by John Hart
“Be still.”
She didn’t rush. Her fingers followed one scar, then another, a journey that twisted across his back and left him naked in his soul. How long since he’d been touched without pain in its wake? How long since the simplest kindness?
“All right, Adrian.” She touched him a final time, both palms cool and flat on his skin. “You can put it back on.”
He slipped into the shirt, small tremors still moving in the muscles of his back.
“You want to tell me about it?” She meant the scars, so he turned away, not just because she’d doubt the story, but because that’s what prison had taught him. Don’t rat. Don’t trust. Keep your shit together. Elizabeth seemed to understand, sitting on a narrow chair and leaning forward, her eyes intent, but still soft. “Your scars didn’t come from fights in the yard.”
She didn’t make it a question.
He sat on the bed, so close their knees almost touched.
“Shanks are stabbing weapons. Most of those scars come from long cuts with a thin blade. Did Officer Preston do it?”
“Some of it.”
“And the warden.”
Again, it wasn’t a question; and he shied from the directness of her stare. He didn’t talk about the warden. That was primal. Even the guards spoke his name in a whisper.
“The warden tortured you.”
“How do you know that?”
“His initials are carved into your back in three different places.” She watched his face. He kept his eyes down, but felt the sudden flush. “You didn’t know that, did you?” Adrian’s head moved, and Elizabeth leaned so close he felt her breath. “What did they want from you, Adrian?”
“They?”
“The warden. The doctor. The two guards I know about. They tortured you. What did they want?”
Adrian’s head was spinning. She was so close. The smell of her hair and skin. She was the only person since Eli to ever care, and Eli had been dead for eight years. It was making him dizzy. The truth. A woman. “How do you know these things?”
“You have ligature marks on both wrists. They’re faint, but clear enough to someone who knows what they look like. Most of the wounds were stitched, which means the doctor was in on it. Otherwise, you’d have gotten word out through the infirmary. A phone call. A message. Whatever they wanted, they didn’t want you talking to anybody else.” Elizabeth took his right hand in both of hers. “How many times were your fingers broken?”
“I can’t talk about this.”
“That’s scar tissue under your nails, those white lines.” She touched a nail, and her hands were gentle. “I won’t take you back,” she said. “If you tell me your secrets, I’ll keep them.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your friend. And, because there are larger things happening here. The warden. The guards. Whatever else is going on in that godforsaken prison. That doesn’t mean others aren’t looking for you—state police, FBI even. Killing a prison guard is like killing a cop. It’ll be worse even than before. You can’t go back. Not ever. You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me what they did?”
“Don’t the scars tell you enough?”
“Can you tell me what they want?”
“No.” He shook his head and met her gaze at last. “I need to show you.”
24
Beckett went home at five in the morning. His wife was asleep, so he crept in quietly and undressed by the shower, nudging aside the ruined shoes, leaving his clothes in a heap. Stepping in, he let hot water sluice off the dirt and smell and traces of William Preston’s blood. Beckett had seen a lot of carnage in his day, a lot of beatings.
But this …
The man’s face was just gone. The mouth. The nose. When Beckett closed his eyes, he saw it again, the drag marks and the stumps of teeth, the spilled blood clotted with dust. Preston had been dead now for hours; and the death had catalyzed what was shaping up to be the largest manhunt Beckett had ever seen. SBI. Highway Patrol. Every sheriff’s office in the state. Dyer was talking to the feds, and literally screaming every time some bureaucrat dared a no. That was the dangerous heart of it. People were worked up, angry, eager.
And Liz was in the middle of it. The manhunt. The frenzy. She mattered in so many ways, and the world, it seemed, wanted her life ripped to shreds. The Monroe brothers. Now this.
“Jesus…”
Beckett scrubbed his hands across his face, but barely recognized himself. He felt sick in his heart, and not from the shattered face or the gray bones or the slick, vinyl bags birthed from beneath the church.
It wasn’t even about Liz.
He braced his hands on the shower wall, water beating down, but none of it hot enough or hard enough. He thought of Adrian’s trial and of all the women dead in that goddamn church.
It had to be Adrian.
But what if it wasn’t? What if the bodies in the crawl space were only five years old? Or ten? If Adrian wasn’t the killer, did that mean his conviction paved the way for someone else to hunt and kill for thirteen more years?
Nine women under the church.
Lauren Lester.
Ramona Morgan.
Beckett felt them like a weight, as if their souls were stone and steel and stacked eleven deep on the crown of his head.
“Sweetheart…”
That was his wife’s voice. Distant.
“Charlie?”
It was louder that time, cutting through the steam as the bathroom door swung open.
“Hang on, honey.” Beckett dashed water from his eyes and peered past the curtain. Carol was in the robe she always wore, her hair tousled from sleep. “Hey, baby.”
“Why are you in the guest bath?”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Are you all right? You look a little green.”
“It’s just the heat, the shower.”
