by Ania Ahlborn
“Sure,” Lucas said.
“But even in supermax, you’ve got inmates, and then you’ve got inmates. They’re good men, really; just folks who took a misstep and ended up on the wrong side of the law. Could happen to anybody, if you ask me.”
Lucas wasn’t sure how right Marty was on that point if they were being held in supermax, but he kept his silence, simply nodding to urge him on.
“I gotta admit, though, Jeffrey Halcomb . . .” Marty paused, squinted as if considering his next string of words. “Halcomb is a creepy dude.”
“How so?” Lucas asked.
“That’s the thing. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch.”
“And it’s not just you who thinks that way, either, right, Marty?” Josh chimed in.
“No, it’s almost all the inmates on the row—at least the ones who have any contact with him at all . . . which isn’t much, by the way. Those guys stay in their cells for twenty-three hours a day. They don’t get rec time the way you think they do, like they did in that Shawshank movie. Whatever free time they get, they spend alone in an animal pen.”
Lucas motioned for Marty to hold that thought. He dropped his messenger bag onto his lap and pulled out his digital recorder. “You mind?” he asked.
Marty gave the recorder the side-eye, then shot Morales a look. “You weren’t kidding,” he said, then turned his attention back to Lucas. “You’re really going to quote me on this stuff?”
“As an anonymous source. And only if you let me. You won’t be named.”
Marty leaned back in his seat, the chair groaning beneath his weight. He was grinning, as though someone had just promised him a gig on TV. “Hell, I’ll let you put my family photo in your book if it didn’t cost me my job. It would give my wife something to brag about to that windbag of a mother of hers. The mother-in-law always did like giving me crap for not making much of myself.”
“See,” Josh said. “You tell me to get married, and then you follow up the suggestion with shit like that.”
Lucas exhaled a laugh and placed the recorder on the table. A small light glowed red next to Eperson’s sweating beer glass. “Okay. You were saying that you think Jeffrey Halcomb is creepy, that all the inmates you interact with share the same sentiment.”
“Off the record?” Marty asked one last time.
“Yes, off the record,” Lucas assured him.
“Most of the guards that work the row think he’s damn weird, too,” Marty continued. “But as I said, you can’t really figure out what it is about the guy that makes him so strange. He’s just got this . . .” He moved his hands in front of him in crude semicircles, searching for the right word.
“Vibe,” Josh cut in. “Tell him about that one guy. Halcomb’s neighbor.”
Neighbor.
Lucas’s thoughts were momentarily derailed, his attention tumbling away from the conversation and to Jeanie 150 miles away. A sickening sense of having chosen the wrong option crept beneath his skin. What if he returned to an empty house? What if he stepped inside and Jeanie was gone, lost forever, all because he had to take a meeting, had to chase the dream of fixing his broken life by writing another blockbuster? Did he really believe that a million sales would win Caroline back? Would she care, or would she simply smile and hand him divorce papers and murmur sorry, Lou, before climbing into asshole Kurt Murphy’s brand-new sports car?
“Yeah, his neighbor,” Marty said, pulling Lucas’s attention back to the conversation. “There was a guy a few years ago, he was new to the row. Schwartz. He came in on murder charges. Double homicide. My memory is fuzzy because he wasn’t around for long, but I’m pretty sure he slashed up his wife and kid.”
“Was he transferred to a different facility, or . . . ?”
Marty shook his head. “No, no, he stabbed himself to death, right in the neck.” Marty gripped a butter knife in his hand, as if considering a reenactment. “And that was pretty damn strange, because of the stuff I do remember, that Schwartz guy was a tough bastard. The kind that taunts the guards. Not a nice person. He was no soft heart bleeding out guilt behind bars.” He paused, gave Lucas a sideways grin. “That’ll make a good quote, huh? It’s got a nice ring to it. Anyway, Schwartz left a note that said he was going to join his wife and kid in the afterlife, but he didn’t say afterlife, he said eternal life.”
If you live right, you can live forever. Echo’s words.
A shudder cartwheeled down his back.
“And who do you think gave him that idea?” Josh asked, raising both eyebrows at him.
“Wait . . .” Lucas peered down at the recorder, held his tongue until the waitress—who had returned with his water—took their orders and meandered away. “So, this inmate, Schwartz,” Lucas continued. “He was in the cell next to Jeff Halcomb?”
“Yep.”
“And he was there for . . . how long?”
“I don’t know, a few months, give or take. Oh, and get this: he stabbed himself with a cross.”
Lucas’s mouth went dry. His thoughts tumbled to the cross Halcomb had left at the front desk—no, that someone had left at the desk for Halcomb. The prison would have never allowed an item like that in a supermax cell. Yet somehow, there it was. Those guys could kill a man like Marty in two seconds flat, and yet Schwartz had used the weapon on himself rather than on somebody else.
“Jesus Christ,” Lucas said.
“If that’s who you believe in.” Marty popped another cheese-covered nacho into his mouth.
“How did he get something like that inside to begin with?” Lucas asked.
