“I get out soon. Got a great girlfriend. Big plans. I’m not safe. Could you have me transferred?”
I shook my head. “Don’t have the authority. I can talk to Classification about it.”
The tile floor beneath my feet gleamed with a shine to rival any hospital in the state, the result of excessive mopping, stripping, and waxing by inmate orderlies with not enough to do. The windows were as clear and as spotless as if they had not been there at all, but beyond them, the double chain-link fence and razor wire reminded us that no matter how clean it was, this was still a prison infirmary.
He nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”
Through the square glass panes of the interior wall, I could see Dr. Alvarez walking down the hallway toward the medical conference room. He was walking slowly and seemed to be trying to overhear what we were saying.
“Guy gives me the creeps,” Lance said. “If people knew the stuff he does down here. We’re like his own little private collection of guinea pigs.”
“He have a connection to the Suicide Kings?” He shrugged. “We’ve all spent time down here.” Jamie Lee emerged from the back of the hallway, returning from a cigarette break. She smiled and waved as she walked by the open door, the smell of smoke and perfume swirling around her.
“What about Dr. Baldwin?”
“We’ve all been in her suicide prevention support group. We’ve all seen her individually. And we’ve all been in her hypnotherapy groups too.”
“Tell me about the hypnotherapy.”
“What’s there to tell?” he said, rubbing the bandage on his neck absently. “She thinks it’s the key to unlocking repressed traumas. She does a lot of regression therapy. You know, taking you back to certain critical events of childhood. She’s good. She gets a lot of practice around here.”
In front of me, the rows of toilets, sinks, and showers were dark and empty like the SOS cells across the way, but the officers’ station behind us was lit and occupied by an officer, who with the push of one button could hear everything we were saying.
“Why all the interest in hypnotherapy, Chaplain?” Baldwin asked.
I turned to see her standing in the doorway. “Find it fascinating.”
“I believe in it,” she said. “I really do, but never as a shortcut. I never use it when more traditional forms of treatment’ll work just as well. Even if they take much longer. I care enough about my patients to invest the time. Right Lance?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Absolutely.”
“Can it be used to influence a patient to do something against his will?” I asked.
She was shaking her head before I finished.
“There’s certainly some controversy and disagreement about that. But I for one firmly believe that even the strongest suggestion won’t be taken if it’s against the person’s will.”
“Haven’t people in regression therapy falsely accused a parent or guardian of molesting them when they were children because a therapist planted the thought in their minds?”
“I am, of course, aware of such claims, but I haven’t seen anything that’s convinced me of it. I rather believe that the patients just backed down because of the social stigma and family pressure.”
“But victims are in a very vulnerable and highly suggestible state when they’re under hypnosis, right?”
“Patients,” she said. “Sorry?”
“You said victims. You meant patients. It’s true, the inducted person is much more suggestible, but not to do things against his will.”
“What if it’s something that they don’t have a strong will about either way,” I said. “Is it possible to—”
“I don’t believe so, but come by some time and I’ll see what I can get you to do, okay?”
Chapter Thirty-six
“Rollins and Allen were in the chapel just before the latest attack on Lance,” I said.
Merrill nodded.
“What if they’re working together?” Anna asked. I nodded. “Don’t seem like the type that would, which might make it genius.”
We were sitting in a booth in the back at Rudy’s like we had so many times before, but this time Anna and I were together, had arrived together, would leave together, would go home together, would wake up together.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Ad infinitum.
“You ever talk to Donnie?” Merrill asked. “Foster?” I shook my head.
“His name keep coming up.”
“It does. I should have by now. I’ve tried a few times, but I’ve missed him. Just been following where the case leads, but, you’re right, I need to—”
“I’s just asking. Wasn’t saying you should.”
“His name keeps coming up ’cause he’s a criminal,” Anna said. “Also why he’s avoiding you. If he’s not involved in this, he’s dirty on something.”
She was right. He was one of the ones who shouldn’t be allowed to go home at night.
Carla walked up with our food.
“Warden and inspector were in here talking about the case earlier,” she said. “I eavesdropped on them.
Overheard a lot.”
“You did?”
“I’m so freakin’ Veronica Mars.”
“Yes you are,” I said.
“Who?” Merrill asked. She told him.
He shrugged indifferently.
Carla sat down beside him after placing our food on the table. All three of us were having a full breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns, grits, and pecan waffles. Anna was also having buttered biscuits and gravy, because the baby liked them.
“Love eatin’ breakfast at night,” Merrill said. “Me too,” Anna said.
“Me three,” I said.
Carla looked at me. “You like everything better at night.”
I smiled. “Want some?”
A look of horror appeared on her face. “You kidding? I don’t eat the shit they serve here.”
A trucker in Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel shirt sat at the far end of the counter, finishing up an omelet and his fourth cup of coffee. Draped over the bar chair beside him was a two-tone brown down vest.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she added. “I just eat, breathe, and sleep it every night. After a while you get sick of anything.”