“You seem upset.”
“I said it’s the shower!” She shrank away from his voice, and he apologized immediately. “It’s been a long night. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”
“It’s okay. I can tell you’ve had a long night. Do you want some breakfast?”
“Ten minutes?”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Beckett finished the shower, then shaved and put on fresh clothes. He studied his face until it was steady, then went to the kitchen to find his wife. She looked beautiful as he walked in, a little heavier than the month before, a little more lined and tired. But he didn’t care about that. “How’s the love of my life?”
She turned from the stove, and her smile faded when she saw that he was fully dressed. “You’re going back to work?”
“I have to, baby. No choice.”
“Is it that awful man?”
For an instant Beckett feared she saw his thoughts too clearly, that she somehow knew. But it was the television, he realized, Adrian’s face on the silent screen, his photo inset beneath a long shot of the abandoned church.
“He’s part of it.”
“I can’t believe he’s been in our house, eaten at our table.”
“That was a long time ago, baby.”
She picked up the remote and switched off the set. Lines deepened at the corners of her mouth. “Were you with Liz all night?”
“Not this time.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing. She’d always been jealous of the time he spent with his pretty partner. He’d tried for years to make Carol understand that Liz was a friend, and nothing more. But Carol could not accept how much their marriage meant to him, or the lengths he would go to protect it. That was the thing about guilt. Everyone had some tucked away, the only question being how much and how much damage had it done.
He kissed the top of her head; poured a cup of coffee.
“So, where were you last night?”
“The church. Adrian’s place. The hospital.”
“
Is that because of the poor guard who was beaten to death?”
Beckett hesitated. “You know about that?”
“Yes.”
“We kept his death out of the news. We were very specific. Doctors. Nurses. We shut that all down. How do you know about it?”
“Oh. The warden stopped by last night.”
“What?” Beckett stood so fast his chair scraped across the floor and toppled. “He was here?”
“Jesus, Charlie. You spilled your coffee.”
“That doesn’t matter. What did he want?”
“He was very upset.” Carol dropped paper towels on the spilled coffee, then righted the chair. “He said the dead guard’s name was Preston, and that he had a wife and a son, and that they were friends. The warden feels responsible. I assume he wanted to talk to you about it. It’s all so horrible.”
“When was here?”
“What?”
“Goddamn it, Carol. When? What time?”
“You’re scaring me, Charlie.”
Beckett released his fists; knew his face was red and swollen. “I’m sorry, Carol. Just tell me when.”
“I don’t know. Midnight, maybe. I remember he was apologetic about the time. He said he’d been trying to reach you all day, and that you weren’t returning his calls. He said he’d come by again this morning.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Beckett crossed the room, flicking the curtain to peer outside. It was still dark, but the car was already at the curb. “Wait here.”
Carol said something, but Beckett was in the hall, then out the door. He kept his stride steady; it wasn’t easy. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The car door was barely open when he said it. The warden didn’t seem to mind the aggression. “Get in, Charlie.” He wore a dark suit. Beckett didn’t move. “Your wife looks concerned. Wave to her.”
The warden leaned forward and smiled as he waved a hand at the window. It took Beckett a few long seconds, but he did the same.
“Now, get inside.”
Beckett slid onto the leather seat. The door closed and the world got real quiet. “Don’t ever come to my house,” Beckett said. “Don’t you ever come to my house when I’m not there. Midnight? What the hell were you thinking?”
“You weren’t returning my calls.”
“My wife doesn’t need to be involved in this.”
“Really, Charlie? I think we both know better than that.”
“That was thirteen years ago.”
“What’s the statute of limitations on embezzlement? What about evidence tampering? Or perjury?” The warden wasn’t exactly smiling, but it was close.
“Are you watching my house?”
“Not me, no. I just arrived.” The warden lit a cigarette and gestured at a second car down the block. “But, I do like to check on things I own.”
“You don’t own me.”
“Don’t I?”
Beckett swallowed his anger, thinking how even the smallest pebble could start an avalanche. “We were friends, goddamn it.”
“No. William Preston was my friend. We were friends for twenty-one years, and now he’s dead, his face so badly beaten his own wife won’t recognize the corpse.”
“What do you want?”
“A prisoner killed one of my guards, one of my closest friends. That doesn’t happen in my world. Understand? It breaks the natural order of things. What do you think I want?”
“I don’t know where Adrian is.”
“But you’ll find him.”
“Let’s get a few things straight.” Beckett turned in his seat, large enough to fill the space, and frustrated enough to be dangerous. “You don’t own me, and threats are only good to a point. You asked me to keep Liz away from Adrian. Fine. I helped you with that because she’s not thinking straight and shouldn’t be near him anyway. You want inside track on where Adrian goes and what he does. That’s fine, too. He’s a killer, so fuck him. But you stay away from my wife. You stay away from my wife and my house. That’s the deal.”
