She got up and went to the bathroom. Might as well have one last pee before the journey.
When she was finished she flushed the toilet, then came back and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Teenage Rampage" was coming out of the speakers now and Carol listened to the song for a moment, letting the memory of youth carry her away.
She had talked to Agent Strong that day at the Illinois State Police Headquarters in Springfield. She hadn't been sure if he would believe most of it, so she'd left out the bit about Mark's curse-there was no way he would believe that. She'd told him what she knew; that Mark had only told her about his involvement with Bernard in early January. She'd told him that Bernard had blackmailed Mark into committing the murders, that Mark had felt trapped. She'd mentioned the level of suspicion Mark had been under when his parents were murdered (of course, she didn't tell him that she believed Mark had killed his parents and if anybody had deserved to be killed more than Bernard, it was Mark's folks; they had been real bastards). Bernard had told Mark that he would fix it so that he would be arrested for the deaths of his parents despite the anatomical evidence that had showed they were killed by some wild animal. Mark had buckled; that had been a touchy subject for him, and furthermore, Bernard had made it clear that if he found out Mark had gone to the police he would have him killed.
Agent Strong had listened to her calmly, stroking his chin with his fingers. So he felt trapped, Agent Strong had said.
Carol had nodded. Trapped. That was the perfect word for it. Mark had felt trapped, with no one to turn to. He'd believed that Bernard had him on all corners, so he had given in. He'd thought that if he went through with it that Bernard would keep his end of the bargain, that he would destroy whatever circumstantial evidence he had dug up on his parents and that would be the end of it.
She'd told him the reason Mark had bungled the hit on George Fielding was because his conscience was getting the better of him, and that when Bernard had found out he had called Mark, threatening to kill him. She had told him of Mark calling her at her apartment and her coming over and hearing this for the first time. Of course she had suspected something was going wrong with Bernard for some time, but that only served to justify those feelings. She'd told Agent Strong about their flight to Three Rivers, how Bernard had somehow tracked them there, how Mark had ambushed him and managed to knock him out. How they'd fled before the police had arrived. She'd told the agent about her confusion during this time, the conflicting emotions of fear and love tearing her apart. But most important had been an overriding feeling that she'd had to help Mark, that she'd had to keep him safe.
Why was that? Agent Strong had asked.
Carol had shrugged. I don't know, she'd said. Of course, deep down inside she'd known, but she hadn't been about to tell him that. Agent Strong had looked at her for a moment, as if trying to read her thoughts, then had nodded for her to continue.
There hadn't been much else to tell; he'd known the rest. They had settled in Florence, Missouri and hidden out there for a month, then decided to head to Chicago. They had stopped at the Motel Six in Springfield for the night and somehow Bernard Roberts had tracked them. How, she didn't know, but he had, and now Mark was dead, and would he please just leave her the fuck alone?
He had left her alone that night, in a motel room with a guard posted outside her door. The next morning she had been interviewed by a couple of detectives, mostly about what had happened back at the motel. She'd begun to wonder if she would need a lawyer, but Agent Strong had assured her that she wouldn't face charges. As long as we have our understanding, he'd said, smiling.
Bernard Roberts had been held in Illinois on no bond. Meanwhile, prosecutors had wanted to extradite him to California so they could charge him with the conspiracy charges, but it appeared that Illinois wanted to hold him there until he'd been tried first. Meanwhile, Carol had been flown back to Orange County for interrogation by law enforcement personnel about her knowledge of Bernard's criminal activities in Orange County. As long as we have our understanding, Agent Strong's voice had whispered in her mind, reminding her.
