Daddy Darkest

by Ellery Kane

  His lips curled, hinted at a smile. Under the fluorescent glow, she noticed another tattoo on his face she hadn’t seen before. A teardrop just under his right eye. Clare remembered that symbol from one of Fitzpatrick’s trainings. Usually, it means the inmate committed murder, he’d said, pausing for their shock and awe. “Nah. My old lady can’t drive that far. And I don’t like the cold.”

  “Oh. I see.” She didn’t see anything. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I think you can. And I know you will.”

  His voice sounded different than she remembered. Steady. In control. Almost business-like. She held up the alarm to him like a talisman, wishing it had the power to strike him dead. “You should leave before I press this.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, puta. Unless you want everybody in Quentin to know what you’ve been doing. Or should I say, who?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I betcha that hothead Briggs wouldn’t be too keen on you banging a rat.”

  “I said I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Alright, alright. We’ll do it your way. Lieutenant Bonner will hear what Tony has to say. You see, after he walked in on you straddling your boyfriend, you offered him some favors for his silence. You started to take off your blouse, but he stopped you. Poor Tony felt muy, muy uncomfortable.”

  “That’s ridiculous. No one will believe him.” But Clare believed it, even knowing it hadn’t happened.

  “Will they believe him when I tell them what you said to me on the yard last month?” Slow and deliberate, he set his boots back onto the floor and stood up, crossing the floor in two steps leaving mud tracks behind him. His spider-leg fingers scrambled up her arm and traced the side of her face. “Maybe you offered me some favors too. I can think of a few things that might shut me up.”

  “No.” Such a small word and smaller still when she squeezed it out of her throat.

  “I thought you might say that.” He tugged on the edges of his gloves, pulling them tighter. “That’s why I came prepared. ‘Estar preparado, Arturo.’ That’s what my mom used to tell me. So you can press your alarm if you’d like, but by the time anybody gets here, I’ll have snapped your neck like a chicken bone. And who do you think will get the blame? Me or your puto boyfriend whose prints are everywhere? He likes to leave his mark, eh?” He tapped the soft spot under his jaw, smirking at her, and she knew her scarf had come undone.

  “Please leave.” The walls closed in tighter, and Clare fought for air. Her panic went straight to her hands—like it always did. The shaking started, and she dropped the alarm. The clink of it against the tile sounded a million miles away.

  “Pobrecita. Relax. I won’t touch you. You don’t ever have to see me again. If you do this one little thing.”

  The M on his bicep seemed to writhe. Like his snake heart was right there under it, pulsing. If her hands weren’t useless at her sides, the pen on her desk would’ve done nicely, sliced through his skin as easily as Rodney Taylor’s tire. “What do you want me to do?”

  December 18, 1996

  “Feeling better, Dr. Keely?” Fitzpatrick poked his head in through the crack in her office door, and she jumped, her heart off to the races before it could register she was safe for now. “I think there’s a bug going around.”

  She kept her head down so he couldn’t see the lie cross her face. “Probably the flu or something.” That something being Arturo Ramirez. Even with her eyes wide open all night and staring at the television, those muddy boots wouldn’t go away. Neither would the gloves with their dark-brown fingertips. It was dirt. Of course it was. He’d probably stolen the gloves when he’d been assigned to landscaping. But, in her mind, those stains were blood. Hers soon enough, if she didn’t do what he’d asked.

  “I brought you some information from the safety training.” He dropped a stapled packet of paper on her chair. “The one you missed yesterday morning,” he added when she failed to properly disguise her confusion.

  “Oh, right. The training. Was it . . . interesting?”

  “Riveting.” Fitzpatrick chuckled at his own joke. “By the way, did you want to make up our supervision session?”

  No, no, and no. “Sure.”

  “Are you busy now?”

  Very. Clare gazed at her barren desk. Not a single file folder to speak of. “I guess not.”

  Fitzpatrick made himself comfortable in the chair opposite her, before she’d even invited him. He unwrapped a peppermint and popped it into his mouth. She watched him shift the candy with his tongue, right then left, until he pocketed it in his cheek and grinned. A squirrel with a nut. “Well, then, how was your new client?”

