HAUNTED SONA
CHAPTER 11
El Cura wasn't alone that Friday night. Tomas and Reynaldo were there, asleep on cots in the front room, where he always received guests. His sleep had been so light and disturbed that night, plagued by nightmares.
He reached a hand out to turn the clock on the rickety small table set near his bed. 2:34 AM, it read. Maybe a cup of chamomile would help. Cursing under his breath, Manuel chose to stay in bed. If he couldn't sleep, at least he could remain there in bed, resting.
Yet rest was not to be his as a restless morning gave way to a troublesome night.
He swiped a wrinkled hand over his eyes, one of which was blurring more and more these days, it seemed. Most likely, the culprit was glaucoma, but who was to say for sure? Ithad to be due to the diabetes. He knew, without proper medical treatment, he would go blind there in Sona. Certainly, death would find him there, sooner or later. Natural death caused by illness, since he really wasn't in danger from the other inmates.
He was reminded, in that vexing hour, of the reason he'd first been sent to Sona. Was it 1970 or 1971? He couldn't recall exactly. What he did remember was the man's name—if he could, in fact, be called a man. Jaime. A cruel and vicious beast, if ever there was one. Manuel had been younger then. Younger and stronger. He'd warned Jaime not to lay a hand on his daughter, Matilde. Manuel had been clear: You touch my daughter again, you raise a hand to her, and I'll kill you.
His son-in-law had not listened.
Reaching out to the stand again, Manuel groped for the framed picture beside the clock. It was still dark, with hardly any light coming in through the window since the sun hadn't yet risen. But he could see the picture of himself, his wife Berta and their only child. Mathilde had been beautiful, taking after Berta, fortunately, instead of him. He and his daughter had often ridden their horses in the woods behind the family's farm, just for the pleasure of savoring the scents and sights and music of the woods.
Her husband had brought that all to an end, however. He'd beaten Matilde since their wedding night. He'd beaten her so badly that last night that, by the time Manuel arrived at their home, his beloved child had died in his arms. He'd had no doubt that the baby in her womb had also died.
She was nineteen years old. That night, Matilde was carried out of the home in one box…and Jaime in the other. And Manuel himself had left there with chains on his wrists and feet. Berta, shortly afterwards, it was too much for the poor woman, and she died of a heart attack.
In one night, Manuel's family had been utterly destroyed.
He blinked away tears. 1970 or '71. It might as well have happened yesterday. The scars were still that fresh, even after over three decades. That was why he understood those men, los americanos. He identified with them. Mr. Bellick and—what was his name, the tall one?—Alejandro Mahone, and the young one, Michael. Miguel. That was the most tragic one of all, El Cura knew.
Suddenly, he clutched at his thin blanket. The air in the room had suddenly gotten colder. There was also a stench growing in the air, becoming almost unbearable within a few seconds. He could hear someone breathing heavily.
"Tomas?" he called out. "Reynaldo? Contestame."
No one complied, answering him. He was met with silence. Then, to his horror, he felt the blanket being ripped away from him, completely off his bed.
Light shone at the foot of his bed. It formed a halo, like a mockery of the angelic, around the one they called T-Bag. Teodoro. His eyes were black and lifeless, staring back at Manuel. He lowered his head slightly, and El Cura could see there was something in his hand. A demonic grimace tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Tomas! Reynaldo!" Manuel tried to sit up in bed.
"Heheheheheheh…" T-Bag lifted the object in his hands, actually displaying it for his victim.
It was a shank, dripping with blood. He raised it higher and ran his tongue along it, slurping at every drop of blood he could get. The blood, El Cura realized, of his friends, now dead in the front room.
"Tell me where they're going, Manuel," the possessed man snarled.
"Diablo! Dejame solo!" Summoning his courage, the old man swung his legs over the side of the bed—only to be flung back by an unseen force. Then his hands slammed hard against the bedposts, pinned there.
"I'll ask you again," T-Bag whispered. "Where are my friends going? Those, rude, rude boys. I know they're throwing a party…and they didn't invite yours truly. I need to teach those bad boys some manners, see? So, friend, tell me…donde van mis amigos?"
"I will not tell you!"
"Oh…oh, oh, oh, Manuel." A lunatic giggle bubbling out of his lips, T-Bag spoke through clenched teeth. "That's not nice. That's not nice at all." He stopped smiling, then let out a howl, loud and animalistic.
He rose off his feet. Suspended in mid-air, he hovered over the bed. His face lowered close to Manuel's, his breath foul and repulsive.
"Dime, viejo" Tell me, old man. "And what about this legend, hmmm? I'd like to know more about that. And…donde esta Alejandro?" T-Bag demanded in a voice octaves deeper than his own. It was certain that the inmate himself was not speaking anymore, but the evil entity inside him. "Y tu amigo, Bellick? Y…Miguel?" Hatred, fierce and palpable, filled his contorted face. "Especially Miguel. Give them to me!"
