While a local doctor sewed Sweet back up inside his small cell and pumped him up with enough antibiotic to make his veins glow, Bridgette prepared a short statement that she delivered to the press outside the front glass doors of the sheriff’s office. The briefing centered around an area of Adirondack real estate fifteen miles to the east of Dannemora and Plattsburgh called Willsboro. A mountainous rural area occupied by a scattering of two thousand inhabitants, plus numerous hunting cabins and even a deer preserve maintained by a hunting collective, the members of which lived and worked in New York City but made the drive up north on the weekends in their big black Suburban SUVs to be one with the land.
According to Bridgette, the two convicts were spotted in the area by a local resident only this morning, and the investigation was now going to shift to a five-by-five square mile of land in Willsboro center. When one reporter raised his hand, inquired as to the reason behind the raucous noise that could be heard coming from the depths of the jail earlier, Bridgette thought quick. “That was nothing more than a training exercise. Make no mistakes, people, all rumors of an escape attempt on behalf of Gene Bender and Joyce Mathews are unfounded.” She failed to mention Larry Mathews, but then, his arrest and murder hadn’t yet been made public. She then thanked the crowd, and despite the dozen questions lobbed at her all at once, she quickly escaped by heading back into the office through the front glass doors.
Not even two or three minutes had passed before the gang of journalists jumped back into their vans, cars, and mobile broadcasting vehicles and began heading straight for Willsboro. Clearly, the ruse worked. Now, while the press was focused on another area of Upstate New York, Blood and I could find a way to get back inside the prison without being spotted by dozens of pairs of prying eyes and cameras.
Convening once more in Bridgette’s office, Sweet was brought inside. Vincent D’Amico was also present. Sweet’s right hand was now tightly bandaged, a small spot of rust colored blood had formed on the area where his thumb used to be.
“Here’s the deal,” D’Amico said. “You’re going back to Dannemora.”
Sweet’s eyes went wide. I thought he was going to throw up.
“You can’t fucking do that to me,” he said. “I go back to that prison today, I won’t live to see the morning.” His eyes watered. “You hear me, Sheriff? You’ve just signed off on my execution.”
Bridgette sat behind the desk, looking very official and stern.
“I’m sorry, Derrick,” she said, “but the law is the law, and we have no choice. If it’s any consolation, you’ll spend the next week or two in the prison infirmary. You’ll be provided with your own personal corrections officer bodyguard. One of those big muscle heads who work inside Rodney’s personal circle. You have nothing to worry about.”
Sweet was already pale. His skin turned even whiter at the mention of Rodney. For a split second, I thought his heart might give out. Bridgette glanced at me. She knew that I knew she was really pouring it on.
“B-but I thought the governor was taking responsibility for me,” Sweet stuttered.
“The governor agrees,” Bridgette said. “You’re to go straight back to prison. Do not stop on Go, do not collect two hundred bucks.”
Now the tears that had been precariously balanced around the fleshy rims of his eyes started overflowing. Sweet even fell out of his chair onto his knees. He lifted both his hands, pressed them together like he was praying for divine intervention on his behalf. The good hand joined to the heavily bandaged bad hand made him look like a casualty of war . . . a prisoner of war.
“Please, Sheriff,” he cried, “I’m begging you. Please don’t put me back there in that iron house. I won’t live to see the sunrise tomorrow morning.”
Blood leaned into me. “He either a real good actor, or he really scared shitless.”
“I hope, in fact, he doesn’t shit himself,” I whispered back.
I stole a peek at D’Amico standing by the door on the opposite side of the room. He was biting down on his bottom lip. As if to answer Blood’s question, I got the feeling he interpreted Sweet’s dismay, not as an act, but genuine fear oozing from a man who clearly feared his own imminent death.
“For reasons of keeping your capture a secret and away from the prying eyes of a starving media,” D’Amico said, “we’ve arranged for Mr. Marconi and Mr. Blood here to provide your transportation back to the prison.”
Sweet, still down on his knees, turned his head, focused his eyes on the trooper. He stood up slowly, his mouth open, lower jaw hanging down by his slippered feet.
“Are you fucking kidding?” he said. “These two jerks work for Governor Valente. They’ll kill me first chance they get, just like they killed Picasso.”
“Valente fired us,” I lied. “And I didn’t kill Moss. He killed himself when he tried to kill me first. Capisce?”
“Gospel,” Blood chimed in.
“Now, don’t you worry, Mr. Sweet,” D’Amico said, “me and my men will be following you every step of the way.” Cocking his head over his shoulder. “At a safe enough distance, naturally.”
“Oh, now I feel a hell of a lot better,” Sweet said. Then, looking up at the ceiling, “Sweet Jesus, I’m gonna die.”
Bridgette got up, came around the desk, slapped a cuff onto Sweet’s good hand, and then placed the other cuff around Blood’s wrist.
“Good Christ,” Sweet barked, “anyone but Black Tonto.”
“Hey,” Blood said while the metal cuff was attached to his wrist, “I take offense to that.”
Sweet peered up at Blood. He was genuinely afraid of the big ebony man. And I couldn’t blame him one bit.
“If that’s all, gentlemen and lady,” D’Amico said, “let’s get this show on the road.”
I went for the door just as the trooper opened it.
“If this doesn’t work,” he whispered under his breath, “I lose my job and my pension.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “it’ll work.”
Behind me, Bridgette tossed Blood the key to the cuffs before exiting the room. Then came Derrick Sweet, the scared-of-his-own-shadow fugitive from justice being dragged by the wrist.
“Dead man walking,” he said under his breath. “That’s what I am. Stupid dead asshole walking.”