Redemption Road

by John Hart

  This memory of what he’d been.

  Adrian pushed into the field and felt grass on his skin. He’d been a decent man, once. Not perfect. Far from it. But, he’d done the job as best he could; he’d been a friend, a partner, a mentor; he’d loved one woman and failed another. It was a complicated life that seemed more so now, when all he wanted to do was kill five men and plant them so deep in the ground only the earth would remember.

  What would Crybaby say about that?

  Or Eli?

  That was the other thought that kept him from violence. Eli Lawrence wanted Adrian to walk away and build a life. Such was the purpose of every lesson he’d ever taught—to make it through the day, the yard, the rest of his sentence.

  No sin in survival.

  Adrian woke each day with those words on his mind; fell asleep with them on his lips.

  No sin.

  But walking away felt wrong. The warden had been at Central Prison for nineteen years. How many inmates had died in that time? How many had gone insane or disappeared without a trace? Adrian couldn’t be the only one, but he didn’t kid himself about the risks, either. The warden. The four guards. Adrian knew their names and where to find them; yet they showed no fear at all. They’d appeared at court, and after the boy was shot; they’d followed him to the lawyer’s house, and then to his own farm. Did they really think him so weak and broken?

  Of course they did.

  They were the ones who broke him.

  “That’s not me, anymore.”

  But it was.

  Memories. Nightmares.

  “Stop it.”

  It could have been a scream, but wasn’t. Awake or asleep, it could happen anytime. Memories marched in from the dark: the table and the rats, Eli’s death and the questions that came over and again. It was part of being broken, how the horrors rose like water.

  “That’s not my life.”

  But it felt like it.

  When the final wave receded, Adrian was still on his feet, alone in a field he’d known as a boy. There were no walls or ceilings or cold metal. It should have been over, then; that was the pattern.

  But then he saw the car.

  It rolled past the field and flashed red where the road met the drive. He heard the engine, the tires. Then it went dark.

  “Motherfuckers.”

  He cut through the field without thinking, and when he reached the road, he stopped. They wore plainclothes, but he knew them. Stanford Olivet and William Preston. Adrian recognized the haircuts, the movements, their faces when a cigarette lighter sparked. They brought it all back, and for an instant, the memories almost rode him down: their smiles like a flicker, their thick hands on his wrists and ankles, holding him as the straps cinched tight, then reaching for the blades, the needles, the sack of rats that moved as if it had a life of its own.

  Adrian wanted to pull them from the car, to pound their faces and break his hands doing it if that’s what it took. He told himself to move, to do it now; but another image rose. He saw the same men and the same faces, but there when he’d spilled like a dead man from the boiler in subbasement two. Something like pity had been on their faces, a whispered Jesus Christ as they’d shaken rats from his skin and carried him to a place with light and air and water.

  Poor bastard, they’d said.

  Poor sorry, stubborn son of a bitch.

  Suddenly, it was too much, the rage and fear, the weight of submission.

  Do what you’re told.

  Eyes down.

  And that was just regular fear, regular prisoners. Adrian’s damage ran deeper, and only now did he grasp its magnitude. He was a free man, yet nothing that mattered had changed. He saw their faces turn his way, their eyes as they recognized him. Olivet said something, and Preston smiled again, a thick man with pale lips and small, round eyes. The smile was knowing, and why not? He knew every inch of Adrian’s body, the smell of his blood and the sound of his screams, the places cut and uncut. Adrian felt a rush of blood, then a click as some part of him shut down. Heaviness. Numbness. He saw the car doors open, but from a distance. The world went nearly black, and when light returned, Officer Preston had a retractable steel baton in his hand. “What are you doing, prisoner Wall?”

  Prisoner …

  “You think you can just walk up on us like that? You think you’re entitled to that choice?”

  Adrian’s lips moved, but no sound escaped.

  Preston tapped Adrian’s chest with the baton. “I want to know what he told you.” He raised his voice the littlest bit. “Eli Lawrence. You know what I want.”

