“Children First,” said Ian. “It’s a—
The guard snapped his fingers, the noise echoing off the sterile walls like a gunshot. “That’s it, that’s it. My sister used you guys when she was going through a bad divorce from her first husband. A real piece of work, all money and no manners. I remember her mentioning you now. Said you had a kid of your own and were one of the few who treated her alright even when that no-gooder was spreading lies about her bein’ unfit. Her name’s Elsbeth, maybe you—
“Sure. How is Skye?” Ian interrupted as he recalled the name of Elsbeth’s daughter, a pretty girl with huge espresso-bean eyes and the coolest Shirley Temple curls. Her favorite color was purple, and her mom always showed up to their visits with new purple ribbons and clips for her hair.
The guard’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “She’s real swell. My sister has sole custody now and doin’ real good. Remarried to a nice guy who treats her with respect and adores Skye. I still check up on them, but he ain’t screwed up yet. Course,” the guard laughed and held up his fists so that Ian could see the crude thunder cloud and lightning bolt icons tattooed in black ink across the knuckles, “he’s scared of Thunder and Lightning.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Ian. “She deserved to be happy. They both did.”
The guard unfurled his fists and stuck out his hand. “I’m Angus Lamb, nice to meet you.”
Ian shook the hand and found a curious smile creasing his own lips. “Angus? That’s an unusual name for—
“Someone so tall?” interrupted the guard. “Or for someone so handsomely dark-skinned?”
Ian grinned wider. “The latter.”
The guard snorted. “Yeah, I get that a lot. My grandfather was a proud Scot with a taste for darker meat. Not that my grandmother would appreciate me talkin’ like that, although she was quite the looker in her day.”
The two guards monitoring computers in the background rolled their eyes and cringed to indicate they had heard the story a thousand times, but it didn’t deter their colleague from continuing.
“She sang up and down the coast and was a popular attraction in every gin joint and speakeasy from Seattle to San Francisco. Some less charitable members of the clan say her singin’ was merely a cover for my grandfather to supply those same joints with the good taste of Scotland at a five-fingered discount, but I like to think his enterprise was merely the supporting act to her marquee.”
“I’m sure it was,” said Ian.
The guard handed Ian’s papers back to him and glanced up at the clock on the wall. “You ready to go through?”
A sudden taste of bile bubbled at the back of his throat. Ian swallowed and nodded.
Angus held out a small plastic container. “Keys, cell phone, iPod, anything metal. Did you bring gifts for the prisoner? Books, food parcels?”
“No gifts.” Ian’s tone was harsher than he intended, but the guard didn’t even blink.
Emptying his pockets of what little he had, Ian glanced up at the long list of rules posted on the wall. The majority of them were aimed at female visitors:
Hem of dress or shorts cannot be higher than two inches above mid-knee
No wraparound skirts, low-cut tops, see-through or form-fitting clothes
All visitors must wear undergarments
Bras cannot contain underwire
Ian was glad he hadn’t absently thrown on blue jeans. Because of the prisoners’ denim attire, jeans were strictly forbidden for visitors in case trouble broke out and the guards needed to make quick decisions on who to send back to the cells and who to escort outside.
“Walk through the metal detector. Keep your arms out from your side.”
Ian walked through the metal detector without setting off any alarms.
“Good.” Angus led the way to a small bank of metal lockers. He plucked a quarter out of Ian’s basket and slipped it into the coin slot, then shoved the basket into the locker and turned a small key until the coin dropped. He handed the numbered key to Ian. “You can pick it up when you leave.”
Ian pocketed the small key and followed the guard through a thick steel door, painted a ridiculous canary yellow, and down a long corridor to the visiting room. Every step made his heart beat faster, and he struggled to contain the rising panic that soured his stomach.
The last time he had set eyes on Tyler Young was in a courtroom, when the bastard got sentenced to a measly six months. And despite the passage of time, the anger he felt that day had only grown in intensity.
