Redemption Road

by John Hart

  “That’s not relevant.”

  “How about the last time you slept?”

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll admit that the past few days have been … complicated.”

  “Complicated? For God’s sake, Liz, you have circles under your eyes that look painted on. You’re never home, best any of us can tell. You don’t answer your phone. You’re riding around in that broken-down car.”

  “It’s a ’67 Mustang.”

  “That’s barely street legal.” Dyer leaned forward, laced his fingers. “These state cops keep asking about you, and it’s getting harder and harder to say you’re solid. A week ago, I’d have used words like judiciousness and brilliance and restraint. Now I don’t know what to say. You’ve gone edgy and dark and unpredictable. You’re drinking too much, smoking for the first time in, what, ten years? You won’t talk to the counselor or your colleagues.” He made a gesture that took in her ragged hair and pale face. “You look like one of these Goth kids, like a shadow—”

  “Can we discuss something else?”

  “I think you’re lying about what happened in the basement. How’s that for something else?”

  Elizabeth looked away.

  “Your timeline’s off, Liz. The state police aren’t buying it, and neither am I. The girl is squirrelly with details, which makes me think she’s lying, too. You’re missing an hour. You emptied your weapon.”

  “If we’re finished…”

  “We’re not.” Dyer leaned back in his chair, unhappy. “I called your father.”

  “Ah.” A world of meaning was in the sound. “And how is the Reverend Black?”

  “He says the cracks in you are so deep God’s own light can’t find the bottom.”

  “Yeah, well”—she looked away—“my father has always had a way with words.”

  “He’s a good man, Liz. Let him help you.”

  “Attending my father’s service twice a year doesn’t give you the right to discuss my life with him. I don’t want him involved, and I don’t need help.”

  “But, you do.” Dyer put his forearms on the desk. “That’s what’s so heartbreaking. You’re one of the best cops I’ve ever seen, but you’re a slow-motion train wreck, too. None of us can look away. We want to help you. Let us help you.”

  “May I have my shield back or not?”

  “Get your story straight, Liz. Get it straight or these state cops will eat you alive.”

  Elizabeth stood. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Dyer stood, too, and spoke as her hand reached for the door. “You drove by the prison this afternoon.”

  She stopped with one hand on the knob. When she turned, her voice was cold. He wanted to talk about tomorrow and the prison. Of course, he did. Just like Beckett. Just like every cop out there. “Were you following me?”

  “No.”

  “Who saw me?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You know my point.”

  “Let’s pretend I can’t read minds.”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near Adrian Wall.”

  “Adrian who?”

  “And don’t play dumb with me, either. His parole came through. He gets out in the morning.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  But she did, and both of them knew it.

  3

  It was a paradox of life behind walls, that where any day could end in blood, every morning contrived to start exactly the same. A man woke and, for two beats of his heart, didn’t know where he was or what he’d become. Those few seconds were magic, a warm flicker before reality walked across his chest, the black dog of remembrance trailing at its feet. This morning was no different from any other: stillness, at first, then memories of all the things that came with thirteen years in a box. Moments like that were bad enough for most.

  For a cop, they were worse.

  For a cop like Adrian, they were unbearable.

  He sat in the dark of his bunk and touched a face that no longer felt like his own. A finger sank into a nickel-size depression at the corner of his left eye. He traced the fracture line to his nose, then across to where long scars gathered in the hollow of his cheek. They’d healed white, but prison stitches weren’t the greatest. If time inside had taught him one thing, though, it’s what really mattered in life.

  What he’d lost.

  What he had left.

  Stripping off rough sheets, he did push-ups until his arms shook, then stood in the dark and tried to forget the feel of blackness and quiet and memories scratched through to white. He’d come inside two months after his thirtieth birthday. Now, he was forty-three years old, scarred and broken and remade. Would people even recognize him? Would his wife?

  Thirteen years, he thought.

  “A lifetime.”