She had lost her apartment upon fleeing with Mark, but with the help of her parents, who had been supportive during the ordeal, she'd found a new place in Huntington Beach. She'd cooperated fully with the FBI on the fraud and embezzling charges and also in the three murder-for-hire plots, as well as the attempted murder-for-hire on George Fielding. She'd been interviewed and interrogated so much that she'd soon lost count. With the help of her parents and the salary from a job she'd started six months later at a small computer firm, she'd re tamed a good lawyer who had sat in with her on several interrogations. As the months had drawn on, the lawyer had been able to arrange a deal with prosecutors: Carol Emrich would reveal all she knew as their star witness; she would testify against Bernard Roberts in both trials. In return, she would get full immunity. The deal had been struck and even after the documents were signed Carol had still felt troubled.
Bernard hadn't budged in questioning. All the evidence gathered against him in the fraud and embezzling had been largely based on circumstantial evidence and testimony from Carol, based on the nine months she had been dating him. They had still been debating on whether to admit into evidence the private conversations between Mark Wiseman and Carol about his involvement in the killings and Bernard's confessions to Mark, when Bernard's murder trial had come up in Illinois.
It had been a three-week trial, held at the Springfield County Courthouse. Bernard had been represented by a lawyer from Mission Viejo, a criminal defense lawyer named Jim Weinstein who had worn big flashy gold rings on his fingers and a large gold chain around his wrist. The defense had tried to paint the picture that Bernard was a spurned lover, that Carol had dumped him for Mark, and that Bernard had travelled brokenhearted to Illinois to try to patch things up and had been attacked by Mark. "My client may very well have been stalking Mark Wiseman for the better part of two months," Jim had said during closing arguments. "I admit, he was acting like a lovesick kid. He was devastated by the break-up between he and Ms. Emrich. But he was also scared for her, because he suspected that Mark harbored a violent streak and he feared Carol was in danger. That's why he was armed the day he went to their motel room in Springfield. He didn't go armed with the intent to kill, but to protect himself from the possibility of Mark turning violent. And unfortunately, that's what happened."
It had been the most ludicrous piece of owlshit she had ever heard. The jury hadn't bought it either, and after deliberating for two days they'd found Bernard Roberts guilty of murder in the first degree. As the penalty phase of the trial had gotten under way, Carol had found herself besieged with media inquiries. The stress had been too much and that was when the urge to check out had started to clamor. She hadn't been able to get away from the images she'd seen on TV and magazines: The defense had painted her as she had been painted during her employment at Free State, as a castrating, money-hungry bitch; she had not only sent Mark Wiseman to his grave, but she had ruined the career of a brilliant businessman. Carol had almost committed suicide in the two weeks during the penalty phase of the trial, but couldn't. She'd had to see it through; she'd needed closure. Vengeance.
The jury had voted for life without the possibility of parole, striking down a possible death sentence. The judge had sealed the jury's decision with the pounding of the gavel and the case had been closed, pending appeals. Bernard hadn't even looked at Carol as he'd been led by a bailiff toward the rear of the court that took him down a long hallway to a waiting car, where he'd been transported back to the county jail. From there he had been transferred to Joliet State Prison where he shared lodgings with such masterminds of crime as serial killer John Wayne Gacy. And all because he'd wanted to cover up his evidence of fraud and embezzling.
Carol looked down at the pills in her hand, then took a deep breath. She looked around the room and smiled. Then she popped the first two pills in her mouth and chased them with the water. Against the sou
ndtrack of "Fox on the Run," she fed the pills to herself one by one, chasing them with the water until she emptied the bottle. Almost thirty-five pills. She set the empty glass down on the nightstand along with the empty bottle. Then she settled back on the bed and lay down, closing her eyes, listening to the music.
Somehow the people at her new job had gotten wind of what had happened and it wasn't long before the rumors had begun plaguing her there, too. She'd tried to dodge it, tried to simply keep her head down and do her job, but it had been so hard. Accusations had flown, hurtful, hateful words had plagued her, and she'd been forced to quit and look for another job. The recession had been running deep and she'd taken temp jobs. She'd thought that she could be anonymous at the companies the temp agencies sent her to. But for some reason the men that she worked with had all begun to sniff around her like hungry wolves. She had batted down their advances while trying to focus on her job. Then the accusations had come again: cold bitch, cock-teasing cunt, then-Hey, isn't she the chick that testified in that murder trial, the one where the guy she was dating, some CEO, killed her boyfriend because she had dumped him?
