by J. Bertrand
“I’ve been talking to a mutual friend of ours,” I say. “Your pen pal, Brad. I also had a run-in with one of your messenger boys, a con named Wayne Bourgeois.”
“So?”
“So I have a pretty good idea what’s been going on. I see your strategy, and I see where it’s gone off the rails.” He snorts. “Like I said, I’m not here to get a confession. The reason I came is to give you some advice. I’m in a position to help, Donald. I possess a certain expertise.”
“You’re gonna help me? What am I supposed to do, say thanks?”
“You don’t have to thank me. I owe you. You were decent to me when my daughter was killed. You didn’t have to be, but you were. And I think that was genuine. That was the real you. You didn’t have to, but you did the right thing. That told me something about you, Donald, something I wouldn’t have expected.”
He sneers. “And what was that?”
“You’re a lot like me. No, I’m serious. I haven’t done what you have, I’m not saying that. But you’re a father. You love your kid the way I loved mine. Now mine is gone and because of all this”—I wave my hand in the air, encompassing the room, the walls outside, the prison complex—“you can’t see yours. I got to thinking about that, Donald. I did some checking. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, since you’ve gotten a visit?”
He turns his head away, gazing toward the barred window.
“I know what it’s like, believe me. That’s one thing I can understand. The longing that can’t be satisfied. The sense that the cord between you, the cord binding you, is all but broken. We understand each other, don’t we? We always did. And that’s why I know that the man you’re protecting, the one who did this to you, he’s not like you.”
“I’m not protecting anyone.”
“Protection is exactly what it is,” I say. “What else would you call it? By my count he’s killed three women, but maybe it’s more than that. He’s smart, too. Smart enough that we never caught him, not for his real crimes.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“Maybe not. We can be slow on the uptake. I can be slow. Which is why I need your help again, and why I’m prepared to help you, too.”
He keeps his face bladed toward the window, saying nothing.
“You’re playing this all wrong, Donald. I spoke with your doctor, and he says you’ll be fit as a fiddle and ready to return to the general population. Maybe you’re thinking your money will be enough to buy some protection, but it didn’t help the first time around.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Here’s your problem: Brad Templeton has some documents in his possession—which means I have some documents in my possession—that tend to implicate you. If you looked guilty before you got shivved, believe me, you’re gonna look like a full-blown cooperator by the time you get back. I’m going to see to that personally.”
I pause to find out whether he’ll call my bluff. He doesn’t.
“Maybe you’re thinking your appeal is going to work. If so, you’re more naive than I gave you credit for. We’ve got it pretty much figured out at this point. The disappearing evidence, the alternate suspect, everything. The DA can’t wait for this to go to court, assuming it ever does. He’s looking forward to a reelection-quality performance.”
Again I pause and again he says nothing.
“What can I say, Donald? You’re in a tight spot.”
Nothing.
“Except for one thing . . .” I wait.
And wait.
Finally he cranks his head around, looking at me with blank eyes. “Fine. I’ll bite. Except for what?”
“Except for this. You used it wrong, but you do have a card up your sleeve. And I’d be happy to help you play it. Let’s be realistic, though. You murdered your wife. You confessed to that fact, and the confession is good. The court’s already ruled it that way, and no appeals judge is going to overturn that—”
“My attorneys think otherwise—”
“They’re paid to think otherwise. I’m giving you the straight truth. On some level you know that. You’re letting hope get the better of you. Pursue this thing if you want and see where it gets you. At the end of the line, we’ll be sitting right here, and I’ll be saying I told you so. Assuming the next improvised knife doesn’t do more than collapse a lung, in which case I’ll be sure to put some flowers on your grave. You like them in a wreath or a vase? You seem like more of a wreath guy to me. Anyway, the flowers won’t make up for being dead.”
“I’m touched.”
“You will be, and not by me. What I’m suggesting is, there’s another way for this to end. No judge in Texas is going to set a murderer like you free. But you might get some time knocked off your sentence, and there are some considerations that can be made. You can be relocated, for example. You can get certain privileges.”
“In return for what? Being a rat?”
“In return for staying alive. And in addition to what the DA might do for you, I have my own incentive to kick in.”
He rubs a hand over his weathered chin. “Are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?”
“Your second wife. Your daughter. I’ll find them and I’ll do my best to get them here.”
“That’s it?” He laughs. “You think I can’t do that myself? You think I can’t send people of my own?”
“I’m sure you can, but it’s not the same. Coming from me, your wife might actually listen. Coming from me, you might see that daughter of yours again. If that’s not worth it to you, then I’ll go. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. But if I were in your shoes, with death on one side of the scale and life on the other, with a chance of seeing the people I love most in the world . . . well, I know which way I’d go.”
