He stepped back, but the phosphorus remained inert. Or maybe he was wrong, and these things weren't what he had figured. No, the coffee still was dripping from them. They weren't yet exposed to air. The coffee had to dry, as suddenly he saw what seemed to be a spark, and in a flash the phosphorus was burning. White hot, sparks, a thick cloud rising. He was staring toward the guards. The hiss was louder than he'd expected, like a thousand sparklers blazing on July Fourth, and one guard moved a little in his chair as Slaughter lunged against the cell door.
But it held. The phosphorus kept blazing around the bolt and lock seams, and he lunged again, and this time he could see the seams begin to part. The guard was shifting in his chair and in a moment would be fully wakened. Slaughter lunged against the door again, the metal clanging, and abruptly he was weightless, stumbling forward, almost falling as he realized that he was out, the cell door swinging free, the phosphorus still hissing, blazing. He kept stumbling, his arms out for balance, as the guard was sitting upright in his chair, and Slaughter lunged against him. While the guard fell, upsetting his chair, Slaughter grabbed the rifle, and he swung to grab the rifle from the second guard who now was sitting up as well, his face grotesquely startled, wincing from the rifle blow against his shoulder, falling. Slaughter dropped one rifle, aiming with the other, and the two guards paused where they were halfway to their feet now, and the worst part had been managed.
"Stay exactly where you are. Don't move or even fidget," Slaughter told them.
"How the hell…?" They stared from Slaughter toward the dimming remnants of the phosphorus.
"What's going on?" the medical examiner asked.
In the cells, the men were moving.
"Nothing. We're just getting out of here is all. Remember," Slaughter told the guards. "Don't even scratch your noses."
He was shifting toward the table, pulling out the drawer and grabbing for the keys. He watched the two guards all the time he edged back toward the first cell, Lucas waiting.
"Here. The big key," Slaughter told him, and he moved again to watch the guards while close behind he heard the scrape of metal as the key was turned. The cell came open. Slaughter glanced at Lucas coming out. He concentrated solely on the guards then as the cells were in their sequence unlocked and the men came out.
"But how did…?" Owens said.
"I'll tell you later. You two, get on in there." Slaughter pointed toward the guards.
They hesitated.
"Damn it, move, I told you." Slaughter started toward them, and they raised their hands.
"Okay. We're moving."
"You get in the first one. You get in the fourth."
"But why…?"
"No reason. Just do what I tell you. I just want you separated. Move, for Christ sake."
And they did, and Slaughter told the medical examiner to bind and gag them, using belts and strips of cloth torn from the bunk sheets. Slaughter watched them, aiming the rifle. Then the medical examiner stepped out, and Lucas shut the doors and locked them.
"Bring the keys. The other rifles."
Dunlap was already halfway across to reach one door.
"No, we're going this way," Slaughter told him. "That way leads upstairs. This other one is where we're going."
Dunlap was puzzled.
"You'll see."
Slaughter went across and took the keys from Lucas. He unlocked the second door and swung it open. Then he flicked the light switch in there, and they saw the damp, slick, brick-lined tunnel.
"It leads toward the courthouse. There's no time."
They hurried through. Slaughter stared back at the two guards in their cells. He waved and stepped inside the tunnel where he shut the door and locked it. Then he turned, and they were running.
It was slippery in here. Condensation on the ceiling dripped down on them, and the tunnel echoed from the clatter of their footsteps. Slaughter saw the vapor from his breath and felt the damp brick chill and kept on running. He was forced to stoop as he ran underneath the lights that hung from the ceiling. Then the tunnel curved a little, and they reached a second door.
"It's locked. I have to use the key."
But when he fumbled with the key, it didn't work. The door stayed locked.
"What's going on here?"
Then he realized the door had not been locked at all. What he had done just now was actually to lock it. He worked the key and turned the handle. Slowly, wincing as the door creaked, he pushed at the door, and they faced darkness.
"There's a hall. Just follow it. You'll reach some stairs."
Now Slaughter flicked the lights off.
"But we-"
"I don't want to be a target. Feel along the hall."
They inched through the darkness. Here the floor was tiled. It echoed from their halting footsteps. Owens struck an object, cursing.
"Quiet," Slaughter told him.
"There's a table."
"Quiet. People might be in here. "
So they kept inching forward. Slaughter felt ahead. We should have reached the end by now, he told himself, and then his boot struck wood, and he gripped the staircase bannister.
"We made it," Owens said, and Slaughter didn't take the time to caution him. He just continued up the stairs, and everything was dark up there as well, except that from some windows moonlight spilled in, showing the front door and the big main hallway.
"Shush," he told them, and they stopped while, breath held, Slaughter listened. "We'll use the back. For all we know, there are guards in front."
He moved down the murky hallway, and the layout in here was the same as at the police station. He passed silent offices and reached the back door, staring out, then looking at the others, pulling the door open, stepping into the moonlight.
"My car is in the lot behind the station. If we're careful, we can take it."
He shifted from the sidewalk toward the grass, concentrating on the parking lot as a man stepped from the bushes beside the courthouse. Slaughter, thinking of the two kids in the grocery store who'd shot him, almost raised his rifle, firing. But he managed to subdue his fear and resist the impulse. There wasn't a reason to kill this guard. The most he could hope for was to overcome the man before he could shout to warn other guards. Slaughter shifted his grip on the rifle, about to club the man, as Rettig came up close to him.
The other men sighed.
"Christ Almighty," Owens said.
Rettig stopped in front of Slaughter. "It took you long enough. I almost gave up waiting. So you figured what that stuff was."
"How come you're so smart to think of that?" Slaughter asked, relieved.
"I didn't. Marge did. She remembered what you said about the cells downstairs, how you complained that they were weak." Then Rettig explained what had happened while Slaughter was in jail, and Slaughter wished he hadn't heard.
"I think Parsons is going to kill those hippies," Rettig said.
"What?"
"He's going to pick a fight and kill them. He'll arrange it so it looks justified, but he'll kill them just the same, and he'll have so much help that no one'll say it wasn't self-defense. It's nineteen seventy again."
"But those hippies," Owens said. "Everything they've done. Why should we care what he does to them?"
From the farthest sections of the town, muffled gunfire echoed. Slaughter looked down at the ground, then turned to Owens. "Because they're people, or have you forgotten that?"