  She wasn’t ready to dive into the deep end, but he pushed her. “Actually, I’m hoping he could be reassigned.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you know he was in the Mexican Mafia?”

  Fitzpatrick made a noise of understanding. When he spoke, his tongue was Christmas red. “A dropout. He’s not an active member anymore. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t feel safe.”

  “Perhaps he reminds you of someone from your past? Someone you didn’t feel safe with?”

  Here we go, Clare thought. Sigmund Fitzpatrick, rearing his pompous head. “It’s not that at all. I don’t think he’s done with the EME, and I don’t trust him. ”

  Fitzpatrick laughed again, that condescending little twitter that made her want to rip his throat out. “You do realize you work in a prison, Dr. Keely. I trust my clients about as far as I could throw them. And even that might be an overstatement.”

  “I . . . I ran into Ramirez . . . on the yard. You told me he’d been transferred.”

  “I thought he would be, but his cellie confessed to the whole thing. They charged him with drug smuggling and possession of a weapon. Shipped him off to Crescent City. They had to let Ramirez go. Yesterday, I think. I should’ve told you sooner. Is that what this is about? Ramirez?”

  Clare shrugged, but she wanted to throttle him. “Does it really matter?” she asked, trying to control her voice. “You wanted to reassign Cullen, so reassign Tony Perez instead.”

  “I feel you getting angry with me. I’m not saying no. I’m just asking for a little self-reflection from a psychologist. Don’t you think your distaste toward him might be worth exploring further? When I first started, my supervisor told me something. He said, ‘Fitz, to make it in the pen, you have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.’ Can you do that, Clare?”

  She felt tears coming—hot and insistent—like water from a hose left in the sun, but she squashed them fast. Didn’t he realize she’d been doing that her whole life? “Of course.”

  Briggs worked late that night. Clare didn’t know how, but Ramirez made sure of it. “Just this one thing?” she’d asked him, her voice still quivering. He’d held up one gloved finger, pressed it to his lips and nodded.

  At seven o’clock she dotted perfume on the back of her neck and left her office. She headed for the control booth, passing through the dark courtyard where the only pool of light came from a tall lamppost. It was so quiet, she swore she could hear the ocean butting up against the rocks. She’d never been here this late, never at night. The place seemed haunted. And why wouldn’t it be? Did you know they used to hang people at Quentin? Fitzpatrick had asked her once, probably trying to impress her with his historical knowledge. And every chance he got, he couldn’t help but mention the execution last May. Like he’d been there when they’d injected Keith Daniel Williams with a lethal dose of bittersweet revenge, the kind that never feels as good as you thought it would, as good as you needed it to. Clare’s eyes strained, searching beyond the shadows. But if there were ghosts, they’d long since scattered.

  She stopped before she reached the booth and leaned against the wall to get her breath under control. It came in short, forceful bursts like she’d been running. She wound her hair around her hand a
nd lifted it from her neck, somehow moist with perspiration in the frigid December air.

  Don’t be a baby, Clare. That’s what Rodney Taylor told her the first time he made her put her mouth on him. Don’t be a baby. That was the same day he took her picture with one of those old-fashioned Polaroid cameras. Something to tide me over for when we can’t see each other, he’d said. Pose for me. And he laughed when she stuck out her tongue. Do something sexy. Clare had no clue how to be sexy, so she copied the thing she’d seen her mother do in the mirror, pursing her lips together. The way Mr. Taylor stared at her with his mouth open, she knew she’d done something right.

  At the edge of the courtyard, something moved, casting a long, wide shadow. The door to the past smacked shut, and there was only the right here, right now. “Y el paquete?” And the package?

  Then, Clare heard a voice she recognized. “We’re on, Torres. Santa’s coming a little late this year. December 28. The kitchen. Now get out of here.” Lieutenant Bonner stepped into the light, shifty-eyed, and hightailed it back toward the prison exit. A heartbeat later, a man—an inmate—dressed in prison blues headed in the opposite direction. When he passed beneath the lamppost, she noticed his hands, each one tattooed with a different letter: N and F. That one she remembered. Fitzpatrick would be proud. Nuestra Familia. The EME’s mortal enemy.

