“Is he going to do it?” Dylan said. “Cooperate?”
“I don’t know,” Wyant said. “His mental condition is tenuous. Which is why I asked Dr. Haslam to join us. He examined Kyle on Friday. He has some things to tell you.”
107
Dr. Jonas Haslam stood as he spoke, almost like he was giving a lecture. He said, “Based in part on what this woman, Boyce, has said, and in part on my questioning of Kyle, what he went through is similar to the brainwashing the communist Chinese experimented with on U.S. prisoners of war during the Korean conflict.”
“Brainwashing,” Dylan uttered, to himself as much as to the room.
“Serious, methodical. And on a young child. It is possible, indeed easy when one knows how to do it, to replace real memories with false ones. What Petrie did is likely just as you have supposed. He could certainly have raised your boy to be a criminal, for the purpose of …”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
“It’s all right, doctor,” Dylan said. “Just tell us. Can what was done be undone?”
“Given the right circumstances and the right attitude on the part of the subject.”
“Meaning Kyle has to buy into it,” Dylan said.
“Exactly. To do that he’ll need a trust anchor.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone he can trust with complete confidence. In Kyle’s case, that is a difficult proposition. He does not trust me, or Sam, at least not yet.”
The obvious next question hung in the air, and it seemed to Dylan they were all thinking it at the same time.
Dylan squeezed Erin’s hand and said, “Might we be that anchor?”
Dr. Haslam tapped his fingertips together. “If he can be convinced to take that risk. It is a risk because of what he’s been through. He’s confused. And he doesn’t know yet that Petrie wants to communicate with him.”
Dylan jumped from his chair. “No!” He looked at Sam Wyant. “He can’t, can he?”
“Not if we can get through to Kyle,” Wyant said. “If we can establish that trust.”
“Then we have to do it,” Erin said.
“Let’s spend some prep time,” Dr. Haslam said. “And then we can set up a meeting.”
108
Thomas Jefferson Petrie, inmate #4862195, looked at his tray, at what they called a meal. He looked at the orange mash of indeterminate origin, and shook his head. What he wouldn’t give right now for a good theater hot dog and some popcorn.
But it would come soon enough. He’d get out. He’d beat this. No one was ever smarter than Thomas Jefferson Petrie.
Yeah, he’d let himself slip, and now he had his arm in a sling. But he chalked that up to passion. He’d underestimated his desire for possessing Erin. Women were not to be trusted.
Like Terri Boyce. After all he’d done for her! She was pure rat now.
He had a plan for her. It would take some doing. But he’d get her in the end.
Her and Carbona both.
He had enough money to spread around, and contacts with associates, so it would be easy to contract hits on that happy couple from high school.
He would make sure they knew it was coming, that it was coming from him, and that he would do the same to Jimmy.
Oh yes. He’d finish off Jimmy, too. No more Kyle for the world.
Then he could do his time as a happy man, could Thomas Jefferson Petrie. They didn’t execute anymore in California. He’d have a long life. And with the help of the ACLU, he was sure he could make the state pay for a DVD player, or maybe even Netflix streaming right to his cell.
He didn’t like the flicker of remorse he had for William. But the half-wit was loyal, you had to give him that. He kept those bathroom floors clean enough to eat a salad off of. He’d probably be dead now if Petrie hadn’t found him homeless and wandering around a park five years ago, and turned him into a productive slave. William responded to discipline and food and the occasional woman Petrie supplied him. Now they’d probably put William in an institution. Or maybe, because this was California, they’d just toss him out on the streets.
You’re on your own now, kid. Just like the rest of us. Good luck.
Another inmate sat opposite him. He was thin with slicked-back black hair and dark tats on his neck. One of the tats was Spanish script. Vida was one of the words. “Hey, man,” the guy said. “Lemme have your brownie.”
Petrie felt and loved the ice water in his veins. “Get lost, jalapeño.”