“I don’t know, really. I wasn’t on the case, I just heard about what was going on from other guards. But stuff like that happens on occasion. We get some clever visitors now and again, folks trying to smuggle stuff in every which way . . .”
“You don’t wanna know which way,” Josh said with a snort.
“And Schwartz wasn’t a suicide risk?” Lucas asked.
“Not that I know of,” Marty replied. “As I said, he was more of a riot risk than anything. He was edgy. The guards didn’t like him. He was definitely the kind of guy who would slash your throat if you gave him an inch.”
It seemed impossible. How could one man convince another to kill himself? How could one man have so much influence over a complete stranger—over a convicted murderer, no less?
“But rather than using his weapon on a guard . . .” Lucas’s thought tapered off to silence. Both Marty and Josh looked uncomfortable with his line of thought, as they should have. Regardless of whether it was an occupational hazard, nobody wanted to think about getting shivved while working the prison floor.
“You want to talk about guards?” Marty asked. “The one who was on watch when it happened? He quit that same day, right on the spot. A few days after that, he was found dead in his apartment.”
“It wasn’t murder,” Josh said.
“Well, he wasn’t murdered,” Marty corrected. “But the guy did manage to kill his wife before offing himself.”
Lucas gaped. He shot a look at Josh, who appeared smugly satisfied at Lucas’s surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“The papers made it out like the guy was upset about losing his job. Washington Corrections gave him the ax after the suicide on his shift, even though he really quit. But the fact that this guy killed his wife before he did the deed? I mean, it’s possible that the wife found out he lost his job. Maybe there was a huge fight and he accidentally killed her and then did himself out of guilt. But then there wouldn’t have been a note.”
“A note,” Lucas said.
“Something to the extent of living forever. Coincidence?” Marty raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. See where we’re going here?”
“The guard, what was his name?” Lucas asked.
“Stew Hillsto
ne. He was a good guy, which was just another thing that didn’t sit right with any of the people who knew him. Stew loved his wife, Donna. He had been talking about taking her to Hawaii for their anniversary. And then he turns around and kills her, stuck her in the back with a kitchen knife and laid her out on the floor like nothing happened? I heard that the cops wouldn’t have known she was dead had it not been for the giant pool of blood beneath her.”
“Did Hillstone talk to Halcomb often?”
Marty lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s impossible to keep track of who says what to whom, but it looks like Stew and Halcomb had something going on. I mean, Stew was friendly with almost all the guys on the row. He felt bad for ’em, even the child murderers. Stew was kind of weird that way. He kept it to himself for the most part, but he and Donna were really religious. They believed in all that forgiveness stuff, you know? Something about forgiving being divine. But the way I figure it, if Jeffrey Halcomb can convince an inmate to kill himself from behind a concrete wall, he can sure as hell get to a guard he interacts with on a daily basis.”
“How could Halcomb and Schwartz talk to each other? Aren’t they in solitary confinement?”
“The cell doors have ports. We call them slop slots, where we slide the food trays through. It isn’t exactly regulation, but maybe some of us are a little too soft for our own good. We leave those ports open for the guys who haven’t been causing trouble, and they can talk to each other through them if they feel like it.” Marty shrugged, his reproachful expression giving him away. He was guilty of leaving the port doors open as well. “It’s hard sometimes,” he said. “These guys are human beings. Locking them up the way they are, it gets to you sometimes. Occasionally we bend the rules because it makes us feel a little less grisly.”
“What do you call that?” Josh cut in. “The ability to make people do what you say.”
“Mind control?” Lucas said.
“You think that Halcomb guy can really do that?” Josh asked.
“I know he can,” Lucas said. “How else do you explain eight kids killing themselves in unison in the name of one man?”
And how else did someone explain why Lucas was living in Halcomb’s former residence? He knew damn well what the man was capable of, and Halcomb was still able to pull one over on him.
All it took was a letter.
You want my story, you live in my house.
Gee, okay, Lucas may as well have replied. What else can I do for you, Mr. Halcomb?
“Good teacher,” Morales said under his breath, “what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?” He looked up at Lucas and Marty. “That’s from the Bible. It’s repeated over and over again.”
Lucas gave him a curious look. Josh looked far away, as if contemplating something he’d never considered before.
“What about the visitor?” Lucas asked, turning his attention to Marty. “Josh mentioned something about a woman. And the gatekeeper receptionist at the front desk—I’ve talked to her many times. She’s verified that Halcomb has cut off all visitation except to one person. That must be her, right?”
“I’ve walked Halcomb down to the visitation room a few times,” Marty said. “In the past few months, I’ve noticed one particular visitor that sees him on a semifrequent basis. I don’t have her name. We have to request clearance to get info like that from the front desk, and we have to have a good reason for asking. Obviously, I can’t do that if we’re off the record . . . which we are.”
“Do you remember what she looks like?” Lucas asked.
“Not really. Halcomb doesn’t often see people the way he was going to see you—you know, one-on-one with guards standing by. He does on occasion, but every time I’ve noticed this woman, he’s been seeing her in regular visitation, behind Plexiglas, just talking through the phone.”
“So what?” Lucas shook his head, not getting the point.