  “We’re just supposed to watch him,” Olivet said. “Just in case.”

  “Quit whining.”

  “This is not the place, man. Come on. Cars could come by. Witnesses.”

  Preston flicked his wrist so the baton snapped out. He swung it in a blur; struck Adrian in the neck, then hit so hard on his kneecap that everything went away but the pain. Adrian ended up on the ground with gravel in the back of his head. He wanted to move but couldn’t, tried to breathe but his lungs were frozen solid.

  “Damn it, Preston,” Olivet’s voice came down. “We’re supposed to watch him.”

  “Just hang on.” Joints popped. Adrian saw Preston’s face, and a thick hand that came in to slap his cheek. “Are you in there? Hello. You in there, you stupid bastard?”

  “Come on, man. This is just pitiful.”

  “Hey!” Two more slaps. “Where is it? Huh? What did Eli Lawrence tell you?”

  Adrian rolled on his side. Preston put a foot on Adrian’s throat. “Inside or out, it doesn’t matter. You talk to me when I say.”

  Adrian felt the pressure, but it all seemed distant. The stars. The pain. The man was right. Inside. Outside. There was no winning.

  “He’s dying, man.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “I think you crushed his throat. Look at him.”

  The foot backed off, and air leaked in. Adrian was spread in the dirt and unmoving, his vision down to a spot of color.

  “I’m tired of this Mickey Mouse crap.”

  Pressure returned, and as Adrian’s heels scraped in the dirt, a part of him dug for the fighter he’d once been. He used to fight. On the block, in the yard, the first time they strapped him down or shoved him in the pipes. He believed in the fight, but this time he was dying; he felt it.

  But the world, it seemed, was not entirely done with him. Crybaby Jones hobbled from the dark like the ghost of brave old men everywhere.

  “You leave that man alone!”

  His cane swung up and down, hit Preston on the nose and burst it like a plum. He swung again, and Olivet danced back. Crybaby tried once more but there was no third chance against men like these. The old lawyer was almost ninety and dropped like a dead man from a single blow.

  “Jesus!” Preston cupped his gushing nose. “Where did he come from?”

  “That’s the lawyer.”

  “I know it’s the lawyer, you stupid shit! He didn’t get out here on his own.” Preston pulled a gun from his belt and pushed it at Olivet. “Check the house. Make sure there’s no one else. Take the car. Hurry.”

  Preston pressed a handkerchief against his nose, then dragged the lawyer from the drive so the car could speed past. Adrian felt the dust, the gravel. He tried to crawl to Faircloth’s side, but he was choking.

  “Stay put.” Preston put the boot on Adrian’s throat.

  The car was back in seconds. “No one there.” Olivet slammed the door. “It’s all burned out and empty.”

  “Give me the gun. Take him.” The boot came off, and Adrian watched helplessly as Preston took Faircloth by the ankle and dragged him down the drive. The old man was conscious, but barely. One hand came up as he disappeared into the gloom, and Preston’s voice rose. “You’re the one worried about cars, Olivet, so let’s go.”

  “Go, where?” Olivet asked.

  “Just bring him.”

  Olivet dragged Adrian to h
is feet. The night stopped spinning. “Don’t make me use this.” Olivet flashed another baton. “You know how he is when he gets like this.”

  “Crybaby…”

  “Don’t talk. Just move.”

  A hand settled on Adrian’s back and shoved hard enough to make him stumble. He kept his feet the first time. The second push took him down; after that, Olivet dragged him, too.

  It wasn’t far.

  Preston had the old man on his back, twenty yards down the drive. “See. No cars. No worries.”

  “What are you doing, Preston?” Olivet dropped Adrian on the drive. “This is not what the warden wants.”

  “Ask me if I care.”

  “He won’t talk. You know that. We’ve been down this road before.”

  “We didn’t have the lawyer before.”

  “Come on, man.” Olivet stepped forward, but Preston was already on his knees with a thick arm around the old man’s neck. “We’re just supposed to watch. Just in case.”