Yeah, that's the one. I heard she fucked her way up to that job and that she fucked him, too. Claimed to love him and everything. Then she dumped him. Went after some other guy and the guy she dumped just went ape-shit. He had proposed marriage to her, bought her a big engagement ring, bought her all kinds of shit. Fucking golddigging bitch is what she is. And now he's doing time for killing that crazy boyfriend of hers because he attacked him when he tried to talk to her. That sucks.
The accusations had chased her from job to job and then Bernard's trial for conspiracy to commit murder and embezzling had come up. Once again, Carol had been the prosecution's star witness. The prosecutors had told her that with her testimony they had an open and shut case. They had the support of the surviving board members, Bernard's colleagues in the executive suite at Free State, and her testimony, not to mention the paper trail they had been able to wrestle out of the Cayman Island accounts, a paper trail that led right back to the Free State coffers.
So Bernard had been flown out to Orange County and stood trial for conspiracy to commit murder and embezzling in the Santa Ana Courthouse. Two weeks later he had been convicted on all counts and a month later he was sentenced to three life terms, plus seventy-five years with no possibility of parole. Once again, he hadn't even looked at her as he was led out of the courtroom by the bailiff.
During that trial she'd been treated coldly by the people she had known; former coworkers who had come to the trial to either testify, or to watch the proceedings. She had almost gotten the feeling that they were silently blaming her for the mess, that if she hadn't gotten involved with Bernard-and Mark for that matter-it wouldn't have happened. The only two people who hadn't snubbed her were two board members, Frederick Johansen, who had given a good, strong testimony, and George Fielding, healed up fully from his attack. Both men had approached her separately to offer their condolences and to express their sorrow for what had happened. Frederick Johansen had even said that if she ever needed anything-and I mean anything-to give him a call. He could help her get a job at one of the companies he owned, no sweat. He had given her his card and she had taken it, smiling. She'd thanked them both, then went home alone.
And now she was home alone again with the music of Sweet blasting through her speakers. It was all over and soon all the grief and hurt and guilt she felt over Mark's death would be gone, too. Soon she would be with Mark Wiseman again; it was all she dreamed of. It was what had kept her going these past fifteen months. To make sure that he was avenged.
She felt the dark pall of sleep come over her and she smiled, welcoming it. The music she most loved as a child was playing in the background and she tried to conjure up visions of that long-ago time, when the world had seemed so bright and innocent, when she had been unmarred by the harsh cruelties of the world. She was ten years old again and playing in the warm, Nebraska sun. It was late afternoon and her friends were somewhere-she didn't know where-and she was in her front yard playing with her Barbies and her tea set, her portable turntable on the front porch, "Little Willy" blaring out of the tiny speakers. It was a beautiful day, the sun warm, a nice cool breeze blowing from the north, and the shadows were long on the sidewalks and the front lawn, which was a deep green. She played, humming the song under her breath and when she heard Mark call her name she looked up and smiled, surprised to see him. He was standing at the bottom step that led up to the front porch and he was smiling, looking like he had when she'd first met him at that night club, his hair combed back and resting on his shoulders, his face clean-shaven. He smiled at her and held out his hand and she reached her hand out to him and suddenly she wasn't ten years old anymore, she was twentyeight again, but she was still in that world of her childhood, where her childhood memories gave her the warm, comforting feeling of home.
Epilogue
He had been exercising in the yard by himself now for the past three years. He preferred it. It gave him time to think.