“So when you go to regular visitation you don’t have to surrender all of your belongings. The chick wears these big dark glasses, like Jackie O. She pulls her hair back and wears a scarf. If you took one look at her you’d think she didn’t want to be seen going in and out of the prison, and I guess that’s just as well. Maybe she’s family or something. Whoever she is, Halcomb seems to know her pretty well. Maybe she’s ashamed of that. Or maybe she’s just a Froot Loop who thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe.”
“But there’s no chance . . . ?” Lucas asked.
“Sorry, no chance,” Marty said. “Not without painting a giant target on my back.”
Lucas leaned back in his seat, tapped his fingers against the edge of the table, and contemplated his options. Marty went back to his nachos while Josh remained oddly quiet, his gaze fixed on the soda fizzing in his mug. After a few moments, Lucas reached out and pressed STOP on the digital recorder, but he left it on the table just in case.
Josh spoke up only after the red light of the recorder went out. “What if it’s true?”
“What if what’s true?” Marty gave his coworker a look.
“The stuff Halcomb is saying, the stuff about eternal life? If Hillstone mentioned it in his letter, he must have gotten it from Halcomb. Maybe Halcomb told him that if he killed himself, he’d live forever or something. I mean, millions of people believe they’ll be granted eternal life as long as they repent for their sins and love their neighbor and go to church, right? I was taught that stuff when I was a kid. Halcomb isn’t, like, reinventing the wheel, you know?”
Marty frowned at his younger cohort. “There’s a difference between believing in God and believing some guy sitting in a supermax, Josh. Besides, the eternal life stuff isn’t coming from Halcomb, right, boss?” Marty gave Lucas a questioning look.
Lucas nodded. “Halcomb hasn’t said a word to anyone about his true beliefs,” he said. “Even if Hillstone did talk about it in his letter, we’re only speculating that he got it from Halcomb.”
“So if you want to know what his true belief is on eternal life,” Marty said, his gaze focused back on Josh, “I guess you’d have to ask him yourself.”
“But there’s something about Halcomb,” Josh said. “Something you can’t put your finger on. He’s creepy, right? Everyone thinks so.”
“Yeah, creepy as hell,” Marty confirmed.
“Well, what if he’s that way because there’s something about him . . . something we as regular people can’t understand? I mean, how do you convince someone to kill themselves?” Josh shot a look at Lucas, as though Lucas had the answer to how mind control worked. Lucas shook his head to say that he didn’t know.
“We as regular people,” Marty repeated, looking more restless by the second. “What does that make Halcomb, an irregular one?”
“Well, yeah,” Josh scoffed. “I mean, look at him.”
“Point taken,” Marty murmured, “but that’s not what you meant.”
Josh said nothing.
“You meant regular as in we’re just everyday joes while he’s something more . . . which sounds to me like some dangerous thinking.”
Morales lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug. “All I’m saying is that maybe there’s something more to it than just, like, parlor tricks. Maybe this guy isn’t what he looks like.”
“Which is what?” Marty asked.
“Crazy,” Josh said.
A chill crab-walked up Lucas’s spine. Now there was something to contemplate: what if Jeffrey Halcomb wasn’t crazy?
If he was preaching eternal life . . . what if it was true?
37
* * *
Sunday, April 4, 1982
Eleven Months, Ten Days Before the Sacrament
ONLY THREE OF them went over—Avis, Jeffrey, and Gypsy. Arriving at Maggie’s small bungalow tucked into the trees, Avis led them around the side of the house to the back sliding glass door. Just as predicted, it was unlocked.
>
Somewhere inside the house, Maggie and Eloise slept. At least that’s what she assumed, but Eloise’s visits had become few and far between. Maggie always had an excuse—day care or Grandma’s. Part of her hoped that Eloise wasn’t home, just in case something happened, just in case something went wrong.
Avis’s heart thudded in her chest at the thought of being caught. What would she say? She justified the break-in with the fact that they were stealing something that Maggie could easily replace. They were in it for boxes of mac and cheese and cans of Campbell’s soup, not for money or jewelry or anything that held sentimental value. Avis told herself that Maggie would have given up the things Gypsy was piling into paper grocery bags if she had only asked. But Jeff had made it clear that asking wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about whether she could bat her eyelashes and score some handouts. This was about having the guts to go through with the things the family had to do to survive.
If stealing some groceries was the entry fee to a life of companionship and acceptance, Avis was all in. She couldn’t let a little guilt get in the way, not even if the person she was betraying was her own best friend.
It took them less than a couple of minutes to load up three grocery bags full of dried food and canned goods. They took a few packs of meat from the freezer for good measure and some cellophaned leftovers for Shadow as well. Other than that, they left the place just the way they found it. Avis knew Maggie would notice so much missing. But she would have handed it over if I had asked, she told herself. If she blames me, I’ll just explain. Right. Because saying that Jeff had talked her into sneaking into a house in the dead of night would go over well. Because confessing that she had to do it or the group would know she wasn’t serious would paint her as a loyal compatriot. If she said any of those things, they would deem her a defector. And then they’d leave her behind, and she wasn’t sure what she’d do without them.