by Cari Hunter
*
Lyssa had been murdered, Sarah reminded herself. Lyssa was dead because of something Sarah had done. It wasn’t perhaps the most logical of arguments but, as she waited naked and shivering in the small communal washroom, she wondered whether she was just getting what she deserved.
She tried to ignore the catcalls and whistles from the three women already searched and sent to the showers. They couldn’t see her—Officer Kendall, the female guard in charge of their intake, had made sure of that—but they knew exactly what was happening, having just been through the process.
“Now the other one, honey.”
Staring at the white tiles covering the washroom walls, Sarah followed Kendall’s instructions. The steam from the water smelled harsh and chemical, the shampoo obviously designed not only to clean but also to disinfect and delouse. She blinked as it brought tears to her eyes and then she staggered back when Kendall touched her shoulder.
“We’re all done. You can get a shower.” She handed Sarah a plastic wallet containing basic toiletries. “You’re a remand prisoner, so you can wear your own clothes…” Her instructions trailed away; Sarah was already shaking her head. “Don’t want to stand out, huh?”
“Not especially.” Sarah took the neatly folded pile of beige uniform from her. “Thanks.”
“Soon as you’re through, I’m gonna ask the doc to take a look at you.”
“I’m okay.” She pushed her wrists beneath the clothing, but the bandages had been removed for the search and Kendall had already seen the swollen and seeping collection of wounds.
“Sure you are.” Kendall gestured for Sarah to move ahead of her into the shower stall. “But I’ll feel happier when the doc tells me that.”
She closed the door to Sarah’s stall and rapped on the other doors to hurry the women along. Sarah hugged her arms across her breasts and inched beneath the spray as it slowly warmed. She squeezed pungent green gel from the shampoo bottle and winced when it ran into the raw slices on her arms. She washed quickly, not knowing the jail’s routine and not wanting anyone to come in and see her.
The prison uniform—beige sweatpants, white T-shirt, and beige shirt—wasn’t going to win any prizes for style, but it was comfortable enough. The women she had traveled in with were obviously seasoned offenders, who had entered the jail wearing several layers of underwear. Having been allowed to keep the spare sets, they had mocked Sarah for her ignorance of the trick. She made a mental note to ask Alex for supplies. She might be able to tolerate prison-issue clothing, but prison-issue underwear was something else entirely.
“All set?” Kendall nodded at her. “Doc’s ready for you, c’mon.”
They walked side by side into a large cellblock. At regular intervals, single doors were set into the corridor, each with a narrow central viewing window. Through the reinforced glass panels, Sarah caught glimpses of the inmates, some on their bunks reading or writing, a few already asleep or lying with their eyes open as if waiting for something to take them away. It was the first time she had gotten a proper look at the jail’s interior. The van had delivered them directly into a secure, shuttered loading bay, and from there Kendall had taken them straight into the washroom, a relatively quiet area. Here in the main residential section of the jail, noise echoed off the high walls: screams and shouts, the clang of metal on metal, yelled conversations. A door marked “Rec Room” was ajar, and beyond it several voices were raised, arguing about which television channel to watch. From her research on Alex’s phone, Sarah knew that most of the women here would be serving sentences of less than two years, but she also knew that that didn’t make them any less dangerous. With such short sentences, there was no “good-time credit,” and the lack of early release for good behavior meant there was little incentive for offenders to behave.
At the end of the block, a guard behind a protective Lucite screen buzzed Kendall and Sarah through the connecting door. He nodded to Kendall and looked Sarah up and down before returning his attention to his bank of monitors. The brightly lit area beyond the door was silent, and its strong medicinal odor started to make Sarah’s nose itch. She sneezed as Kendall stopped and knocked at the infirmary. The smell became even more pronounced as Sarah stepped over the threshold, but it still wasn’t enough to mask an underlying reek of feces.
“Sarah Hayes for you, doc,” Kendall said through a grimace. “The one I called about.”
The doctor had his back to them as he scrubbed his hands at the sink. “How the fuck do they know to put sugar in it?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Kelly Harrison, about an hour since. Two women pinned her down while another poured boiling sugar water over her back.” When he turned to face them, his expression was more puzzled than saddened. “How the fuck do they know that sugar makes burns so much worse? Google? Wiki-fucking-pedia?” He shook his head. “She shit herself, hence the smell.”
Sarah had spent hours chatting to Lyssa and other medics, so she wasn’t shocked by his lack of sentimentality. He looked to be in his late fifties, with thin graying hair and tired lines creasing his face. When he noticed her attention, he gave her a tight smile and reached for a clean pair of gloves.
“Not sure the Avery PD has been doing my new prisoner any favors,” Kendall said by way of introduction.
“No, I think you might be right there.” The doctor ushered Sarah to the examination bed, flicked on the overhead light, and took both of her hands in his. He turned them over carefully and pressed his finger against the most tender laceration. “That one needs reopening and cleaning out. Couple need new sutures.” He pulled a sterile pack from one of the drawers. “Course of antibiotics, clean dressings, and a few days away from overly zealous police officers should do the trick.”