“That was the deal. It’s different, now.”
“Why?”
“Because prisoners don’t kill guards. Not in my world. Not ever.”
It was said so flatly and coldly that Beckett felt an actual chill. “Jesus, you’re going to kill him.”
“I let you have Olivet so you could issue a warrant, a BOLO, an APB. Whatever you needed. Whatever it took. But this is how it plays between the two of us. You find Adrian for me, and your secret stays safe. Otherwise, I’ll rip it all down. Your world. Your wife’s world.”
“She doesn’t need to know about any of this. I’ll handle Adrian.”
“Handle? No.” The warden laughed, and it was bitter. “What do you know about handling a man like Adrian Wall? Nothing. You can’t. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You find out where he is and you call me. You call me first, and no one needs to know about your wife’s sins or the things you’ve done to protect her. She won’t like prison, and you won’t either. I can promise you that.”
Beckett sat silent for a long moment. It was coming apart; he could feel it. “You were supposed to be my friend.”
“I was never your friend,” the warden said. “Now, get the fuck out of my car.”
* * *
Beckett did as he was told. He stood in the road, hands clenched as the SUV rolled away, and the second one followed. Most times he could pretend his life was his own, that he’d never spilled his guts to a devil dressed as a friend. But he had. He’d been distraught and trusting and overwhelmed with guilt. Now, he was this half man, this slave. He reminded himself there were reasons, then thought of his wife, who was forty-three and gentle and lovely to her bones.
She was in the kitchen when he found her, a ring of blue flame on the stove. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure baby. I’m fine.”
“What did he want?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“You sure?”
“All is well. I promise.”
She bought the smile and the lie, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Grab the bacon for me?”
“Sure.”
Beckett opened the fridge and saw the beer can on the top shelf. “What is this?”
His wife looked up from the stove. “Oh, that. The warden brought it for you last night. I told him you don’t drink beer, but he said you’d like that one. Isn’t it Australian?”
“Foster’s. Yes.” Beckett put the beer on the counter. It was cold. He was cold.
“It’s a shame, really.”
“What’s that?”
She cracked an egg in the pan, and the edges cooked solid. “You two were so close, once.”
25
He woke early because he could feel it out there. Endings. Exposure. Police were pulling bodies from beneath the church, and they’d find something eventually. A fingerprint. DNA.
The photograph …
Lying in the dark of his bed, he worried most about the people close to him. Would they understand?
Maybe, he thought.
Maybe that was the last piece.
Feeling his way through the house, he went to the bathroom, flicked a switch, and blinked in the sudden light. Whose face was this staring back, whose doubt-filled, aging features? He frowned because life had not always been this way. There’d been youth and promise and purpose.
That was before the break.
The betrayal.
He’d learned since then to hide the emotions that drove him. Smile if expected. Say the right things. But inside him was this raging desolation, and it was not enough to simply live with it. He had to wear so many masks. They slipped on and off with such ease that he forgot at times who he really was.
A good man.
A bad one.
Spreading his hands on the sink, he stared at the mirror until he found the right face staring back. If an ending was near, he intended to confront it without distraction or regret
. It was a new day. He would not fear.
In the shower, he scrubbed himself not once, but twice. Afterward, he put on lotion and combed his hair. He shaved with great care and found the appearance appropriate. If the day was to be an ending, so be it.
Smooth and slick he’d come into the world.
Smooth and slick he’d leave it.
26
Channing was alone in the corner of a crowded cell when the guards came for her. They called her name from beyond the bars, and a dozen inmates looked at her when she stood. Some were apathetic, and others angry that she was leaving and they weren’t. No one moved or made it easy for her. One of them touched her hair as a bolt scraped in the lock, and a guard said, “Court.”
They put the chains on her then: ankles and waist, her wrists shackled in front. She tried to walk and almost fell. The chains were loud as she learned the shuffle that kept her on her feet and between the guards. She kept her eyes down and listened to the rattle as dim walls slid past and hard fingers dug into the bones of both arms. The guards spoke again and pointed, but she was adrift in a sea of faces. They put her on a bench, and she saw her father and lawyers and a judge. Voices rose and fell, and she heard them all, but from the depths of a haze. The talk was of money and terms and court dates to come. She missed most of it, but one thing stuck.
Manslaughter.
Not murder.
It was her age, they said. The circumstances. She saw pity in the judge’s eyes, and in the bailiffs who treated her as if she were four years old and made of glass. When the shackles came off, they took her through the back to avoid the media camped like an army out front. She rode in a long car and nodded when the lawyers spoke and then looked at her expectantly. “I understand,” she said, but did not. Court dates and criminal intent and plea bargains. Who cared? She wanted to see Liz and take a shower. Jail smell was all over her, the reek of it. She tried to be tough, but didn’t believe it. The guards called her prisoner Shore. The worst inmates liked to touch her skin and call her China.