  Clare pressed herself flat to the cold brick like a lizard, a chameleon, and held her breath until her lungs hurt. From here, she could see Briggs through the small window in the control booth, thumbing through a magazine and looking bored. He waved Torres through and she sucked in a gulp of air.

  She willed herself to go inside. To do what she came here to do. Her life depended on it, after all. Putting her hand to her neck—brittle as a chicken bone, apparently—she recited Ramirez’s warning under her breath and approached the entrance to the control booth, ID in her hand. When Briggs spotted her, his dour frown brightened. This was going to be easier than she thought. And that made it worse.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” He winked at her, and his partner groaned. “Shouldn’t you be snuggled up in front of a fire somewhere?”

  “I wish,” she said, releasing her smile like a fishing line, slowly to tease him a little. “Could I talk to you for a sec? Alone.”

  “You don’t mind, do you, Watkins?” His partner rolled his eyes, as if to say—yes, I do mind, asshole—but grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. “It’ll have to be quick though, Clare. There’s supposed to be two of us in here at all times or some procedural mumbo jumbo.”

  “Oh, it’ll be quick.” She giggled at Briggs’ raised eyebrows. With Watkins halfway out the door, Briggs started to exit the booth, but Clare stopped him. “I want to come inside,” she said, lingering in the doorway.

  “Clare . . . ” She kissed his neck. “God, you’re hot. But you know that’s not allowed.”

  “Oh, come on. I thought you liked it when I pretend to be a bad girl.” It wasn’t pretend, and Clare knew it. She grabbed him by the belt and pulled him to her, before he caught on.

  “I do, but . . . oh, screw it.”

  “Exactly,” she whispered.

  “Wait right there. Don’t move.” Watching him move with purpose—a man on a mission—Clare felt sorry for him. This is what men do, she thought. This is what moves them. Ramirez had all but told her the same, though he’d put it more crudely. Briggs will do anything for a piece, he’d said. She didn’t argue with him, but she wondered how he knew. How he seemed to know everything.

  Briggs spoke into the phone. “Hey, T-Bone, could you do me a solid?” Laughter, and then, “Can you go dark over here for a sec?” He kept his eyes on Clare the whole time, mentally undressing her no doubt. After hanging up, he beckoned her inside, his face already flushed.

  “What was that all about?” she asked. She needed to be sure. Ramirez warned her to be careful. Actually, it was less of a warning and more of a threat. You get caught, the deal is off, he’d said, running a hand across his neck.

  “Damn cameras everywhere. But I negotiated a little privacy.”

  He picked her up and sat her on the table just in front of the large metal panel, where the keys dangled like ornaments from a tree. She leaned back and hoisted her skirt around her upper thighs. Briggs wasted no time, stanchioning himself between her legs, his mouth already covering hers.

  Two minutes later, three if she was generous, Briggs stuffed his shirt back into his uniform and grinned ear to ear. And she had the keys Ramirez wanted tucked inside her jacket pocket. “When can I see you again?” he asked.

  “Friday. Dinner?”

  He nodded and cupped her face in his hand. “Hey, what’s that?” His thumb traced the bruise on her neck. “Is that my handiwork?” Clare’s stomach lurched at his satisfied leer.

  “Curling-iron burn,” she said, no hesitation.

  She felt buzzed leaving the control booth. Like she’d just downed a shot of Patrón. It would hit her later what she’d done. She knew that. Another line. A big one. Another step closer to oblivion.

  In the shadows of the courtyard, Clare heard a noise. A low whistle. A bird, maybe. An owl. “Clare.” A talking owl. When Cullen stepped into the light, she almost laughed.

  “What’re you doing out here?” He shushed her and pointed to a spot between the buildings so dark a person could disappear completely. She did a slow spin to check for prying eyes and walked to where the night swallowed him. His hand encircled her wrist, drawing her in, then he released her. Just one touch, and her skin felt electric.