El Cura stared back at him, defiant and unflinching. "Never. Nunca, Diablo!"
The old man waited for the cold steel edge of the knife to slit his throat, to be drowned by his own blood. Instead, mercifully, a pain, quick and ferocious, gripped his chest, minutes before his life ended just as his loving wife's had, so many years earlier.
"Is this Agent Lang?"
"Yes, sir. Is this Lincoln Burrows?"
"That's me."
"Well…Mr. Burrows, I understand you have some information on Agent Alex Mahone."
Lincoln Burrows couldn't resist smirking, holding the cell phone tighter to his ear. "Hold on a sec, Ms. Lang."
He untied the boat from the dock. A twenty-seven foot cabin cruiser, an old vessel, rusted in spots, but still pretty seaworthy. The name on it was Milagros en la Agua, which, he'd learned, translated into "Miracles on the Water." He surely hoped that today the boat would live up to its name. The fisherman who'd rented it looked like someone who'd needed a miracle or two of his own, like someone who'd fallen on hard times and the paltry money Linc had given him would feed his family for a while longer.
"Mr. Burrows?"
"Yeah, I'm here. I don't just have information on your man, Ms. Lang. I'll have him, in the flesh. Today."
He could hear scuffling in the background, like the lady was hustling to grab a pad and pen on her desk. "Where are you?"
"In Panama."
"And where's he?"
"In Sona. But he'll be out today, if all goes well."
"If all goes well? What does that mean?"
Linc cranked up the engine. It was early, the break of dawn. The sun was beginning its ascent into the sky. He wanted to believe it was the dawn of a new day, the first of many good ones. Yet he knew there were difficult times ahead for his brother.
Oh, God. How was he going to break the news to Michael?
"I'm going to deliver him to you," he said into the phone, ignoring her question.
"Where are you? Are you driving? I hear—"
"Listen to me, Ms. Lang!" he snapped, turning his attention to steering the boat away from the marina and out to open sea. "I'm gonna deliver Mahone to you. Alex Freakin'-Fugitive-From-the-Law Mahone."
"I know, but—"
"And I want you to throw his junkie, conniving, mean-spirited ass in jail. For a very long time, Ms. Lang. I want you to keep that bastard away from me and my family. You got that?"
"Mr. Burrows, please…please…" On the other line, Agent Lang's voice dropped to a whisper. "Please don't—don't hurt Alex. Please don't hurt him."
Linc frowned. Something in her tone struck him as odd. And why had she lowered her voice?
"Like I said, I'll deliver him to you safe and sound. Then you can feed him three-square and give him his own little cell in a federal pen, for all I care—but you make him do his time, Ms. Lang. He's got a lot to answer for."
"I know. You're right. Listen, um…could—could I talk to him? Please."
Snapping the phone shut, Linc flung it over the boat's railing. He couldn't hear it plop into the water, what with the roar of the engine and the white-capped waves stirring up in the boat's wake, slapping at the hull.
He wasn't the world's best captain, but he'd navigated a similar vessel before. Though this was no leisurely cruise, no half day fishing excursion complete with sunscreen, frothy beers, and rock music blaring from a portable CD player's speakers.
He was under the gun. His mission was to find the opening to a cave within the vicinity of the old prison in time to rescue his brother and those other two. And he had to do it quickly, without drawing the attention of the authorities. His heart was pumping fast, his adrenaline hot and pulsing through his bloodstream. The pressure was on, but he was up to the task, throwing his whole heart and soul into it.
Would Michael be pissed that he'd called the FBI? It didn't really matter. It wasn't like Panama was a hop, skip and a jump from their headquarters or anything. It would take the feds time to get down there and by then, they'd be long gone.
Hopefully.
And maybe he'd regret giving into that impulse, that desire that had raged like a fire inside him, when he heard Michael say Mahone was coming with him. So, all right: Mahone was a bastard, but he was intelligent. He was physically strong and cunning. He would be an asset to Michael in escaping Sona. Linc accepted that.
But after that, once he was again useless to them, Linc himself would hogtie him, if necessary. Tucked into the waistband of his pants was a revolver. A cheap piece, something he'd picked up. He'd use it this time on Mahone, without hesitation. But what he really wanted was justice—to send him back to the feds, let them deal with him. After everything he'd done, maybe Michael, being Michael, could forgive him. But Linc wanted him punished to the full extent of the law.
And it gave him satisfaction, however minute, to know that Alex would be carted away like the common thug he was, in shackles, hopefully sentenced to be imprisoned for the rest of his natural life for the murder of Linc and Michael's father.
With the first rays of daylight to guide him, he revved up that engine for all it was worth and sailed out, in search for their miracle out in the sea.