Daddy Darkest

by Ellery Kane

  “Seriously?” A meek shrug and a woe-is-me smile. That’s all it took. “What are you doing running in the woods alone anyway? It’s dangerous, Clare.”

  “You’ve been working too hard, Sergeant. It’s starting to get in your head. I think you need a little R&R.”

  He chuckled, sidling up to her and kissing her disheveled face. “If by R&R, you mean this, then absolutely. And, I need to talk to you.” She’d never heard Briggs say that before, and it confirmed her unease.

  Upstairs, she sat at the kitchen table, twisting the ruby on her finger, while he poured them each a glass of red from the last bottle left over from her Napa trip with Neal. “So, what’s up?” she asked, averting her eyes from her fingernails. Dirt that wouldn’t wash off in the sink. Dirt as thick and black as dried blood.

  “Did you enjoy your little Christmas for one?” Was he stalling? “I still can’t believe you wouldn’t come home with me. My mom would love you, Ms. Fancy Pants Doctor . . . heck, my whole family would love you.”

  Usually, this kind of talk would make her claustrophobic, send her darting in search of an excuse that would carry her through as long as she needed it to. “Next time,” she said. “I promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” She hoped her smile, more for herself than for him, didn’t give her away. “Hey, remember how you asked me to check into the Dumas thing?”

  Her heart lurched. “Did you find something?”

  “I did.” He placed his hand over hers, comforting her for something that hadn’t happened yet. “But it might not be what you were expecting. I don’t want to upset—”

  “Just tell me, please.”

  “Bonner got some intel from a confidential informant.”

  “Bonner? You told him about this?”

  “Relax. I didn’t tell him anything. I heard it through the grapevine, but I checked it out myself, and it’s legit.”

  “What is? What’s legit?”

  “Cullen.”

  She stared at her stomach, expecting to see a knife handle jutting out from her rib cage. The blade stuck deep inside, twisting. That’s what it felt like. “What about him?”

  “The informant implicated him in Dumas’ death. Said he saw him strangle the guy with a bedsheet to make it look like a suicide.”

  She wasn’t sure words would come out, but she tried anyway. “Uh . . . I . . . why . . . ”

  “Who knows why, Clare? That guy is a psychopath through and through. I know you find him fascinating as a patient, but you can’t really be surprised. Anyway, they don’t have enough evidence to reopen the investigation, but I thought you should know. For closure.”

  “Closure,” she repeated. Her voice sounded tinny and far away.

  Briggs stood up and pulled her with him. She felt light as a feather, following behind him as he led her to the bathroom and turned on the shower. In the mirror, her face looked the same. Just dirty. But her eyes were hollow and sunken, and she couldn’t turn away. Even when Briggs pulled her grimy T-shirt over her head, unclasped her bra, tugged her sweats down. Even when he undressed himself, and the glass got steamy. Finally, he swiveled her head with his hand, and it moved slow and mechanical toward him—like a robot someone forgot to wind.

  “Let’s wash this day off, shall we?”

  December 28, 1996

  Clare focused on slowing her walk by staring at the concrete track beneath her feet. The ground glistened with morning dew, little drops that caught the first sunlight and sparkled. It could’ve been beautiful if her brain had room to consider such things. She wanted to sprint to West Block, bust into Dumas’ old cell, and shake Snip awake, demanding answers. Though he’d been in the infirmary when it’d happened, he was the only person she could halfway trust, the only person she could think to ask. Aside from Cullen. It ached to say his name even in her head.

  She would’ve never been able to explain going to work on a Saturday. Or why she couldn’t do brunch with his friends, like Briggs suggested. Or why she’d stopped him last night, pushed him off her, and feigned a headache. Instead, she left Briggs asleep in her bed, his mouth slack and drooling on her pillow. Stick to the plan, she told herself, loading a small suitcase of essentials into her trunk. She marveled at how light it felt, how little of this life she wanted to take with her.

  The officer buzzed her into West Block, and Clare waved to him as casual as she could. “Dr. Keely here to check on Eddie Bailey. He said he felt pretty depressed this morning.”