“Why I didn’t become a gynecologist,” Merrill said. “Sheeit, wife meet you at the door naked when come home from a long day at the office and you say, ‘If I see one more . . .’”
We all laughed.
“So, what’d you accidentally overhear?” I asked. She turned in the seat so she was facing me. “Lawson believes it was a suicide. He’s working real hard to convince Matson.”
We ate while she talked. Carla made the best breakfast in Florida. Maybe in the South. Maybe in the world. When she finished talking, I had to wait a moment to respond because of all the good food in my mouth.
“Warden’s not convinced?” I asked.
She shrugged and scrunched her face together to think about it. “I don’t think so, but it’s hard to tell much of anything with him.”
Merrill smiled.
A bell dinged and Carla stood, bounced back behind the counter, and returned a moment later with a saucer piled high with toast, the butter dripping down the side of the stack.
Merrill and I looked at Anna. “The baby likes bread,” she said.
“Did he mention the attempt on Phillips?” I asked. She nodded.
“And their connection?”
“The card? Said some inmate was trying to fuck with his head.”
“He say where they got the rope?” Merrill said. She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“You did great. You heard a lot.”
“I tried. Kept bringing stuff to their table. They thought I was the best waitress ever.”
I looked at Merrill. “And I already found out about the rope. It was traced to two pieces missing from the maintenance department. Inmate probably snuck it in and sold it to them.”
The tru
cker finished his coffee, wiped his mouth with a wadded up napkin, stood, put on his vest, zipped it up though it was a warm night, and walked out of the restaurant, waving to Carla as he did.
The four of us were now alone in the diner.
We were quiet a few minutes finishing our food.
With strips of toast, Merrill wiped up the remaining grits and egg yolks and ate them. Just as we were finishing, Carla served us fresh, hot coffee and we drank it black, and it was good.
After a while, Carla said, “Could someone be trying to kill Phillips for a reason other than money?”
I nodded. “Could be anything.”
“Yeah,” Merrill said. “Reasons to kill a fool numerous as fools theyselves.”
“And that,” Anna added, smiling her radiant smile, “is the voice of experience.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
That night Anna and I attended a political debate at the Pottersville Community Center.
Because of what happened at Potter Farm and the rumors about what happened, the place was packed with townspeople and reporters and news organizations.
Each candidate gave brief statements before the debate began.
Hugh Glenn worked what had happened at Potter Farm into his and questioned how something like that could happen right under the current sheriff ’s nose.
Dad’s was brief and included assurances that he would be making an arrest in that case soon.
Ralph Long rambled on mostly about nothin’, but in every single word he uttered he was begging to be liked, his neediness and desire to please so palpable it caused an uneasiness and awkwardness to permeate the room.
After bragging about his wisdom, integrity, and impartiality, Judge Richard Cox shared his certainty that the incident at Potter Farm was meant to bring embarrassment and shame to the Republican Party of Potter County in general and him in particular and was perpetrated by radical homosexuals as part of the gay agenda.
I looked across the room at Richie, who was sitting next to his sister, Diane. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, while next to him Diane’s face flushed crimson.
Don Stockton was smug and cocky and the only candidate certain of his reelection.
“I’m not an educated man,” Stockton said, “so I’ll have to defer to the good judge’s opinion on such matters, but in my experience, nine times out of ten the motive for everything comes down to money. It’s what makes the world go round. It’s what everybody wants and nobody has enough of. So whether it’s a gay agenda or a straight agenda . . . it’s gonna include a green agenda. Promise you that.”
After the formal debate had concluded and the moderator opened it up to questions from the audience, every single question but one was about what had happened at Potter Farm and the body of the blonde victim murdered there.
The one question not related to Potter Farm was still directed at Dad.
It was asked by Chris Taunton, Anna’s soon-to-be, but not soon enough, ex.
“Sheriff, is it true that your son, a supposed minister of the Gospel, is shackin’ with another man’s pregnant wife?” he said. “And if so, how do you expect voters to reelect a man who would raise such an immoral sack of shit hypocrite?”
I took Anna’s hand, as the majority of those in attendance turned to glance at us.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Why? You didn’t do anything.”
“I married the motherfucker.”
“We all do foolish things in our youth,” I said. “What I did was far worse.”
“What’s that?”
“Left here without you.”
“That’s true,” she said. “This is all your fault.”
At the conclusion of the event, my instinct was to duck out the nearest door, but Anna convinced me to stay and face our accusers with our scarlet As displayed proudly.
When we finally reached the friendly face of Richie Cox, I breathed a little easier.
“Dir,” he said to his sister, “you remember my friend the supposed minister of the Gospel shackin’ with another man’s pregnant wife immoral sack of shit hypocrite, don’t you?”
“He looks familiar,” Diane said, “but . . . the name’s not ringing any bells.”