At the door to the visiting room, Angus turned and faced him.
“You OK?” he asked. “You’ve gone awful pale.”
“I’m fine.” Ian attempted a smile. “We can’t all be tanned Scotsmen.”
Angus laughed at that and opened the door.
THE VISITING room was crowded and noisy with an undulating wave of hushed voices filled with grief, boredom, and anger. Few of the tones sounded happy, and even the occasional burst of laughter had a screechy edge to it, like a rusty knife cutting through tin.
On the far side of each table sat a man dressed in blue denim pants and either a light-blue chambray shirt or a dark navy T-shirt. As one, the prisoners’ eyes seemed to flick to the door, bypassing the guard to instantly gauge and then dismiss Ian’s entrance as unimportant, before returning to their spouses, girlfriends, sisters, or kids.
For some reason, Ian had expected maximum security to house an older crowd, but most of the inmates had yet to see thirty, and some of their girlfriends—three of them noticeably pregnant—looked too young to drive.
Angus led Ian to an empty table with three plastic chairs. Two on the visitor’s side, one for the inmate.
“A guard went to fetch Young. Shouldn’t be long.” Angus tilted his chin at a bank of snack machines. “If you want a drink or something, the machines take tokens. I should have told you to convert some cash to tokens back at the reception area, but I can get you some if you like.”
“That’s OK,” said Ian. “I’m good.”
A couple of the prisoners glanced over at Ian again with narrow, suspicious eyes. Probably wondering why the screw was being so helpful to the new visitor, Ian reasoned.
“I’ll see you when you leave.” Angus turned on rubber heels and exited the room.
Sitting alone at the table, Ian waited. He didn’t know what to do with his hands or where to look. He recognized a lot of the family dynamics in the room from his time supervising visitations in the outside world. Every inmate was on guard, unwilling to show any emotion that could be construed as weakness, wary of the consequences such a character flaw could mean back in the wings.
Unfortunately for the families, this protective shield served to deflect their love, making them feel hollow and unwanted. And for some of the women, it was a cold realization to witness that tears no longer held any power to melt their loved one’s resolve or temper their anger.
In all his years dealing with fathers after their release from prison, Ian had rarely witnessed one shed a tear in either happiness or despair. Once set, some locks just couldn’t be opened again.
Ian glanced at the clock before folding his hands in front of him and staring down at his knuckles. He focused on his breathing, slow and deep, wrapping his anger and mounting anxiety in a blanket of calm.
Five minutes passed.
Ten minutes more.
Thirty minutes after exiting the room, Angus returned and placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder.
“Can we talk outside?”
“Is something wrong?” Ian asked.
“Best we go out in the hall.”
Ian silently pushed back his chair and followed the guard out of the visiting room and into the yellow hallway.
“Has he changed his mind?” Ian asked after the door closed behind them, sealing off the white noise of fifteen simultaneous conversations. “Young doesn’t want to see me after all?”
“It’s not—
“FUCK!” Ian’s control
over his emotions was shredded in the blast as his anger ignited before Angus could explain. “This was his goddamn idea.” Dragging clawed fingers across his scalp in frustration, his voice took on an uncharacteristic whine. “He sent me the fucking note. I need to know what he meant.”
“Young is dead,” said Angus.
Ian froze. “What?” He shook his head in disbelief. “He can’t be. How?”
“We found him in his cell. It looks like he managed to get his hands on some wire from the metal shop. He used it to fasten a noose.”
“Suicide?” Ian immediately dismissed the idea. “Oh, come on! Why would he kill himself after asking to meet with me? He had information that I needed, that he wanted to share. Why else would he—
“I can’t answer that,” said Angus.
“How did he get the wire?” Ian pressed. His chest began to heave and his breathing fluttered rapidly like a mountain train picking up steam on a descent, unaware its brakes have malfunctioned. “Surely you have measures in place to make sure this type of shit doesn’t happen.”
