That Was Before
Page 24
A guard shouted and the block door buzzed and popped open—the sound was distinguishable, one every inmate stopped what they were doing and paid attention to; was it their lucky day? Without a clock, Benji did not know the time, but it felt early for rounds. He moved closer to the door and listened, hoped to hear the drama of the day—someone’s ineptitude to make him smile or laugh. The guard was close now, and he hollered again. This time, the lock on Benji’s door disengaged, and he stepped back.
“Griffin!” the guard said. “Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t talk.”
The guard grabbed ahold of Benji’s triceps and led him down the short corridor. No handcuffs. Other prisoners shouted, though their voices were inaudible, drowned by Benji’s whirlwind thoughts. None of what was happening was normal.
“What’s going on?” Benji said.
“Didn’t I tell you not to talk?”
He was pushing it. He zipped his lips, let the large man pull him away. The block door buzzed and disengaged, and they walked through. Another door awaited them, then a third. He wanted to ask again what was going on, but he had heard stories about other inmates pressing their luck and overstepping, and about the penalties enforced for doing so; he was not about to be beaten down by this man who wanted nothing more than a reason to do so. Benji kept his lips sealed and his questions to himself.
The guard led him into a conference room and stopped, released Benji’s arm. Another man he did not recognize awaited, his suit permanently pressed and his necktie perfect. Not even a single strand of hair was out of place.
“Here you go,” the guard said. “He’ll take it from here.”
“Who is he?”—Benji faced the man—”Who are you?”
The man nodded to the guard, who turned and left and closed the door behind him.
Benji’s wrists were free, so he rubbed them. A habit. The man in the suit eyed him with a focus that alarmed Benji. What was going on?
Without speaking, the man handed Benji a folder. Benji looked at it, then the man, then back to the folder. He flipped open the front cover and scanned the document. He thought he knew what it meant, but it seemed too good to be true.
“Is this what I think it is?” he said.
The man nodded.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Randolph shook O’Reilly’s hand as he entered the conference room. It was on the fifth floor of an inconspicuous office building without signage. Its typical purpose was unclear.
“Thanks for coming in,” O’Reilly said. “And for calling.”
“I didn’t know who else to tell.”
“You made the right decision.”
The message from Sheila came the night before. O’Reilly insisted Randolph come in the next day. There he was.
“Tell me again what it said,” O’Reilly said.
Randolph pulled out his phone, opened his messages, and read the one from Sheila verbatim: “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me right now, but I’m sorry. This is not what I wanted to happen. Can we talk?”
O’Reilly’s arms were crossed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And you didn’t respond?”
“You told me not to.”
O’Reilly nodded. “Right.”
“Should I?”
“No, not yet. Let’s figure it out first.”
“How do we know it’s even her? The number was private.”
“Technically, we don’t. But who else could it be?”
“What about Patricia?”
“Do you think your ex-wife is texting you from prison?”
Randolph thought about it quickly. “No, probably not.”
Silence fell.
Then: “Should I text back to find out? What’s the harm?”
O’Reilly looked puzzled, unsure. “All right, you’re right. Do it. See if she responds.”
He typed in her name with a question mark and hit send. Then they waited. A minute later, his phone dinged.
“That her?” O’Reilly said.
Randolph read the message and nodded. Then he pushed the screen toward O’Reilly and let him see for himself.
“Yes. That’s all it says.”
Randolph shrugged.
“Ask her where she is.”
So he did.
A minute passed, then five, then ten. No response back.
“What do we do now?” Randolph said when the silent waiting became too much.
“I don’t know.”
Randolph thought what this meant. Sheila wanted to talk to him. Presumably wanted to clear the air. Why? The countless possibilities ran through his mind. Did she miss him? Did she want to apologize and move on with a clear conscience? Was she trying to manipulate him again? Did she love him?
Did he still love her?
It was all too much. Just when he thought he was ready to move on . . .
Someone knocked on the door which jolted him back to reality. Where was he again?
“Come in,” O’Reilly said.
A suited man walked in. He did not introduce himself, nor did he shift his gaze from O’Reilly’s direction. “Sir, your guest has arrived.”
“Thank you. Bring him in.”
Guest? Who could it—
No fucking way.
“What is he doing here?” Randolph said. His hands were balled. He wanted to attack the man-boy and throw fists until he bled. Of all people, of course it had to be him.
“Hello, Benjamin,” O’Reilly said.
“What is he doing here, Gary?” Randolph said.
“He’s working with us.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He is. I made a deal with him, and I’m a man of my word. And since we’re all after the same thing here, why not put our heads together and our differences aside? Plus, he has a unique set of skills that may prove to be valuable for our...situation.”—he faced Benji—”I assume you’ve been debriefed on the ride?”
“If that’s what you want to call it, then sure,” Benji said.
“And you’re in?”