  The voice was so light it barely registered. Adrian caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and found Eli Lawrence in the darkest corner of the cell. He looked small in the dimness beyond the bunk, his eyes dull yellow, his face so dark and seamed it was hard to tell where the old man ended and blackness began.

  “He speaks,” Adrian said.

  The old man blinked as if to say, These things happen.

  Adrian closed his eyes, too, then turned his back and wrapped his fingers around metal bars so warm they seemed to sweat. He never knew if Eli would speak or not, if the yellow eyes would open or blink or stay closed so long the old man faded into the dimness. Even now, the only noise in the cell was Adrian’s breath and the sound his fingers made as they twisted, slick and wet, on the metal. This was his last day inside, and dawn was gathering beyond the bars. Between there and the place he stood, the hall stretched gray and empty; and Adrian wondered if the world outside would feel just as blank. He wasn’t the man he’d been and had few illusions about the fact. He’d lost thirty pounds since conviction, his muscles hard and lean as old rope. He’d suffered inside, and while he hated the prisoner’s lament—that I’m not responsible, that it was not my fault—Adrian could point at other men and say, This scar came from him, that broken bone from the other. Of course, none of that mattered. Even if he screamed from the tower that it was the warden who did this or a guard who did the other, no one would believe him or even care.

  Too much damage.

  Too many years in the dark.

  “You can do this,” the old man said.

  “I shouldn’t be getting out. Not this early.”

  “You know why.”

  Adrian’s fingers tightened on the metal. Thirteen years was at the bottom end for murder two, but only with good behavior, only if the warden wanted it to happen. “They’ll be watching me. You know that.”

  “Of course they will. We’ve talked about this.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “I say you can.”

  The old man’s voice wafted from the dark, a touch. Adrian pressed his back into the same damp metal and thought about the man who’d shared his life for so many years. Eli Lawrence had taught him the rules of prison, taught him when to fight and when to bend, that even the worst things end in time. More important, the old man had kept him sane. On the forever days in the forever dark, Eli’s voice had held Adrian together. That was true no matter how alone he was or how much he bled. And Eli, it seemed, had evolved to fit the role. After six decades inside, the old man’s world had contracted to the exact dimensions of their cell. He acknowledged no one else; spoke to no one else. They were tied so tightly—the old man and the young—that Adrian feared Eli would disappear the moment he left the cell. “I wish I could take you with me.”

  “We both know I’ll never leave this place alive.” Eli smiled as if it were a joke, but the words were as true as any truth in prison. Eli Lawrence had earned a life sentence for a robbery homicide, in 1946, in the backcountry of eastern North Carolina. Had the dead man been white, he’d have hung. Instead, he got life times three, and Adrian knew that Eli’d never breathe free air again. Staring into the dark, Adrian wan
ted to say so many things to the old man. He wanted to thank him and apologize and describe all the things Eli had meant to him over the years, to explain that, as much as he’d already endured, Adrian didn’t know if he could make it beyond the walls without Eli to guide him. He started to speak, but stopped as lights flickered beyond the heavy, steel door and a buzzer sounded down the block.

  “They’re coming,” Eli said.

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Of course, you are.”

  “Not without you, Eli. Not alone.”

  “Just be still and let me tell you some things people tend to forget once they leave this place.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “I spent a lifetime here, boy. You know how many people have said that to me? ‘I can handle it. I know what I’m doing.’”

  “I meant no disrespect.”

  “Of course, you didn’t. Now, be still and listen to an old man one more time.”

  Adrian nodded as metal clanked on metal. He heard distant voices, hard shoes on the concrete floor.

  “Money means nothing,” Eli said. “You understand what I’m saying? I’ve seen people pull twenty years in this place, then come back six months later on account of the dollars. In and out, like they don’t learn nothing. It’s only worth so much, the gold and dollars and shiny bits. It’s not worth your life or your joy or a day of your freedom. Sunshine. Fresh air. It’s enough.” Eli nodded in the gloom. “That being said, you remember what I told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The waterfall and how the creek splits?”