“We do,” Angus said firmly, “and we’re investigating.”
Ian turned and lashed out, his foot connecting with a metal garbage can, sending it rattling down the hall. It sounded like an iron ball being shot out of a cannon, which brought alarmed guards running to the barred gates on either end of the sealed hallway. Angus held up his hands, palms out, to tell the other guards he had it under control.
Colored dots blurred Ian’s vision, and he staggered backward until he hit the cold brick wall. His chest was aching, ribs protesting as lungs expanded and contracted at an accelerated rate.
“Slow and shallow breaths,” said Angus. “You’re beginning to hyperventilate. Control it.”
The guard stepped forward and squeezed his shoulder in support as Ian pressed his hands against his thighs and bent at the waist to lower his head. Fighting the panic, he willed his breathing to slow. It was embarrassing that this news had had such an effect. On any other day, he would have been celebrating.
The murdering son of a bitch was dead. He had received his due.
But now Ian had to wonder if Young had taken a secret with him to the grave? The name of the person who had paid him to kill Emily.
Ian straightened his back and stood tall. His face was flushed as he locked eyes with the tall guard.
“I want to see the body.”
Angus flinched. “I don’t believe that’s possible.”
Ian’s eyes flared. “That son of a bitch killed my six-year-old daughter. I want to see his fucking face with my own eyes. I need to know he’s really dead.”
Angus blinked and slowly nodded. “I’ll call the superintendent. See if anything can be done.”
7
It took over an hour for Ian to secure special permission from the prison superintendent to see Young’s body. Even then, the only reason a pass was granted was due to the extensive and up-to-date criminal checks that Ian had to undergo for his work at Children First, plus Angus’s voluntary agreement to accept responsibility for him while he was within prison walls.
By the time Angus returned for him in the reception area, Ian had chewed every fingernail down to the quick on both hands. He looked up expectantly as the lanky guard was buzzed through the gate.
“You can visit the morgue,” said Angus. “Young’s body has been moved there.”
“What about his cell?” asked Ian.
“Off-limits.”
“But I need to see if he left anything—
“All his possessions will be turned over to his lawyer after our investigation is concluded. You can talk to him about it.”
“What about his cellmate?” asked Ian. “What if he takes something?”
Angus shook his head. “Young was bunking alone. His cellmate got released last week. If he left anything, it’ll be packed away for the lawyer when we’re done. You want the morgue or not? I’m happy either way.”
Ian stood up. “I want to see the body.”
Angus nodded. “OK, then.”
ANGUS LED the way through a warren of corridors and locked doors, making Ian feel the same way he did when driving through a tunnel bored into the bedrock beneath a river. There was a sense that a powerful and dangerous force existed just beyond his sight, and all it took was the tiniest of cracks for all hell to break loose.
The air was perfumed by stale sweat, feet, and chopped onions, with every hallway looking the same as the last: soft pastel yellow walls anchored on either end by brighter canary steel doors.
“Who chose this color scheme?” Ian asked.
Angus shrugged. “A shrink picked it, I think. You should see the cells. Friggin’ rainbow village in there. Supposed to be a calming influence.”
“Is it?”
“The morgue is white and everyone’s calm in there.” Angus snorted at his own joke, although Ian suspected it wasn’t the first time he’d told it.
“I really appreciate you doing this,” Ian said.
“No problem. One good turn and all that. Elsbeth will be happy I can return the favor.”
They turned a corner and walked through another heavy metal door where the walls suddenly lost their color.
“Last one.” Angus pulled out his keys. “This is the morgue.” He pointed to his left. “That hallway leads to the death chamber, which some of us more cynical types refer to as the only exit that doesn’t have a revolving door. Unless they’re serving life, most of these cons are on their second or third stretch.”
Angus paused with his key in the lock of a steel door. “You ready?”
Ian took a deep breath.