  “I work building maintenance now. Odd hours,” he whispered. “Besides, I could ask you the same, Doc.”

  She opened her mouth, deception poised on the tip of her tongue. It came so easily now. But she didn’t want to lie to him, so she said nothing. “I’m glad it was you out here.”

  “Who else would it be?” His playfulness gone, he sounded worried. “That guy yesterday with the tat, he didn’t say anything to you, did he?”

  She shook her head. “Just that he’d knock next time.”

  “Dammit, Clare. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. Did you hear that asshole, Ramirez, weaseled his way out of Ad Seg? I worry about you.”

  “I’m okay,” she said, half-believing it. He started to reach for her, his fingers almost to her hip when he stopped. She looked at his hand, then up to his eyes, and she read his mind. He could kill her. Right there. Right now. If he wanted to. Unafraid, she leaned in, closing the distance between their bodies, and kissed him. They were invisible here—and even if they weren’t, she didn’t care. Not with Cullen’s stubble scratching her cheek, rough and insistent. The needful pressure of his tongue against her own. She buried her face in his shoulder to suppress a moan.

  “You make me forget where I am,” he said. “It reminds me of something.”

  “Of what?”

  His soft laughter drew her closer. “I don’t know. The last day of school. Summers at that cabin in Muir Woods.” His lips brushed her ear, and she shivered. “Freedom, I guess.”

  In daylight, it would’ve sounded melodramatic, like something from a soap opera. But here, now, it was perfect. And she understood completely. He made her forget too. Not where, but who she was. Even the spoiled parts, the unmentionable ones—gone. She guided his arms back around her and drank him in. He nuzzled his face in her hair, and she could feel him breathing. She hoped Briggs’ Aqua Velva stench wasn’t still all over her.

  “Meet me somewhere tomorrow after count,” he said.

  “My office?”

  “No. It’s too risky after what happened yesterday.”

  “But . . . ”

  He understood without her telling him. “There are dead spots like this one. Places where the cameras don’t see. Will you?”

  “Yes,” she said, steamrolling toward oblivion.

  December 19, 1996

  Clare woke with a start five minutes before her alarm, her body stiff as a corpse, her stomach wound
tight as a hanging rope. At least she’d slept. Her eyes cut to the dresser. In the television glare, the stolen key ring winked at her, and relief came in like a wave. Where would it go anyway, silly? It can’t walk away on its own.

  She threw back the covers and padded across the floor, taking it in her hand. The keys were like something out of a movie. Large, bronze-colored, affixed to a silver ring. Each with its own number and unique, jagged teeth. These teeth unlocked something essential to Ramirez. Which made them dangerous, that much she knew.

  Clare pretended at normalcy. She showered, blow-dried her hair, dressed, and examined her neck in the mirror. The spot had faded overnight to a pink thumbprint. Barely there at all. A part of her wanted it back, wanted Cullen to claim her, to mark her as his own. But the sensible part covered it with a dab of concealer. And she was out the door and into the gloom of a typical Thursday.

  Lizzie waited at the coffee shop, twirling on a stool and sipping her peppermint latte. This is the first test, Clare thought, trying to smooth the frayed edges of her nerves.

  “They say perpetual lateness is a sign of daddy issues, Clare-Bear.”

  Clare tossed her purse on the counter and laughed. “Do they? And who are they exactly?”

  “You know, your people. Headshrinkers.”

  “Well, they are probably right. I wonder if Fitzpatrick would buy that.”

  “Speaking of Fitzawhozit . . . ” Lizzie always called him that now since she’d shared Dumas’ nickname. But it ached a little every time, reminding her. “Is he going to help you with the Board of Psychology thing?”

  “Doubtful. I mean, he said he would, but . . . ”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he wants to help.” Lizzie made air quotes with fingers. “If it involves you naked in his bed.”

  “Lizzie!” Clare felt her chest splotching with a hot rash of shame. Like she’d asked for him to hit on her. “He’s my boss.”