The guy didn’t move or even twitch. He’d have to be dealt with soon. Petrie had some ideas about that.
“You tried to take out my friend, the doctor,” the guy said.
“You speak good English, chico. What part of get lost don’t you understand?”
“You gonna give me that brownie?”
Petrie picked up the chocolate square and shoved it in his own mouth. The whole thing. It was dry and chalky, but he smiled as he chewed.
109
Friday afternoon.
Erin was seated with Dylan in an attorney interview room at the Men’s Central Jail, downtown. Sam Wyant sat with them, looking casual in a sport coat and slacks.
The air was stale. Erin didn’t want to take a deep breath lest a disturbance in the atmosphere throw off the delicate hope she had been carrying around for the last four days.
The entire course of her life from this point on would turn on what happened in the next fifteen minutes.
Fifteen.
Help me, help me, help me.
The door opened, jarring her. The jangle of a chain awakened her to the reality of the situation.
Kyle was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, waist-chained and handcuffed. A large deputy sheriff wordlessly led him to the chair on the other side of the table and sat him down. In the center of the table was an iron ring. The deputy attached Kyle’s handcuffs to the ring with another set of shackles, and left the room.
Kyle looked at his hands.
“Jimmy knows why we’re here,” Sam Wyant said. His use of that name disturbed Erin, but reminded her of what Dr. Haslam had said. It had been agreed that Dylan would ask permission first.
Dylan said, “May we call you Kyle?”
“This is all bogus,” Kyle said, not meeting their eyes.
“Can we at least try?” Dylan said.
“Your time,” Kyle said.
“You heard about the DNA test?”
“Those things get messed up,” Kyle said.
“You don’t really think that, do you?” Dylan said.
Kyle’s eyes were cold, almost lifeless. Erin tried to pour love out of her own eyes. Could he see it?
Dylan said, “You’ve been filled in on all that’s happened.”
“What they say happened.” Defiant.
“What I wanted to say, Kyle, is—”
“Name’s not Kyle.”
“All right,” Dylan said. “Let me say it this way. We want to stand by you.”
Kyle’s eyes, empty of warmth, looked between them. Then at his hands.
“Why?” he said.
“We are your parents,” Dylan said. “We loved you more than we can say, and that hasn’t changed since the day you were taken away from us.”
“Never happened,” Kyle said. “My parents are dead. I remember ’em.”
“What if that’s not true?” Dylan said. “Wouldn’t you want to know?”
“No,” Kyle said.
“All we’re asking is for you to trust us a little, and let Dr. Haslam work with you.”
“Got no time for that,” Kyle said.
Dylan opened his mouth. No words came out.
110
Captain Moses Jurado rubbed his temples. Normally at this time he’d be cleaning up a few emails before heading home to a nice weekend in Simi Valley with his wife and two kids.
Instead, he was going to be here at the jail for at least another two hours, owing to the news that had just been delivered by Deputy David Eslick.
&nb
sp; “How did he do it?” Jurado said. He was sitting at his desk, looking at the report, while Eslick stood at attention.
“Sir?” Eslick said.
“Hang himself. According to this he only had one good arm.”
“He used his arm sling,” Eslick said.
“You believe that?”
“If you’re determined enough, anything’s possible.”
“It doesn’t smell right,” Jurado said. “Petrie was psyched a 2A. No reason for a suicide watch.” He ran his finger down the report. “He have any incidents?”
“Nothing reported,” Eslick said.
“Anybody he was on the wrong side of?”
“Again, no reports. There was some shoving at dinner a couple days ago. Something about a brownie. But that happens all the time.”
Jurado pulled at his earlobe. “And sometimes it leads to something. Maybe that’s the guy that offed him.”
“You want me to run an ISR?”
Jurado shook his head. “We don’t need an investigative session on this one. Yet.”
Eslick said, “We can revisit it.”
“He have any next of kin?” Jurado said.
“That’s the funny thing,” Eslick said.
“Funny?”