  “Snip doesn’t need checking on, does he?” The officer turned to his counterpart for back up, but the other man just shrugged.

  “My supervisor called me at home and woke me up. So, if I could just do my job and get back to my Saturday, I’d really appreciate it.” Geez, Clare. You are a bitch. And a lying one at that.

  With a raise of his eyebrows and an exasperated exhale, he allowed her in. She bolted down the cement corridor to cell 215L while the officer waited, open-mouthed, for his thank you. “Mr. Bailey? Snip?”

  The sheets on the upper bunk rustled, and a shock of brown hair emerged from beneath them. “Huh? Who’s there?”

  “Clare Keely. I met you a while back.”

  “Dumas’ headshrinker?”

  To her own surprise, Clare chuckled. “Yep, that’s me.” Snip hopped down, spry as a fox, and walked to the cell front. “Are you alone?” she asked as he rubbed his eyes awake.

  He gestured to the bottom bunk. Nothing but a bare mattress and a meager pillow. “Is that a trick question? I’m not seeing things, Doc. Are you?”

  Clare took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “Just checking. I need to talk to you about Dumas.”

  “I already told them everything I know. I wasn’t even here that day. Wish I had been, I’ll tell ya that.”

  “This is off the record, Mr. Bailey.”

  “Ain’t no such thing in prison.”

  “Please. You can trust me.” She wasn’t above begging. Not anymore. “What do you think happened to James?”

  “Like I told the Lieutenant, I don’t know.” He watched her face for a moment, the hard lines in his forehead softening. “But he didn’t seem like somebody about to end it all. Just my opinion though. I ain’t no doctor.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  Snip laughed. “We all got enemies in here. But James didn’t have no more than anybody else. Are you in some kinda trouble about this? Bonner told me you might come asking questions. Said I wasn’t supposed to say nothing. They’re not trying to blame you, are they?”

  Clare shrugged, far too desperate, far too gone, to waste her time on Bonner. “Sort of. But that’s not really why I’m here.”

  “So why are you here then? Why don’t you just go on and spit it out?”

  So she did. “Clive Cullen. Did James know him?”

  “Everybody knows that guy. A real arrogant SOB, if you ask me. I never saw James talk to him, but then again, we weren’t attached at the hip, you know. Do you think he had something to do with it?” Snip asked, and she fought the urge to leave as quickly as she came.

  “I hope not.” It was the most honest answer she could give.

  Snip looked past her, down the empty concrete hallway, and lowered his voice. “Well, I for one wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “But I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors on the yard.” Clare let out a shaky breath that said she hadn’t. “Let’s just say ain’t nobody wanted you as a therapist, Doc. Cullen don’t like to share. But you probably know that better than anybody.”

  She caught another breath and held it in until her chest hurt. “Know what?” she asked.

  “His m.o.—when he has to share, somebody usually winds up dead.”

  Clare bit the inside of her lip to keep her panic at bay. “Is there anything else you didn’t tell Bonner? Anything at all? Even if it might not seem that important.”

  “There’s plenty I didn’t tell Bonner. That guy’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

 
“Like what?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’d heard that shifty-eyed CO Briggs was down here in charge. This ain’t his post, so I figure that don’t smell right. He’d lick Bonner’s boots if somebody asked him to.” Clare nearly cackled at the thought. “And the real kicker, James told me himself he’d seen something. Before you ask, he didn’t say what. Only that he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. He seemed real worried about it.”

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “Best I can recall, it would’ve been that morning before I got sick. Probably about the time he got back from your office.” Snip gave her a sly grin. “Were you doing something you weren’t supposed to, Doc?” Clare froze, caught in his brown eyes. She’d done so many things she wasn’t supposed to, she couldn’t really remember which wrong things she’d done when. “I’m just messin’ with ya.”

  Clare nodded and slogged away without bothering to say goodbye. White noise whooshed and whirred in her ears. Above it all, a refrain so steady and familiar—it’s all your fault, Clare, all your fault—she didn’t even turn around when Snip called her back.