  “I remember.”

  “I know you think this place has used you up for the outside world, but the scars and busted bones don’t matter, same with the fear and the dark, the memories and hate and dreams of revenge. You let that go. All of it. You walk out of this place and you keep walking. Leave this town. Find another.”

  “And the warden? Should I leave him, too?”

  “If he comes after you?”

  “If he comes. If he doesn’t. What do I do if I see him?”

  That was a dangerous question, and for an instant Eli’s dull eyes seemed shot with red. “What did I just say about revenge?”

  Adrian ground his teeth and didn’t have to speak to make the point.

  The warden was different.

  “You let the hate go, boy. You hear me? You’re walking early. Maybe that’s for a reason, and maybe not. What does it matter if you disappear?” The guards were closer; seconds, now. The old man nodded. “As for what you suffered in this place, all that matters is survival. You understand? There’s no sin in survival. Say it.”

  “No sin.”

  “And no need to worry on me.”

  “Eli…”

  “Now give an old man a hug, and get the hell out.”

  Eli was nodding, and Adrian felt his throat close. Eli Lawrence was more father than friend, and as Adrian wrapped the man up, he found him so light and hot it was as if coals burned in the hollows of his bones. “Thank you, Eli.”

  “You walk out proud, boy. Let them see you tall and straight.”

  Adrian pulled back, looking for a final glimpse of the man’s tired and knowing eyes. But Eli faded into the shadows, turned his back, and all but disappeared.

  “Go on now.”

  “Eli?”

  “Everything’s fine,” the old man said, but Adrian’s face was wet with tears.

  * * *

  The guards let Adrian step into the corridor, but kept their distance. He was not a large man, but even the guards had heard rumors of what he’d endured, and how he’d done it. The numbers were undeniable: the months in hospital, the staples and stitches, the surgeries and broken bones. Even the warden paid attention to Adrian Wall, and that frightened the guards as much as anything else. There were stories about the warden, too; but no one pushed for the truth. It was the warden’s prison, and he was an unforgiving man. That meant you kept your head down, and your mouth shut. Besides, the stories couldn’t be true. That’s how the decent guards consoled themselves.

  But not all guards were decent.

  When Adrian got to processing, he saw three of the worst standing in the corner, hard-faced, flat-eyed men that even now made Adrian hesitate. Their uniforms were creased and spotless, all the leather shined. They lined the wall, and a message was in their arrogance. We still own you, it said. Inside. Outside. Nothing’s changed.

  “What are you looking at, prisoner?”

  Adrian ignored them and took his cues, instead, from a small man behind a counter topped with steel pillars and chain-link.

  “You need to strip.” A cardboard box settled on the counter, and clothes unseen for thirteen years came out. “Go on.” The clerk flicked a glance at the three guards, then back to Adrian. “It’s okay.”

  Adrian stepped out of prison shoes and stripped off the orange.

  “Jesus…” The clerk paled at the sight of all the scars.

  Adrian acted as if it were okay, but it wasn’t. The guards who’d brought him from the cell were silent and still, but the other three were joking about the crooked fingers and the vinyl skin. Adrian knew each of them by name. He knew the sounds of their voices, and which was strongest. He knew which was most sadistic, and which one, even now, was smiling. In spite of that, he kept his back straight. He waited until the whispers stopped, then put on the suit and turned his mind to other things: a dark spot on the counter, a clock behind the chain-link. He buttoned his shirt to the collar, tied his tie as if it were Sunday.

  “They’re gone.”

  “What?”

  “Those three.” The clerk gestured. “They’re gone.” The clerk’s face was narrow, his eyes unusually soft.

  “Did I blank out?”

  “Just for a few seconds.” The clerk looked away, embarrassed. “Like you went away.”

