FLARING UP, like a match tossed into gasoline.

First time anyone saw him in a rage-cell mate, fellow inmates, COs who'd come to trust and to like him-was astonished, disbelieving.

Kincaid? Him?

Yeh shit he lost it. Man!

First eighteen months at Dannemora he'd been OK. As near-normal as he would ever be "disabled" and "defective" and on a drug-regimen like the HIV inmates whose meds were mandated by the New York State Department of Health. (How many of these inmate-patients in the facility, some of them visibly sick, gaunt and dying in the infirmary, the corporal would discover when he became an orderly in his second year at Dannemora.) Initially he'd been kept in isolation and on suicide watch which necessitated twenty-four-hour fluorescent lighting in his cell, he'd had to learn to sleep with his face hidden in his hands like some kind of wounded nocturnal creature. In isolation and kept separate from one another the majority of inmates were criminally insane sex-maniac-murderers and criminally insane sex-maniac-child-murderers and among these Brett Kincaid was the youngest and most "cooperative" inmate. Crossing-over into this place which was a clear and visible manifestation of Hell in which his punishment was assured was placating to him, who did not now feel the obligation to punish himself.

Soon he would realize that the prison was a place of madness. A malaise like a great toxic cloud had settled upon the weatherworn buildings of the Clinton Correctional Facility at Dannemora contained within the long encircling sixty-foot-high concrete wall and this was a malaise breathed-in by all without exception.

He would learn, from Father Kranach, that Dannemora had formerly been the site of a nineteenth-century mental asylum, the largest in New York State.

How many had died on this site, and their bodies buried in a forgotten graveyard somewhere outside the prison walls.

Madness like spores blown out of the rich dark soil, into the grayish air.

Much of the time, he did not speak. He did not speak aloud. Though like ceaseless thunder thoughts raged inside his head. He could handle such thoughts like rotting inside but not outside so that you gave off an actual stink and attracted attention. He did not wish to attract attention. Very still he could hold himself, in wariness and in readiness, as if his legs had been shot off; as if he was just a torso, a trunk of a man, a body-corpse. Worst times when he panicked having to check his fingers and his toes-(removing his shoes, socks)-to see that those jokers Shaver or Muksie hadn't clipped off trophies with the trauma scissors meaning the corporal might've lost fingers or toes; or earlobes, or his dick and balls.

Took his meds as prescribed. These too were mandated by the New York State Department of Health, with which the officials of the correctional facility had to comply.

Prescribed for chronic pain, muscle spasms, "rushing thoughts"-shortness of breath, diarrhea/constipation-these were powerful drugs of the category called psychoactive.

There were others in the facility so "disabled" and "defective"-an army of the walking wounded.

He was liked and trusted by the COs. White kid, Iraq War vet, sulky-quiet but "cooperative."

Not often, the corporal was taken to see a doctor.

A medic took his "vitals"-blood pressure, heartbeat, weight, height. Peered into his eyes with a bright blinding light, inspected the interior of his mouth.

His mother would bitterly complain, he wasn't receiving the kind of medical attention, neurology-CAT-scan treatment and rehab, his condition required. His mother would file lawsuits against the New York State Department of Corrections and the Clinton Correctional Facility at Dannemora, her wounded-veteran son was being discriminated against by officials in collusion with their enemies.

What'd he need of rehab, he could exercise by himself in his cell. In the yard, he could exercise. After eighteen months transferred out of isolation and into another part of the prison population where he was allowed hours out of his cell, and he was OK.

How're you feeling, son?

OK.

Taking your meds, son?

Yessir.

You sure, you are taking your meds?

Yessir.

Not throwin em in the toilet, son?

Nossir.

Not sellin em, eh? Not?

Nossir. Not.

FLARING UP, like a match dropped into gasoline.

It was Muksie solid-bodied as a wrestler, grown older, heavier and his bullet-head cocked to one side as in the deafening din of the dining hall he'd flashed what appeared to be a weapon fashioned out of a toothbrush harassing one of the younger inmates. And Kincaid was on him quick and silent as a pit bull and like a pit bull impossible to pull off striking and pummeling the bullet-headed inmate until both men were struggling on the floor and guards rushed shouting to pull them apart.

Shrieking, shouts and screams like females being killed. Chairs were overturned, plates and trays thrown to the floor. Fights broke out among inmates in the large space like a sequence of small explosions rising to a single deafening roar.

Last the corporal knew, the alarm was blaring.

Dragged away from Private Muksie he'd have murdered if he hadn't been stopped.

Struck by guards' billy clubs he lost consciousness.

Wasn't self-defense but an aggressive attack to protect another inmate as witnesses would testify but still, Kincaid had violated the prison rules. Just to disobey an officer's command was a violation of the prison rules. To resist officers, try to shove them away, strike them-violations of the prison rules. On Brett Kincaid's otherwise unblemished prison record was a notation of assault, refusal to obey officers, instigation of riot.

