Coffey's Hands by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King [King, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Literary, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Crime, Serial Killers, Supernatural, Suspense, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), Literary Fiction, Paranormal
Amazon: B01BKR43DG
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2016-05-09T04:00:00+00:00

5

WILD BILL WHARTON took his first trip down to the restraint room the very next day. He spent the morning and afternoon being as quiet and good as Mary’s little lamb, a state we soon discovered was not natural to him, and meant trouble. Then, around seven-thirty that evening, Harry felt something warm splash on the cuffs of uniform pants he had put on clean just that day. It was piss. William Wharton was standing at his cell, showing his darkening teeth in a wide grin, and pissing all over Harry Terwilliger’s pants and shoes.

“The dirty sonofabitch must have been saving it up all day,” Harry said later, still disgusted and outraged.

Well, that was it. It was time to show William Wharton who ran the show on E Block. Harry got Brutal and me, and I alerted Dean and Percy, who were also on. We had three prisoners by then, remember, and were into what we called full coverage, with my group on from seven in the evening to three in the morning—when trouble was most apt to break out—and two other crews covering the rest of the day. Those other crews consisted mostly of floaters, with Bill Dodge usually in charge. It wasn’t a bad way to run things, all and all, and I felt that, once I could shift Percy over to days, life would be even better. I never got around to that, however. I sometimes wonder if it would have changed things, if I had.

Anyway, there was a big watermain in the storage room, on the side away from Old Sparky, and Dean and Percy hooked up a length of canvas firehose to it. Then they stood by the valve that would open it, if needed.

Brutal and I hurried down to Wharton’s cell, where Wharton still stood, still grinning and still with his tool hanging out of his pants. I had liberated the straitjacket from the restraint room and tossed it on a shelf in my office last thing before going home the night before, thinking we might be needing it for our new problem child. Now I had it in one hand, my index finger hooked under one of the canvas straps. Harry came behind us, hauling the nozzle of the firehose, which ran back through my office, down the storage-room steps, and to the drum where Dean and Percy were paying it out as fast as they could.

“Hey, d’jall like that?” Wild Bill asked. He was laughing like a kid at a carnival, laughing so hard he could barely talk; big tears went rolling down his cheeks. “You come on s’fast I guess you must’ve. I’m currently cookin some turds to go with it. Nice soft ones. I’ll have them out to y’all tomorrow—”

He saw that I was unlocking his cell door and his eyes narrowed. He saw that Brutal was holding his revolver in one hand and his nightstick in the other, and they narrowed even more.

“You can come in here on your legs, but you’ll go out on your backs, Billy the Kid is goan guarantee you that,” he told us.

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