His manner was brusque but non-judgmental, and he waited for Sarah to nod her consent before injecting local anesthetic around the wounds. Resting her head against the back of the bed, she ignored the drug’s vicious sting and allowed her eyes to close as the doctor worked. For the first time since her arrest, she felt safe.
Chapter Thirteen
The sandwich consisted of stale, tasteless white bread enclosing something that might have been bologna. Sitting in the dark, trying not to disturb the woman sleeping on the bunk below, Sarah persevered with her first mouthful but couldn’t face a second.
It had been after “lights out” by the time the doctor released her. Despite Bridie’s assurance that remand prisoners were kept segregated from the jail’s general population, Sarah had been escorted to a shared cell in the main block. Kendall had made a non-committal reference to a transfer once a single cell became available, before locking her in for the night.
The metal frame of the bunk bed swayed and creaked as Sarah’s cellmate turned over. Sarah froze, halfway through placing the sandwich back in its packaging, but any noise she might have made was drowned out by a door slamming somewhere down the corridor and a high-pitched yelling that drew progressively closer. A fist or a boot suddenly collided with her cell door, startling her into knocking the plastic pack over the side of the bed. She held her breath as it dropped onto the tiles. For a second, she thought she had gotten away with it, but then she heard a yawn and a low, drowsy voice.
“If you’re through with that, can I have it?”
Peering toward the floor, Sarah could just distinguish a pale hand reaching for the sandwich. “Sorry I woke you,” she whispered.
The woman managed to laugh and chew at the same time. “Reckon Lou-Anne had more to do with that. That girl’s been like clockwork, every night for a week now. She’s comin’ off crack,” she added, as if that was explanation enough.
“Where will they take her? The infirmary?” Sarah had long contemplated what her first prisoner-to-prisoner encounter would be, but this scenario—a hushed conversation over a midnight snack—had never featured.
“Naw, probably down to solitary. Let her bounce off the walls there and sweat it out.” Plastic crinkled a
s the woman took the second half of the sandwich. “No one told me I was gettin’ a fish. You done your time in the tank, then?”
The woman’s lips smacked together wetly as Sarah tried to decipher what she had just been asked. Prison dialect was as mysterious to her as her own slang was to Alex. She smiled, imagining getting home and holding a conversation in fluent jail-speak just when Alex thought she had all her colloquialisms figured out.
“I don’t know what the tank is,” she admitted. “I don’t think I went there.”
The woman chuckled. “Oh, you’re definitely a fish,” she said without malice. “That just means brand new in here, honey.”
“Right.” Sarah vaguely remembered hearing the term on a television show. “And the tank?”
“Fish should go in the fish tank. Stay there for a few weeks to get used to how things are. Get a cell and work duties assigned.”
“They put me straight in here. I think the jail might be full.”
“Probably. Had three of us to a cell not a month back.”
“Bloody hell, how’d they manage that?” Now that Sarah’s vision had adjusted to the dim light, she could see the cell more clearly. It was barely eight feet by six, with a small desk, one chair, and a metal toilet-sink combined unit that seemed intended as much for humiliation as practicality.
“Coulda been worse,” the woman said, sounding remarkably sanguine. “Coulda ended up with Lou-Anne.” Her hand tapped on the underside of Sarah’s bed. “I’m Camille.”
Sarah wiped the sweat off her own palm before shaking hands. “Sarah.”
“Got six months left before I get back to my babies,” Camille said as she settled back on the bed. “You?”
“I don’t know.” A shadow fell across the window in the door, then an anonymous face peered in, and Sarah closed her eyes tightly, like a child tormented by the monsters in the closet. “I’m on remand.”
Camille snorted once. “Be here longer than me, then,” she said, and within seconds began to snore.
When Sarah opened her eyes minutes later, nothing had changed. The cell was still bathed in a thin, bluish light, the door remained locked, her wrists still throbbed, and the toilet smelled fetid and unpleasantly sweet. The thought of being trapped here for six hours, let alone six months, made her want to claw her fingernails into the wall, just to see if she could break through to the other side and fresh air.
The shadow passed slowly by the window again. She turned her back to it and curled herself into a ball. She didn’t know which was worse, the night stretching out in front of her or the prospect of the day that would follow.
*
The kitchen table was strewn with sheets of paper. In trying to get organized, Alex seemed merely to have created more chaos. She rummaged through the printouts and hand-scribbled notes, looking for her “to do” list.
“Of all the places to park your furry little butt,” she said, lifting Bandit from the table and dumping him on the floor. Her list was warm when she retrieved it. “Go earn your keep. Catch a mouse or something.”
Sensing her foul mood, Bandit slunk out the cat flap. Alex returned to her seat just as the printer finished churning out a PDF document she had found online. She sorted the pages into order, scribbled “Harnish” on the top in red pen, and added them to the small pile bearing the same heading. Bridie would no doubt be doing similar research with far better resources at her disposal, but Alex, having no in-depth understanding of the bail appeal process, wanted some idea of what they might be up against.