He couldn't think in the bullpen of the Joliet State Prison. He couldn't think because the bullpen was loud, ringing with the voices of the three hundred plus men in the wing where he was imprisoned. Men that were serving time for grand theft, bank robbery, aggravated assault, rape, first-and seconddegree murder. Between the hours of one and three p.m., they were out of their cells and congregating in the recreation area, or they were watching television, or they were in their cells writing letters, or they were lined up at the pay phones talking to loved ones. Those that were on some sort of work duty were slaving away in the laundry, or in the prison library, or in the factory making license plates. And between the hours of two-thirty and three, Bernard Roberts was allowed thirty minutes of exercise in the yard by himself. It had to be this way; he was a danger to others and he was often the target of danger.
Bernard Roberts grinned slightly and looked up at the blue sky, clouds dotting the horizon. It was hard to believe that he had been behind bars now for nine years, but it was true. How time flies. When he'd first come to Joliet to serve his term he had still been lean and handsome, with hardly a speck of gray in his hair. Now he had put on eighty pounds, especially around the midsection and the hair along the crown of his head had completely fallen out. It had gone gray around the temples and he now wore glasses to correct his vision. But his mind was still sharp; he supposed it always would be.
Three years was a long time to have solitary exercise duties, but it had come at a price. He had been offering a fellow con financial advice, which had been passed on to the con's family on the outside. The market had taken a downturn and the man's family had lost twenty thousand dollars. The conwho was serving a life sentence for killing three people in a robbery-had gone after Bernard in the yard. The fight hadn't been that bad; the guards had broken it up, but the worst had come three weeks later after they'd both come out of solitary.
It was pretty much common knowledge that Bernard was serving time for first-degree murder and that he had been convicted in California for a bunch of embezzling and conspiracy-to-murder shit. Only in the day following his and Bruce Taylor'sthe guy he had fought with in the yard-release from solitary, Bruce had let the word leak that there was one charge the DA in California hadn't been able to pin on Bernard: child molestation. Bernard didn't know how Bruce had been able to successfully convince the twelve or so cronies he hung with that he had almost been tried on seven counts of sexual molestation of a child, but somehow he had. The rumor had gotten around. It was dismissed in most circles; everybody was trying to fuck everybody else in prison, so those cons that were seasoned veterans had picked up on the lie. However, there were others that hadn't dismissed it so easily. Many of these men were those with children themselves, but not all. Men who weren't above a little torture themselves.
A big lunkhead named Jaime Wills had tried it first, coming at Bernard one morning at breakfast. He'd come at Bernard with a shiv and
Bernard had been fast enough to bring Jaime to the ground, twist the shiv out of his hand and stab the motherfucker in the back. He'd spent another two weeks in solitary for that, but when he'd gotten out there was more waiting for him.
The first time Bernard had been gang raped in prison had been two weeks after he'd first arrived at Joliet. It had happened in the shower. Bernard had been apprehensive about showering when he'd first arrived at Joliet, but then he'd seen that not much really happened. All the stories he had heard about gang rapes in prison showers must have been bullshit, because they surely didn't happen at Joliet. For one, there were guards all over the place. That seemed to be the main deterrent. Bernard had started chalking that one up as an urban myth, but then it had happened to him.
He had been in the shower and for awhile everything had been normal. Then he'd suddenly noticed that the showers had emptied out. The minute he'd realized that two things had happened: the first, he'd noticed that the guards had all suddenly vanished; the second, he'd felt something long and hard probe between his buttocks from behind. He'd started and was about to turn around when a hand had clamped around his neck. "I been wantin' to fuck yo ass since I laid eyes on you, homey," a rough voice had whispered in his ear. The hand around his throat had clamped down harder and then everything had become a blur.
He had been beaten and raped by four hardened men, gang members, real hardasses. All of them big and muscular and one of them with a violent fetish for sexual torture. Bernard had spent a week on his stomach in the infirmary after that, with the prison doctors telling him that another attack could permanently damage his rectum. Therefore, when he'd gotten out of the infirmary he'd changed his tactics; he'd begun hanging out with the Aryan Nations assholes that he had always hated, and because Bernard had a keen business mind they'd begun using him as a resource for their activities outside. They'd also protected him. He would never be raped by another gang of niggers and wetbacks again.
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