I’ve made my pitch for better or worse. I rise to my feet. I turn to go.
“Wait,” he says.
I pause.
“What exactly would you want from me?”
“Not much,” I say. “Just a name. The rest we could manage ourselves. We’re not so bright all the time, but when we get our teeth into somebody we don’t let go. All I need to know from you is whose leg I should be biting.”
I look at the guard, nodding my head toward the door. He walks before me, reaching for the knob.
“Just a name?” Fauk says. “That’s all?”
I draw a pen from my pocket and turn. “You don’t even have to speak it out loud. Just write it down for me on a piece of paper and I’m out of here. Your name won’t come into it, the letters you sent to Templeton will stay in his file cabinet, and when it comes time for you to go in front of the parole board, I won’t be there to stand in the way.”
He reaches for the pen. He takes a notepad from the bedside table. Glancing at the guard, he scratches the ballpoint across the paper. He takes the top sheet off, folds it, and hands the sheet and pen back to me. I put both of them in my pocket, patting the front of my jacket to show they’re safe.
“You’re not conning me, right? You will talk to her? All I want is for them to come back. To visit again. It’s not right I can’t see my daughter, March. You’ll tell her that and make sure she comes.”
“I will.”
“You swear to God?”
I smile. “Would that make a difference to you?”
He holds my gaze, then snorts again. “You’re something, you know that? I don’t know what it is about you. If you say you’ll do it, I guess I have to trust that.”
“I guess you will.”
The guard opens the door for me, then follows me out. In the hallway, Roger Lauterbach leans against the wall, arms crossed, his thumb and forefinger stroking his Fu Manchu mustache. As I walk, he pushes away from the wall, falling into pace beside me.
“Whelp,” he says. “Did I just waste my afternoon or what?”
“I wondered if you’d come.”
I reach into my pocket for the folded sheet. I open it and stare at the name. I refold the paper and h
and it to him.
“Follow this up and you’ll find out if the trip was worth making.”
He glances inside. “I know this name. He was a person of interest in one of the murders—Mary Sallier, I think.”
“Seriously? Then I think Fauk just made your case.”
He gazes down at the writing, the paper trembling in his hand. Then he folds it and slips the note into his jeans pocket. “All right, then.”
We emerge into the sunlight together, a charged silence between us, heading for the parking lot and the concentric ring of perimeter fences. When the time comes to part ways, Lauterbach lingers, rubbing the pavement with the toe of his boot.
“I suppose this is where I apologize.”
“For what? Doing your job?”
“No,” he says. “For misjudging you. I got my impression from the wrong sources, and maybe I didn’t give you a chance to correct it.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I tell him. “You just happened to catch me on a good day.” I nod toward the note in his pocket. “Let me know how it pans out.”
I head for my car.
“Will do,” he calls after me. “Tell me one thing. What did you have to promise him to get this name?”
“Nothing I won’t deliver.”
He nods.
“And, Roger? Tell the sheriff I’m sorry about his conference table.”
It’s past dark when I get home. I slip my new key in the dead bolt, letting myself inside. The lights are on inside, but everything’s still and silent. I call out. Nothing. I climb the stairs and pass through the bedroom door to find the side-table lamp on, the covers turned back. But no Charlotte.
The bathroom door is ajar, the wood still fractured from the week-old blows. A soft light filters through. I pause to listen, but only silence.
I peel my father-in-law’s jacket off and toss it aside. Unconstricted. I unsnap my holster, twist the weight of the gun away. Drop my cuffs, my tiny flashlight. All the ballast weighing me down. And finally my badge. I untuck my shirt, undo a few buttons, and pull it over my head. I drop it on the floor, then undo my belt, letting my pants drop, stepping clear.
I feel weightless. Free.
I imagine her, sliding in the water. Lifting a hand perhaps, drops falling from her outstretched arm. I think of her hair pinned up, her skin flushed from the heat of the tub. Eyes closed and a smile on her lips. I picture her in the water, no one but her.
No thought of knives or pools. No thought of patterns cut into skin.
Or flesh consumed by fire.
I stand naked outside the door. I press my hand against the fractured wood and listen for the sound of her breathing. I imagine her turning in the water, moving to face me.
I push the door wider. The tile cold on my feet.
But in the soft light, the room stands empty.
J. Mark Bertrand has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Houston. After one hurricane too many, he left Houston and relocated with his wife, Laurie, to the plains of South Dakota. Find out more about Mark and the roland march series at jmarkbertrand.com.