  “Look at him, though.” He meant Adrian. “Look at him and tell me I’m wrong. He’ll break for the lawyer.”

  “I’ll kill you.” Adrian found his knees. “Crybaby…”

  “Hold him,” Preston said. “Make him watch.”

  Olivet brought the baton across Adrian’s throat and held him up. Five feet away, Preston did the same thing to the old man. Crybaby struggled, but it was feeble: thin legs dragging in the dirt, spotted hands on Preston’s arm. Adrian tried to say his name, but Olivet had all his weight on the baton.

  “We’ll start slow.”

  Preston took the old man’s pinkie in his fist, and Adrian watched Faircloth’s face as the finger broke. He knew how much it hurt, but the old man didn’t scream.

  Adrian drew in a blade of air, managed, “Stop it. Don’t.”

  Preston took another finger.

  “I’ll tell you.”

  “I know you will.”

  The second finger broke, and when Crybaby screamed, Adrian did, too. He kicked and struggled as Olivet threw his full weight on the baton, and the night went red, then black, as Adrian choked and clawed and went down in the dark.

  When he came to, he was alone where he’d fallen. No baton on his throat. Breath scraping in. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but it felt like a long time. Ten minutes? Longer? His throat was dry; blood sticky on his lips. He rolled to his knees, heard voices, and looked up. Olivet and Preston stood above the old lawyer, who was twitching in the dirt, both eyes rolled white as his heels drummed and spit gathered at the corners of his mouth.

  “I don’t know, man! I don’t know!” Olivet looked scared. “A heart attack? A fucking seizure?”

  “How much longer will he do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s freaking me out. Make him stop.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I can’t watch it anymore.” Preston pulled a gun and pointed it. “I’ll kill him right here. I swear to God I will. I’ll shoot him in the head. I’ll fucking kill him.”

  He cocked the hammer, and it was as if the lawyer heard. The legs stilled. The hands stopped twitching. The old man gasped three times, and a final shudder rolled the length of his spine. Adrian saw it happen, and the silence behind that final breath slammed the door on thirteen years of fear and submission. His legs were still numb, but he didn’t give a shit. Life. Death. All that mattered was Preston’s face and the weight of his own gathered fists. The guards turned when he stood, and for a moment showed an utter lack of fear. They thought him the broken man, and why not? After years in the pipes and on the metal bed, it’s all they’d ever known of him, the screams and withdrawals, the dark holes of the prison and the faint scratchings of a forgotten man. He was the inmate who maybe knew a secret, and that’s how they saw him still—a final mistake—for there was no prisoner left in Adrian’s soul and nothing where he stood but the fighter.

  “Preston?” Olivet understood first, looking once at Adrian, then stepping back. “Preston?”

  But Preston was slow to understand and slow with the gun. He didn’t see the rage or hate, so Adrian opened his throat and let it out. He howled as he charged, and though Preston managed two shots, they both flew wide. Then Adrian was on him, driving hard enough to lift him from his feet and move him through six feet of empty air. The gun spun away when he hit dirt, then there was only the fight and the fighter, the spray of blood and teeth as Adrian gave and gave, then went after Olivet and gave some more.

  22

  Beckett slid through the small door, and it felt wrong somehow, the underside of a church. He felt the weight of it above him. A hundred and seventy years. That’s how long the building had stood.

  “Okay.” He reached back. “Give me the light.”

  Someone handed in the big flashlight, and he shone it around. The pillars were fieldstone, the timbers as thick as his waist. He saw spiders and termite mounds and bits of old debris. The space was immense and low and dark as pitch.

  “Someone’s been here.”

  The drag marks were obvious, as if a man had pulled himself through the dust, not once but many times. The track bent past the first stone pillar, then angled for the front of the nave. Beckett shifted his bulk in the tight space.

  James Randolph was hunched in the open square, the sky beyond him dark purple. “You sure about this?”