The man he'd mistaken for Private Muksie had been hospitalized in the prison infirmary. The younger man Muksie had been harassing had escaped with only lacerations and bruises.

Kincaid drew "administrative punishment" of eight weeks in solitary confinement.

Warden Heike's gravel voice thickened and deepened with outrage was amplified through the prison in lockdown for twenty-four hours.

Zero tolerance for infractions of Clinton Correctional rules. Zero tolerance for fighting, threatening and intimidating, possession of weapons, insubordination and resistance of officers' orders.

Sentenced to solitary confinement naked. Hoofed-creatures like horses pounded through his sleep and these sharp heavy hooves striking close beside his head he could not turn, he was so exhausted.

In solitary he was the torso, the stump. No purpose now in struggle and so he ceased.

His medications had ceased. Only vaguely did he miss his medications as you might miss a badly rotted little finger after it has dropped off and is no longer yours to fret over.

Eight weeks in solitary. Cruel and unusual punishment Zeno Mayfield would charge if Zeno Mayfield were on Brett Kincaid's side and not now his enemy.

In solitary you have no appetite. You lose weight steadily-Brett Kincaid lost twelve pounds. Medications he took if they were brought to him but most meds he forgot since they were not brought to him in his new quarters. Man, you on some kinda diet? Or, whadajacallit-chemotherapy? You real sick, man? God damn!

Once a day for an hour removed for exercise in a segregated part of the Yard, every other day removed for a (lukewarm) shower so his skin crawled with festering microbes invisible to the naked eye. Yet the corporal submitted to his punishment without resistance as without apology or remorse for the corporal could not see how he had erred. The instinct to help the harassed inmate, a stranger to him, young kid looking scarcely twenty, had come so strong.

Saying, to Father Kranach who came to visit him concerned and alarmed Fuck I would do it again.

First he could after solitary was go to the Church of the Good Thief where he knelt, prayed.

Like a hungry man, feasting.

It was not God and it was not Jesus Christ but Saint Dismas to whom he prayed.

Help me, I have sinned. It did not seem a request of madness wishing to save his soul in the twilit interior of the Church of the Good Thief where he knelt hiding his contorted face.

Only enter my soul and my soul shall be healed.

HE WAS SINCERE. Desperately he wanted to be good.

Yet a second time fifteen months later, the flaring-up overcame him.

This time in the mental unit where B. Kincaid was an orderly under the supervision of a light-skinned black CO named Foyle-(for there was a shortage in the facility of men like Brett Kincaid who gave evidence of being intelligent, responsible, reasonable)-he'd attacked a guard who'd been harassing an inmate-(the inmate a soft fat slug of a man with albino eyes, pasty skin, white eyelashes)-poking at him with his billy club and Kincaid told him to stop, Kincaid spoke sharply to him telling him to stop but the guard ignored him laughing and so Kincaid strode to him and this time too without speaking he seized the billy club out of the guard's hand and brought it down hard over his head fracturing the skull.

So swiftly! The corporal heard the crack.

This time the warden intervened, directly. The corporal had assaulted a corrections officer and would be charged with a felony-assault and battery, aggravated.

There would be formal charges, brought by the Clinton County district attorney. There would be more than simply administrative punishment, months in solitary confinement: seven-to-ten years added to the corporal's sentence.

God damn he didn't give a damn!-didn't give a fuck.

Recklessly he waived his right to an attorney as he would waive his constitutional right to a trial. Not repentant for he didn't see that there had been any other course of action possible for him.

Fucker who'd hit him, tried to break up the scuffle, and his CO-friends, dealt drugs in the facility. The corporal knew.

Drugs were everywhere in the facility. No way in but through guards but the guards' union was so strong, their connection with downstate drug smugglers so established, Brett could not see how the situation would ever change.

(The CO he'd assaulted had been dismissed from the facility for excessive force, drug dealing. But that did not mitigate the corporal's sentence.) Shitty to think how you were but the sum total of brain cells inside your skull. No mystery why people went crazy like rabid beasts sometimes just wanting to bite and tear with their teeth-there was a wild elation in this.

Fucked up like he was, he wouldn't have to face a parole board for a long time at least.

Remorse? For what?

His sentence was so long now, he couldn't envision its ending. If he maxed-out, without parole. And maybe he'd accumulate yet more administrative-punishments to set his release time back, back, back.

Twenty-seven years old when he'd been incarcerated and so now-(but what month was this? what year?)-thirty-one, or two.

The girl he'd murdered would remain always a girl. Yet the other, the one he'd loved so much, and had almost married, would remain a girl too, a beautiful young woman for he would never see her again.

She'd died to him too.

All of the Mayfields-died to him.

Or was it instead that the Mayfields lived, and the corporal had died?

