
You can play now, Rubio had joked, and pay me later. I'll be sending you the bill for your good time.
With his free hand, Alex rubbed his face. Something told him he'd written out a check he wouldn't very well be able to cash. Those weren't his pills, either. He was playing with fire, trusting a dangerous man who'd smiled casually and told him not to worry, that whatever drugs he got hold of for him would calm him down.
Throw them away, Dad.
Alex almost dropped the pills, his hand was shaking so hard. Naturally, Cam had never said those words to him, though he could almost hear him speaking them in his heart. In his little boy's eyes, he was strong. And perfect. How could Daddy be any less?
And that was what Cameron deserved. The kind of father he'd tried to be, once upon a time. Not the worthless junkie he'd become.
But what could he do?
Before he could change his mind, Alex popped the pills into his mouth and chewed them down.
Later, he would quit. How could he be expected to quit there? He wouldn't even allow himself to think about it right now. To give it a lot of thought now would only reduce him to tears born of his shame. Not exactly a useful activity right now.
Instead he stood up to his full stature over six feet tall, trying to hold up his head. He couldn't get the monkey totally off his back there, in that place, but he'd quit soon. Very soon. By Saturday he'd be out of there. He and Michael would literally sail away from that place, and they were going their own separate ways, which was just as well because he'd be going home.
That was what all he wanted: To go home.
Walking slower now, more painfully, Alex continued down the hall. How would that work, he wondered? Either the FBI, or worse, the ones who'd kept him as their personal attack dog would come after him. That was the truth; that was reality.
But he could still hope, couldn't he? He blinked back angry, hot tears. There had to be a way to go back to life as it was, to normalcy, and he just hadn't thought of it yet. He could still envision those days, before Shales, before Kim, when he'd put in a full day's work and then go home to his wife and son. He'd lived for those times. Maybe, somehow, even if it was to a different extent, he'd find that life again.
All he needed to find Home was Pam and their son.
Suddenly, something sounded at the other end of that corridor. Alex stopped so fast, he almost stumbled. He held his breath, afraid even to breathe.
There it was again: footsteps. A figure emerged, stepping in front of the day. Recalling his last experiences with the departed, Mahone gasped in a sharp breath.
Was this the result of the pills Rubio had given him? A drug-induced hallucination? He hoped that was it. He preferred that to the truth.
But this was no hallucination. He could feel that in his soul. This was actually happening.
"Who are you?" he whispered. Staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed solidly on the figure, he watched it emerge from the shadows. "Oh. Oh—that's not possible. Y-you're dead." His voice rose to a strangled shout, "That's not possible!"