  Adrian cleared his throat, but guessed the clerk was telling the truth. The world went dark sometimes. Time did strange things. “I’m sorry.”

  The small man shrugged, and Adrian knew from looking at his face that those particular guards made a lot of lives miserable.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” The clerk pushed a paper across the slick surface. “Sign this.” Adrian dashed his name without reading. The clerk thumbed three bills onto the counter. “This is for you.”

  “Fifty dollars?”

  “It’s a gift from the state.”

  Adrian looked at it, thought, Thirteen years, fifty dollars. The clerk pushed the bills across the surface, and Adrian folded them into a pocket.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  Adrian struggled for a minute. Other than Eli Lawrence, he’d not spoken to another soul in a long time. “Is anyone here for me? You know … waiting?”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know that.”

  “Do you know where I might find a ride?”

  “Cabs aren’t allowed at the prison. There’s a pay phone down the road at Nathan’s. I thought all you people knew that.”

  “You people?”

  “Ex-cons.”

  Adrian let that sink in. The guard who’d brought him from his cell gestured at an empty hall. “Mr. Wall.”

  Adrian turned, not sure what he thought about all these strange words.

  Mr. Wall …

  Ex-con …

  The guard lifted a hand, indicating a hallway to the left. “This way.”

  Adrian followed him to a door that cracked bright and split wide. There were still fences and chain-link gates, but the breeze was warm on his cheek as he turned his face from the sun and tried to quantify exactly how it felt different from the one that shone in the yard.

  “Prisoner coming out.” The guard keyed a radio, then pointed to a place where gates rolled on wheels. “Straight through the gate. The second won’t open until the first one closes.”

  “My wife…”

  “I don’t know anything about your wife.”

  The guard gave a sh
ove, and Adrian—like that—was outside. He looked for the warden’s office and found the right windows three floors up on the east wall. For an instant sunlight gilded the glass, then clouds slid across the sun and Adrian saw him there. He stood as he liked to stand. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose. For a moment the stare held between them, and with it enough hate to fill another thirteen years of Adrian’s life. He thought the guards would appear, too, but they didn’t. It was he and the warden, the slow tick of a dozen seconds before the sun burned through and mirrored the glass again.

  Walk out proud, boy.

  He heard Eli’s voice as if he were there.

  Let them see you tall and straight.

  Crossing the parking lot, Adrian stood on the edge of the road and thought maybe his wife would come. He looked once more at the warden’s office, then watched one car blow past, then another. He shifted from foot to foot as the sun walked up the sky, and the first hour stretched into three. By the time he started walking, his throat was dry and he’d sweated through his shirt. Staying on the verge, he kept one eye out for cars, and the second on a clutch of buildings dropped like blocks a half mile down the road. By the time he reached them, it was over a hundred degrees. Lots of shimmer coming off the road, lots of pale, white dust. He saw a pay phone next to a self-storage place, a shipping company, and a bar called Nathan’s. Everything looked closed but the bar, which had a sign in the window and a rusted-out pickup angled in near the front door. Adrian fisted his hand around the wad of bills in his pocket, then turned the knob and walked inside the bar.

  “Uh-oh. Free man walking.”

  The voice was rough and sure, the tone amused but not in a bad way. Adrian stepped closer to the bar and saw a sixtysomething man in front of rowed bottles and a long mirror. He was tall and wide, grizzled hair pulled back over a leather vest. Adrian limped a little closer and returned the half smile. “How’d you know?”

  “Prison skin. Wrinkled suit. Plus I see about a dozen of you every year. You need a cab?”

  “Can I get change?”

  Adrian held out a bill, and the bartender waved it away. “Don’t sweat the pay phone. I’ve got ’em on speed dial. Take a load off.” Adrian sat on a vinyl stool and watched the man dial. “Hi, I need a cab at Nathan’s.… Yeah, out by the prison.” He listened for a moment, then covered the phone and said to Adrian, “Where to?”