  “Why? You want to do it?”

  “No, thanks. After fifty-four years I’m close enough to damnation as it is. Looking for bodies under a church might just push me over the edge.”

  Beckett shone the light on the tracks. “Drag marks point that way.”

  “The altar’s that way.”

  “The thought occurred to me.” Beckett shone the light around some more. Clearance between the dirt and timbers was two feet or less. “I’m a little big for this. If I get stuck or call you, you come running.”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  Beckett didn’t know if Randolph was serious or not. He twisted around again, got on his belly. “Just find Dyer,” he said. “Get him out here.”

  After that, it was just Beckett and the dark space under the church. He stayed clear of the drag marks and after the first pillar, angled to the right, earth and stone gouging his elbows, ruining his shoes. None of that registered because fifty feet in he was feeling the same kind of religious dread as Randolph. How many people had been married or christened or mourned in the church above his head? Thousands over the years, and all the while this raw, rough place was beneath them, this musty, crude, dirt-strewn slit of an oven.

  Beckett squeezed beneath another beam.

  How far was he, now? Seventy feet? Eighty?

  He stopped where a pillar had collapsed and the floor joist sagged. The clearance was barely a foot, so he worked his way around. Even then, wood scraped his shoulders, the top of his head. He choked on sifting dust, and when he cleared the other side, he saw the graves.

  “Holy … God.”

  He crossed himself again and felt the kind of chill that only comes once or twice in a lifetime. The graves were little more than mounded earth, but bones protruded from five of them. Finger bones, he thought. A dome of skull. The graves made a narrow arc around a depression large enough to hold a grown man curled on his side.

  Yet, it wasn’t the bones alone that bothered him

  Beckett closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to fight the sense of earth pressing up and church bearing down.

  “Breathe, Charlie.”

  Claustrophobia had never been a problem, but he was under the altar—directly beneath it. So were the graves.

  Nine of them.

  “Come on, come on.”

  He rolled on his side and imagined all the people who’d moved through the church in the last 170 years. He felt them like ghosts above his head, the infants and the prayerful, the newlyweds and the newly dead. Lives had turned on the altar above him, and bodies here, in this place …r />
  It was a desecration.

  Beckett closed his eyes, then looked up at the massive joists. They were black with age, thick as a man’s waist.

  He almost missed the bit of color.

  It was small and faded, no larger than a quarter. He shone the light on it, thought it was the corner of a photograph wedged above the joist. He saw a bit of green, and what might have been stone. Pulling on latex gloves, he reached up and eased the photograph from the crack. It was old, washed out in the flashlight’s glare. It looked like a woman beside the church. He tilted it; saw how wrong he was.

  Not a woman.

  Not quite.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later it was full dark outside, the air alive with mosquitoes. Floodlights stood around the crawl-space door, and moths the size of Beckett’s thumb flicked into and out of the light. Beckett and Randolph stood in the fluorescent hum. They were waiting for Dyer.

  “They’re getting anxious,” Randolph said. He meant the medical examiner, CSU, the other cops.

  Beckett didn’t care. “Nobody goes in until Dyer sees it.”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. The discovery changed things, maybe everything.

  “You say there’re nine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “Just mind your own business.”

  “This is my business.”

  “It’s like I told you.” Beckett pinched a mosquito from his neck; rolled blood between a thumb and finger. “We wait for Francis.”

  * * *

  When Dyer showed up, he looked haggard, his shadow climbing the wall as he entered the ring of lights. He didn’t say anything at first, choosing instead to study the boarded windows, the small, square hole behind the ratty bush. “I told you by the book.”

  “I know.”

  “That means no cadaver dog without clearance from me.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “So what?” Dyer’s hands found his hips. “We didn’t have enough bodies for you? Not enough pressure?”

  “What I’ve found…” Beckett shook his head. “I’m not sure Adrian’s our killer.”

  “You button that right now.” Dyer studied all the faces watching, then led Beckett to a quieter place at the far edge of the lights. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”