“Anywhere but where I was. So yes, I’m in.”
O’Reilly turned back to Randolph. “And you?”
His hands were still balled. He wanted to explode. “How am I supposed to work with this guy? He tried to kill me.”
“Nothing personal, man,” Benji said.
“And”—he faced Benji—”he fucked my wife.”
“It sounds like a lot of people fucked your wife. Even your girlfriend fucked her.”
Randolph lunged forward and swung his fist and connected with Benji’s jaw. The man-boy fell to the floor as if he were a rag doll. Pain shot through Randolph’s knuckles as if he had just hit a brick wall. But it was a rush. It was the first time he had ever hit someone, and he felt alive.
O’Reilly bent down and helped Benji to his feet. “You probably deserved that.”
Benji wiped his mouth and inspected his hand for blood, which there was some. “I probably did.”
“Feel better now?” O’Reilly said as he faced Randolph. “Get that out of your system?”
Randolph shook with a jolt of adrenaline. His fist ached, but the pain was worth it. And yes, he did feel better. Much better. He nodded.
“Good,” O’Reilly said.
Randolph grabbed a box of tissues from the table and passed it to Benji, who took it without hesitatio
n. He yanked a tissue out and dabbed his lip.
“So, gentleman,” O’Reilly said. “Shall we?”
“What exactly are we doing?” Benji asked. “I want every detail laid out before I do anything. I refuse to spend another second in that hellhole, but I need some assurances here.”
“Of course. Hold that thought.”—O’Reilly ducked out for a few seconds and returned with two folders; he handed one to Randolph and one to Benji—”All the details are in here. The terms of our agreement. For you, Benji, a significant finder’s fee in exchange for Sheila Backe’s safe delivery to me. For Randolph, the same. Plus emotional closure for the both of you.”
“And for you?” Benji said.
“For me? I finally get to sit Sheila in a room and interrogate her about a non-related crime. To fulfill my contractual obligations. We all win.”
“Do we get to know what she did?” Randolph asked.
“It’s not relevant. But I thought you may ask, so it’s in your files. But like I said, she’s just wanted for questioning at this stage.”
“Feels like a lot of effort to just ask her some questions.”
“Yes, well, maybe so.”
Silence fell while they looked through their folders.
“What now?” Benji said after he slammed his shut.
“You see those boxes?”—O’Reilly pointed at the stack in the corner—”Those are my records on Sheila.”
“All of them?”
“All of them. As I said, I’ve been following her for quite some time.”
Benji walked toward them. He removed the lid off the top of the highest box and fingered the folders. Then he replaced the lid and grabbed the box with two hands and carried it to the table. “Where do we start?”
“Before we do that,” O’Reilly said. “I’ve decided I don’t like your name, Randolph.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s kind of a mouthful, don’t you think? Ran. Dolph. I don’t like it.”
“Well, it’s my—”
“I’m going to call you Rand. Starting now. What do you think?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m going to call you.”
Randolph rolled his eyes. He hated it. He liked the old Randolph—the man and the name.
That was before.
Now was after.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” he said.
“You do not.”
Well. It was just a name.
“So, what now?” Benji asked.
“Before we get started, do I need to remind you guys to be careful? How nothing she says can be taken seriously. The stories she told you about the abusive ex-boyfriend are probably untrue, likely just a figment of her overactive imagination to evoke your sympathy. To put it bluntly, she’s a liar.”
Randolph met Benji’s eyes. This was something they could agree on.
“No,” they said in unison.
“Good,” O’Reilly said. He crossed the room, grabbed a box by the handles, and dropped it on the table. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dan Lawton is an award-winning literary suspense, mystery, and thriller author from New Hampshire. Awards include:
The Green House
•Bronze Medalist, Adult E-Book Fiction — 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY Awards)
•Finalist, Fiction — 2020 Next Generation Indie Book Awards
•Finalist, Mystery — 2020 Book Excellence Awards
•Finalist, Literary Fiction — 2020 American Book Awards
Plum Springs
•Winner, Fiction — 2019 New Hampshire Writers’ Project Readers’ Choice Award
Connect at @danlawtonauthor or at www.danlawtonfiction.com.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
Thank you as always for your support and your love of reading. For the first time for me, this novel is the beginning of a three-book series, so be on the lookout for books two and three!
If you’d consider sharing your thoughts about it wherever you discuss books, I’d be grateful. Further, if you want to send me your thoughts directly, I’d love to hear them! I will personally respond to all messages.
You can contact me at
info@danlawtonfiction.com
@danlawtonauthor on Instagram and Twitter,
Facebook.com/danlawtonfiction,
or www.danlawtonfiction.com.
All the best,
Dan Lawton
MORE TITLES BY THIS AUTHOR
The Green House
Plum Springs
Amber Alert
Operation Salazar
Deception
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