  Clare barreled back to her office like a runaway train. Her hands trembled as she paged through Cullen’s file, twice slicing her finger on the paper’s edge, leaving half of a bright red print as a mark of her carelessness. Her thoughts jumbled, bled together, made no sense.

  Cullen and Dumas and

  Briggs and Cullen and

  Bonner and Ramirez and Torres and

  Cullen and Cullen and Cullen and—

  “He lied to me.” She said it out loud to silence the rest. But it didn’t feel right. She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to. Still, she knew her own game, the tricks she’d played on herself, the blinders she wore that made her capable of anything. Remarkable—that level of denial. That’s what Fitzpatrick would say, dressing her down with her own words. The most primitive defense mechanism? Really? I expected more from you, Dr. Keely.

  She cradled the phone in the crook of her neck and dialed the number on Cullen’s In Case of Death Notify form. She’d done it before—once—in September, but hung up after one ring. This time she held the line for what seemed an eternity.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice, but not what she’d expected. Timid, mousy. The sort of woman who scared easily.

  “Is this Vanessa Cullen?”

  “Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”

  “This is Lizzie Conway at San Quentin State Prison. Do you have a few minutes?” Sorry, Lizzie.

  The woman’s breath hitched, then started up again, shallow and ragged. “Is Clive okay? Is my boy okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, he’s fine. No need to worry. I’ve been working with him on—”

  “His appeal? Are you an attorney?” Clare made a noise of surprise, mistaken as agreement. “Oh, thank God. It’s about time somebody believed him. Us. You do believe him, right? You’re the fourth attorney we’ve tried.”

  Clare pressed the soles of her feet into the ground as hard as she could, fighting the sudden sensation it had given way beneath her. “Believe he’s innocent? Uh . . . do you?”

  “Of course.” It came out short and firm like the strike of a knife. “Clive could never hurt a fly, much less a woman. A woman he loved. Though I never did understand what he saw in her. That Emily, she had issues. Like my Clive always says, ‘It’s no wonder she got herself killed.’”

  In the vacuous silence, Clare heard Cullen’s echo. Emily. You remind me of her. She spoke because she had to. “What was Clive like as a boy, Ms. Cullen?”

  When Vanessa laughed, Clare pictured her. The same blue-gray eyes as Cullen’s, crinkling in the corners. “Spoiled.”

  “Oh?” The word barely made it up and out of the back of her throat.

  “Well, I had a good excuse. Making up for lost time. He lived with his dad until he was thirteen. But we don’t like to talk about that.”

  “Why?”

  “His father was a sick man, Ms. Conway. Ask Clive. He’ll show you the scars. That man tried to poison my son against me—I know he did. Clive would never admit it, but Lord knows what he told him. I think that’s why Clive turned out the way he did, with a savior complex. Always wanting to rescue these poor little girls from their poor little lives. It sounds horrible, but I actually felt relieved when his father died in prison a few years ago.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Barrett. But I’m not sure how that’s relevant? What law firm are you—”

  Clare hung up fast, as if the phone had smacked her across the face. Then she typed the name into the inmate database on her computer and waited for an answer.

  Barrett Cullen (deceased). Twenty-five years to life for first-degree murder and rape.

  Clare had never really prayed for anything in her life. Sure, her mother had dragged her to church whenever she started feeling guilty. Lord, please make me a better mother, Clare had heard her whisper once. But Clare would just sit there, admiring the stained-glass windows—certain if God existed, He would’ve answered her mother by now. Certain He would’ve struck down Rodney Taylor with a vicious bolt of lightning the moment his hand grazed her thirteen-year-old knee. Certain He didn’t let girls like her get pregnant, not that way, not at sixteen, not by the devil himself. But, huddled in the corner of her office, Clare prayed. Mostly, for the end of the world. An earthquake—the big one. An atomic bomb. Something so devastating no one she knew could survive.

  And then, she called Neal.

  He answered—of course he did—like he’d been waiting for her to need him, to require rescue, and she started talking—spilling over, more like it—with no explanation.