Richie extended his hand to Anna. “Hi I’m Richie Cox. I’m part of the gay agenda trying to destroy the world and keep my dad from being reelected.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Let me know any way I can help you with that.”
“This is his sister, Dirty Diana,” I said. “The one who said you were lucky to be with me.”
They shook hands.
I looked at Diane. “Sure you don’t want to amend your opinion on the subject?”
She shook her head. “You guys are so lucky to have each other.”
“Yes we are,” Anna said. “This was fun,” Richie said.
“Wasn’t it?” Anna said. “And to think I almost didn’t come.”
“I love my dad,” Diane said. “And I think he’s a pretty good judge, but . . . I don’t know . . . maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if none of them got reelected.”
Richie shook his head. “I’m gonna be honest. I’m not ready for the lifestyle change. The way the economy is . . . If the judge didn’t supplement my income . . . yours too . . . No, my gay agenda is to keep his homophobic ass in office.”
Diane looked over my shoulder, her eyes widening as she did.
I turned to see Hugh Glenn approaching from one direction and Chris Taunton from another.
Hugh reached us first.
“You need to reason with your dad,” he said to me. “He’s making some outlandish accusations.”
“Such as?”
“Such as me having somethin’ to do with that girl’s death in order to win the election.”
“Who was the first person to bring it up tonight?” I said. “In an attempt to win the election.”
“Think about what you’re sayin’,” he said. “Talk some sense into your dad.”
“It’s the father that needs to talk some sense into the son,” Chris said as he reached us.
I turned toward him, stepping in front of Anna. “You don’t have to protect her from me,” he said. I didn’t respond.
“That’s my wife.”
“I’m not your anything,” she said, coming around to stand beside me. “And if you don’t stop acting so petulant and stop stalking me, I’m gonna make a few public statements of my own. Understand? I’ve guarded your dignity so far, kept your secrets, but you ever pull another juvenile stunt like that again and I’m gonna shine a very bright light on you. Now walk away without another word.”
He thought about it without saying anything. She had gotten through to him.
“Walk away, Chris,” she said. And in another moment he did.
Chapter Thirty-eight
My mom died the next day.
I couldn’t be sure, but there was no evidence she took her own life. And even if I could know for sure she didn’t, it wouldn’t mitigate the guilt and regret I felt.
I had gotten so wrapped up in my relationship with Anna and what was going on inside the prison with the Suicide Kings and outside with the missing blonde murder victim, that I had neglected her during her final days.
Sometimes it seemed as though I was surrounded on all sides by death. Daily, I received reminders that long life is an illusion, that our existence, regardless of the length, was but a vapor, quickly floating up to vanish into nothingness. Here then gone.
As I drove over to meet Dad and Jake at her house, I recalled the one time in the last few days I had made it by to see her . . .
It hadn’t been late, but Mom was sleeping, waking occasionally for brief exchanges before drifting off again.
I sat by her bed thinking about death and dying, about how very brief our time here was, how we lost everything eventually, inevitably, and what a tragedy that was.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Sorry I can’t wake up.”
&
nbsp; “Don’t be.”
“I’m just so tired today.”
“Just rest,” I said. “I’m gonna sit here a while. I’ll slip out later.”
She dozed off again, her breathing labored, her rest fitful, her body constantly twitching and jerking.
I had been watching Mom die for quite a while now. Now that she had, it wasn’t unexpected, I wasn’t shocked or caught off guard, but I also wasn’t prepared for it. There was nothing I could’ve done to be, nothing I knew to do anyway.
“I’m not going to,” Mom had said.
Her eyes had been closed and at first I thought she was talking in her sleep.
“If you’re worried about . . .”
She opened her eyes and looked over at me, straining to keep her heavy lids from falling shut.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m gonna let things take their natural course . . .
I’m not gonna . . . put an end to this myself.”
I nodded and smiled and took her hand in mine. “Thank you, John,” she said. “For everything. For all you’ve done. For . . . everything.”
Those had been the last words I would ever hear her say.
Over the next three days of dealing with Mom’s death and preparing to officiate her funeral, I only entered the institution twice. Once to meet with Brent Allen. The other to meet with the warden and the chaplain supervisor about my immorality.
“My granddad?” Brent Allen asked when he walked into my office.
I nodded. “I’m very sorry.”
I had been called back in to the institution to notify him that his grandfather had died. He had been escorted to my office by an officer, who remained in the hallway.
The officer accompanied him not only because it was dark and the yard was closed, but in case he became crazed or violent. It was standard operating procedure. Inmates receiving death notifications were accompanied by officers whether the yard was open or not. But I didn’t expect any behavioral problems from Brent.
“That was fast,” he said, sinking down into one of the chairs across from my desk.
I nodded.
Except for the officer in the hallway, we were alone in the chapel—alone in the upper compound except for Medical. Like the compound, the chapel was dark and quiet, the only lights on were in the hallway and my office, the only sounds, the ones we were making—and we weren’t making any at the moment.
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