Excerpted from Fete of Death.  Copyright 2007 by Bryan Cassiday.  All rights reserved.

  "Let's go," Donaldson told Quade, then to the guard, "He's been pardoned."

  The guard groaned at the idea of hauling Quade to the jailhouse exit, then put Quade's arm around his neck and trudged down the cell block.

  "Why did they drug him?" asked Donaldson.

  "He got paranoid," said the guard.  "He thought everybody was trying to kill him.  A real psycho."  The guard shook his head, baffled.

  Even as he spoke, catcalls shrieked through the cell block and the fists and heels of furious convicts hammered bass counterpoint against casehardened steel bars.

  "We gonna whack you!" a convict cried.

  "Who'd you fink on to get out o' here, white bread!"

  "You're dead meat!  Dead meat!  Dead meat!" rose the chant.

  "Whatever gave him that idea?" said Donaldson, who winced at the clamor.

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