“We ain’t gonna linger,” said Angus. “So let’s keep it short and sweet, deal?”
Ian nodded and squared his shoulders as the door opened and a sharp chill enveloped him.
“Doc likes it cold,” Angus said. “I think she’s part penguin.”
Ian stepped through the doorway and into a large, organized lab that practically glistened under bright overhead lights. Rows of stainless steel trays, fridges, and sinks reflected the light as if they hadn’t just been cleaned, but waxed and buffed.
“We call it Xanadu,” said Angus. “After that Olivia Newton-John disco movie. Doc gets the OCD patients to keep it spick-and-span.”
“Don’t believe a word he says,” piped a small Hispanic woman in a white lab coat. She stepped out from behind a long metal tray that, judging by the shape underneath the white cloth, contained a dead body. “I’m far too young to have seen Xanadu.” The woman smiled up at Angus with genuine affection before turning her attention to Ian.
“I’m Doctor Lillian Gage. You were interested in seeing Tyler Young?”
“Yes,” said Ian. “Have you established how he died?”
“Short answer: very nastily. The copper wire cut so deeply into his neck that his lungs filled with blood. He likely drowned before he could suffocate. I won’t know for certain until after the autopsy, though.”
“Suicide?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?” Ian asked.
Dr. Gage shrugged with the exaggerated aplomb of a politician on CNN, making the tight ponytail at the back of her head wag like a happy dog. “When you’re strung up by the neck, it’s natural that you’ll kick and thrash around. This thrashing leads to a lot of nasty bruising, rips, and tears. We all have this built-in biological safeguard for self-preservation. Very difficult to switch off whether it’s your hand on the noose or someone else’s.”
“So it could be murder?”
“Always a possibility. Does that matter to you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The doctor glanced at Angus. “He wants to see the body?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Ian.
“I must warn you that his visage is rather gruesome.”
“He suffered?” asked Ian.
“Yes. Very much so.”
“Good.”
“Ah.” The doctor
beamed as if he had just ordered the largest steak from her meat tray. “So not the bleeding-heart type, then.”
Dr. Gage led the way around the metal table and placed her gloved hands on the edge of the white sheet. Ian stood on the opposite side, steeling himself for what he was about to see.
When the sheet was folded back, Ian didn’t flinch. He had envisioned Young’s death too many times in his dreams to be surprised by it now.
The first thing he noticed was the size of the man’s bulging black-and-purple tongue. It burst from his mouth like an engorged slug to lie against one stark white cheek.
The doctor pointed to it. “He very nearly bit the whole thing off. Must have died before he could quite manage it.” She moved her finger down to the wire embedded in his throat. Very little metal could be seen within the torn flesh. “We had to be careful cutting him down. If the wire had been thinner, it would have decapitated him like those rather elegant cheese slicers you see in kitchen stores.”
Ian wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on the man’s pale face and bright red eyes. Capillaries had burst, filling the sockets with blood before draining down the sides of his cheeks. The first time Ian ever saw him, Young had been just as pale with eyes bloodshot from drink.
Ian should have killed him then. In front of screaming parents and weeping children, he should have dragged Young out of the car and beat him to a bloody pulp. But, broken and bleeding, Emily had needed her daddy, to hold her hand and kiss her cheek, to soothe the fear in her eyes … and to watch her die.
Instinctively, Ian leaned forward to smell the dead man’s breath. No alcohol this time, just sour, coppery meat beneath a mist of disinfectant. He clenched his teeth and curled his right hand into a tight fist. He wanted to feel its impact against Young’s flesh. Dead or not, it didn’t matter.
“Don’t,” Angus warned from behind. “It’s over. He’s gone. Let the doc do her job.”
“I should’ve killed him.” Ian’s words were so quiet, they barely registered.
A large hand landed on Ian’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “Come on, let’s go. You’ve seen enough.”
The Fear in Her Eyes Page 4