  “Slow down, Clare. Where are you?” It wasn’t even a speed bump. She blew right past it.

  “He lied to me, and I don’t know what to do. God, I’m so stupid. I’m going to lose my license. I—”

  “Clare, stop talking.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve been awful to you, and you were just trying to help. And Neal, oh God, I did something really bad. A lot of things. Not just one.”

  “Shut up!” Neal never yelled. Not like that. Not with rage. “Goddamn it. I can’t hear myself think. Where are you?”

  “I’m at San Quentin.”

  “Meet me outside the gate. I’ll pick you up. Twenty minutes.” He hung up, and Clare felt emptied, exhausted. She laid her head against her desk, the wood cooling her cheek. This time she prayed for something else. Something impossible. She prayed to go back, back to the beginning. The beginning of September. The beginning of grad school. The beginning of those nine months, before a baby grew inside her. The beginning of Lisa Taylor’s slumber party. The beginning of anything. Just not today. Not the end.

  The room felt cold. The stares, glacial. The only warmth, Neal’s hand around hers, and she clung to it, knowing even that was temporary. He’d made that clear. This is it, Clare. I’ll do this with you because I love—I loved you. But, when we leave here, don’t ever call me again. He must have known how impossible that sounded, especially now, because he added, Pretend I’m dead if you have to. Whatever it takes. You need help, and I need to move on.

  The redhead Clare didn’t know yet spoke first.

  “Dr. Keely, my name is Gretchen McKinnon. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI We talked on the telephone earlier. I understand you already know Lieutenant Bonner. I agreed to let him sit in today since he’s kindly allowed us to conduct this interview here at San Quentin. It’s only fair he knows what’s going on in his house.”

  McKinnon smiled at Bonner the same way Clare might have, trying to placate his ego, already aware of what an ass he was, that kindness had nothing to do with it. She reminded Clare of herself. Young. Perceptive. Far too pretty to fit in a man’s world. And for no other reason than that, Clare liked her. “If it’s okay with you, Clare—may I call you Clare?—I’ll be recording this interview.”

  Clare nodded, as if she had a choice. The click of the tape recorder sounded like the
first shot across the bow. A warning. And then, the questions fired like arrows. Each one pointed. Each one poison-tipped and aimed at her soft places.

  Who suggested the escape? “He did, of course.”

  When did the inmate first suggest the escape? “I don’t remember.”

  What did he say exactly? “If you don’t help me, I’ll tell them we had sex.”

  How many times did you engage in sexual intercourse with the inmate? “Just once.”

  Is anyone else involved in the escape? “Rodney Taylor. Green River Trucking.”

  Did you take any steps to plan the escape? “I contacted Rodney and asked him for money and a truck just like Cullen told me to. But that’s it.”

  Where was he going? “Mexico, I think.”

  Clare didn’t look at Neal. Not once. But he squeezed her hand hard every time Bonner guffawed with disbelief, every time McKinnon pressed her for more. A signal to remind her of the stakes, to cue the story they’d practiced. Neal knew the truth, most of it anyway. He knew the real and ugly and unspeakable answers—I suggested the escape. I had sex with him on the floor in the laundry room. Two times. I thought he loved me—the answers he’d told her to bury some place safe, not realizing the irony there. Those answers shot bullets to his heart, Clare knew that much, but he took them the same way he’d taken last year’s revelation about the married guy with the flowers. The way any self-respecting oak tree would. Without flinching.

  Bonner reached a hand across the table and shut off the recorder. It was the saddest sound Clare had ever heard. “I’m sorry, Agent McKinnon, but I can’t listen to any more of this. You may be fooled by Dr. Keely—you won’t be a doctor much longer, my dear—but I don’t believe one word of this. She’s been carrying on with that criminal for months now, jeopardizing the safety of everyone who works at this institution.” He looked at a spot on the wall above Clare’s head, apparently too disgusted to meet her eyes. “Are you aware of the penalties for aiding an escape from a correctional facility?”