She had spoken to Bridie the previous night, finding out which jail Sarah had been transferred to and the earliest date she would be allowed visitors. As a new prisoner, still within the admission and orientation period, she would have to wait five days before anyone other than her legal counsel could see her.
Alex glanced at her salvaged list and tapped the mouse pad on her laptop, waking it from power save. Tobin had returned the computer and a bagful of bedding earlier that morning. She had unlocked the door to find him attempting to peel off the sticky residue of an evidence label. After mumbling an apology and asking her to sign a receipt, he almost tripped over Flossie in his haste to leave. The bedding had gone straight into the garbage, but the laptop had been a godsend; buying a replacement was now crossed off the top of her list.
Her cell rang as she was typing “motels and hotels, Avery, Aroostook County” into a search engine.
“Hey, Mike.” She clicked enter as she spoke.
“Morning.” He sounded tired; Alex guessed he had been awake as late as she had.
“There are five R. Hollises living in Avery, Ruby, or Tawny Ridge,” he said, cutting right to the chase. “Three of those are female, one owns a bakery out in Tawny where he lives with his wife and kids, and the fifth is seven years old.”
“Great.” She tapped her pen on her teeth. “So who’s the Mr. R. Hollis getting his mail delivered to Emerson’s apartment?”
“That would be the million dollar question.”
She bit the pen top until it cracked. “Think we might be going in the wrong direction here? Every turn we take with Emerson, we slam into a brick wall.”
“It’s possible.” Castillo sighed. “Hate to follow bad news with shit news, but the tire images didn’t show a real lot of anything.”
“Wow, and here was I thinking they might have a name, number, and license plate carved into them.” She knew Castillo was absolutely not the villain, but she couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
There was a short silence.
“You get any sleep, Alex?” he asked finally.
“No.” She ran her hands over her face. “No, not really. You?”
“Here and there.”
“It’s driving me fucking crazy. Trying to get it straight in my head. It’s like the worst game of Clue, only with no one holding that little wallet with all the answers in it.” She heard him grunt in agreement. “I think Caleb Deakin killed Lyssa,” she continued, absently scribbling “CD – L” on a blank sheet of paper. “But those tire tracks must have been concealed by someone on the search teams, so I still think there’s a local involved. Maybe before heading out here Deakin found someone sympathetic to his cause, someone who could later volunteer for the search without seeming out of place.”
“Sounds plausible enough,” Castillo said. “Sleep deprivation must agree with you.”
“This is probably my manic phase. Next up is crash and burn, followed shortly afterward by rocking in a darkened room.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I just want to keep going until I’ve tried everything. I’m starting to look into places nearby that Deakin could have stayed at. If he’s not at Emerson’s apartment, he might have rented somewhere else around here. Motel, hotel, trailer park.”
“Holiday home,” Castillo added.
She nodded, scribbling another note on her list. “Of course, he could just have slept in his damn car. You know more about the family than I do. Is he the type to turn tail and run straight back to North Carolina?”
“No, he’s not.”
“And he’s probably going to have contacts within the prison system.”
“I’m running background on as many of the staff and inmates at Prescott as I can, but—”
“I know,” Alex interrupted, not wanting him to have to state the obvious. “Budget cuts, jurisdiction, your stack of official ongoing cases that aren’t related to this entirely unofficial ongoing case.”
“Damn, Alex, you sound just like my boss, but that wasn’t what I was going to say.” The faint trace of humor that had been in his voice vanished. “Deakin isn’t a threat just to Sarah. You need to move. You’re far too vulnerable out there on your own.”
“Are you trying to scare me?” she asked, unwilling to admit that he was right.
“Yes. You should be scared.”
She looked out the window, watching the chickens wandering about on the grass and Tilly snoozing with
her head on her paws. Beyond the grass, the forest loomed into her peripheral vision, and beyond that, she had no way of knowing what was out there.
“Maybe when I start my research I’ll find somewhere suitable to move to.” It was the only concession she was willing to give at that moment. “Somewhere pet and chicken friendly.”
“Jesus, Alex, get a friend to feed the fucking chickens.”
“You offering?” She waited for the penny to drop, waited for him to realize that they didn’t have any real friends left. It didn’t take him long.
“Shit.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’ll sort something out, I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” A phone rang on his side of the line. He swore indistinctly and the ringing stopped; she suspected he had flicked it through to voice mail. “I spoke to Quinn again and e-mailed him Caleb Deakin’s record,” he continued. “He didn’t seem very interested, even when I pointed out the relevance of the dates, but I got him to promise that his officers would receive copies of the information.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry for being a bitch.”
“I think you’re allowed a lapse here and there, given the circumstances.”
“Still, I am sorry.”
She heard another man’s voice in the background and Castillo’s low reply, before he came back to the phone. “I have a meeting in five,” he told her. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“I will.”
She hung up and wiggled her finger on the mouse pad again. A list of rental properties in Avery filled the screen. Deciding to start systematically before broadening the search, she dialed the number for Avery’s sole hotel. If it was anything like the last time, she didn’t expect them to be at all receptive to her inquiries and was pretty sure they would inform Quinn, but she wasn’t about to let that deter her.