“He insisted he had a son.”
“Does he?”
“I haven’t been able to find any evidence of it,” Eslick said. “Want me to keep looking?”
“Tomorrow,” Jurado said. “I want to go home.”
111
Erin sensed Dylan felt the same way she did. That they were losing Kyle again. She’d known Dylan, loved him, been with him through the worst part of both their lives. She knew his body language, and right now it was crying out.
What was it he’d once said about hope? That he couldn’t afford it? That it would tear him apart?
Sam Wyant leaned against the wall, arms folded. He was letting them talk but she could sense his skepticism that this would lead to anything.
Kyle’s head was still down. His hair was mussed, beautiful. And then all the words Dr. Jonas Haslam had prepped Erin to say flew out of her mind.
“Kyle is your name,” she heard herself say. “When you were sick with a fever, and could hardly breathe, I sat up all night with you in a reclining chair. You slept on my chest so I could hold you upright. Your father did the same with you the next night. We did that five nights in a row. When you got night terrors, I would come into your room and sing you back to sleep. It was called the ‘Star Carol’.”
Kyle’s head did not move.
Softly, Erin sang, “Long years ago, on a deep winter night, High in the heavens, a star shone bright …”
She paused, hoping he’d at least look at her. He didn’t.
“You always wanted me to sing that to you,” Erin said, “all the way to when you were five years old.”
Kyle kept his gaze down.
“Try to remember that,” Erin said. “Can you?”
No response.
“When you were five you were taken from us. What we went through was something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not knowing if you were alive or dead. And now we do know. Alive. We don’t want to lose you again. We will never let you go, if you will only let us … stay … in your life.”
Silence.
“Will you just let us try?” Erin said. “We’ve come so far …”
She couldn’t continue. But she knew. The next moment would bring the answer. Kyle would look at her and she would see his eyes, be able to read them, and they would tell her whether she was granted life or living death.
For a long moment no one spoke, or even moved.
Then Kyle raised his head.
112
In the parking structure of the jail, sitting in the car with Erin, Dylan had no thought of starting the engine. This was the first place they could be together in private, out of the gaze of jail personnel.
Before saying a word Erin put her head on his chest. He put his arms around her. Her tears soaked his shirt. He tried to hold back his own.
He fell into the rhythm of her breathing.
And then, into his chest, Erin said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Yes,” Dylan said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
She sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Dylan reached past her, to the glove compartment, got out some tissues. He handed her one and took one himself.
“It’s going to be a long road,” Dylan said.
“Like a marathon,” Erin said.
“He’ll be there at the finish line,” Dylan said.
“We’ve got to believe that.”
“Do you?” Dylan said.
“I do,” Erin said.
“Me, too,” Dylan said. “And …”
“Yes?”
“I was just …”
“What is it, Dylan?”
“It may sound, I don’t know, crazy.”
“Nothing is going to sound crazy after all this.”
Dylan smiled. “Okay then. What would you say if I told you I wanted something I once had?”
“Like?”
“To be,” he said, “your density.”
Erin laughed then. Short and sweet. “I think we can take that one step at a time.”
“I can deal with that,” Dylan said. “One step at a time. For you and me and Kyle.”
“Yes,” Erin said. “For you and me and our son.”
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Your Son Is Alive. Suspense is what I love to write , and there’s always more in the pipeline. If you’d like to be on my email list you’ll be among the first to know when new books come out, so please subscribe on my website (you may win a free book, too). I won’t share your email address with anyone, nor will I stuff your mailbox with spam. It’s just a short and to-the-point email from time to time.
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About the Author
JAMES SCOTT BELL is a winner of the International Thriller Writers Award (Romeo’s Way) and is the author of the #1 bestseller for writers, Plot & Structure. He studied writing with Raymond Carver at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and graduated with honors from the University of Southern California Law Center.
A former trial lawyer, Jim writes full time in his home town of Los Angeles.
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Your Son Is Alive Page 26