(Secret) meaning of the Purple Heart.

(Yet the shameful fact was, Brett had coveted a Purple Heart. In his fantasies of serving overseas, impressing his absent-drunk-daddy and his sweetly naive fiancee and all of Carthage gaping at him in his army dress uniform like Tom Cruise he'd considered the Purple Heart as the most likely medal he might be awarded; and if so, the trick would be to be wounded but not to die.) Ten days into solitary his brain was sluggish and functioned like his mother's decades-old Mixmaster set to liquefy but the blades barely turning and the contraption rattling, vibrating and listing to one side.

Ten days more, a watery gruel leaked from his raw-burning anus and what (tepid, sickening) water he managed to drink, he vomited back up again in a spume of the hue of watery urine.

Father Kranach came to see him in his delirium. Father Kranach pleaded with the warden to have Kincaid hospitalized in the infirmary but the angry warden paid no heed. Won't be the first to precipitate his own demise and won't be the last.

Waking a week later and where was he after all?-strapped to a metal bed in the infirmary stinking of human feces, vomit and disinfectant strong as lye.

Flies crawling the windows. Out of caulking cracks and out of zigzag cracks in the ceiling.

What he'd thought in his dream was an old-time (World War I?) dirigible floating high above his head was in fact a bag of IV fluids dripping into a vein in the crook of his right elbow.

And that pinch in his penis, not an incandescent wire shunted up into his gut but a catheter draining toxic liquid out of his gut into a bag beneath the bed.

A medic was telling him Seems like you was pretty sick, man. Your temperature was a hundred and three degrees F with a nasty blood infection and just the medication alone it's damn strong it can kill you. If you don't remember this last week that ain't such a bad thing.

CAN'T GUARANTEE YOUR safety, Corporal. Take precautions.

IN THE CHURCH of the Good Thief he prayed.

On his knees prayed. In the quickened beat-beat-beat of his heart prayed.

In the alcove to the church the astonishing figure of the crucified Saint Dismas. The perfect male body naked except for a cloth about his loins and how realistic the torso, the thighs and calves, the head and the face contorted in agony as it is passing into something else-peace, a kind of joy.

And he was struck by the perfect male body-not disabled, not "defective" but perfect and yet, rigid in death.

He thought The body is crucified on the cross of the world. There is no escape from the crucifixion as there is no escape from the body.

He had not ever thought of the male body as beautiful, still less perfect. Yet now, contemplating the sculpted figure of the legendary Good Thief, the figure's muscled shoulders and arms slung around the horizontal bars of a thick wooden plank, he felt such intense pity, sorrow-he felt that something was breaking inside him, that was not for him but for another, who stood outside all that he, Brett Kincaid, could know.

In the church services he'd visited in prison there was much of Jesus in your heart and if you would accept Jesus as your savior but Father Kranach did not speak of Jesus but of Saint Dismas.

Patron saint of thieves, losers.

He will intervene for you. If you ask.

The Church of the Good Thief had become his place of solace. His place of comfort. Ever more now, he'd spent so much time in solitary and had felt his soul like a small landslide.

The Church of the Good Thief was not a chapel or even a small church but a good-sized church that could hold as many as two hundred people built inside the sixty-foot-high concrete wall circling itself like a snake swallowing its tail. The church was comprised of rock that looked as if it had been hewn by pickax out of a nearby mountain.

The Church of the Good Thief had been constructed by Dannemora inmates in the late 1930s and early 1940s. The materials were secondhand from abandoned houses, barns, local buildings. Some materials were donated. The Appalachian red oak made into pews, said to have been a gift from the notorious Lucky Luciano, a former inmate at Dannemora.

There were numerous carvings, stained glass windows bearing the faces of saints that had been modeled by Dannemora inmates.

In a Protestant church, at least in those churches Brett Kincaid had visited, he'd never felt this inwardness.

He'd never felt his soul stirred. The deep root of his being, impossible to name.

In the churches of his past, including the Carthage church to which he'd gone with Juliet, the focus was outward. Smiling faces of others, singing together the familiar hymns, prayers in unison. Gripping hands. But in the Church of the Good Thief he came to understand the stillness and secrecy of the elusive god.

For it was the inwardness of God for which he yearned not the communion with others.

In this inwardness he came to understand that his maimed body was in its way a perfect body. As his maimed soul was in its way perfect. For this was the fate God had provided for Corporal Kincaid. No other fate would have allowed Corporal Kincaid to continue to live.

He'd tried to speak of this to Father Kranach in the priest's small office at the rear of the church. Through the single horizontal, just slightly sinking window of the office you could see a broad swath of gardens tended by inmates at the rear of their cell blocks-you could not see, from Father Kranach's office, the sixty-foot-high concrete wall without end.

Father Kranach had become his friend. His only friend.