by C. J. Box
“What are you looking for?” he asked. “You’re getting your germs in it.”
The guard looked up, not sympathetic. “People try to smuggle things in here all the time,” he said. “How do we know you didn’t mix something in here?”
He felt his neck get hot. “But she said it was okay. It’s a gift.”
“Nope,” the guard said. “Leave it here. You can get it on your way out.” The guard replaced the top, and wiped his finger on his uniform pants.
Go wash your hands . . . Don’t put your finger in your mouth, he wanted to warn. But all he said was, “Oh, come on . . .”
The guard shook his head no. It was final.
“For Christ sake,” he said. His plan was already going a little awry. But he had a backup.
“Keep Him out of it,” the guard said. “Do you want to go inside or not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then leave it here and go get in the van.”
He nodded, figured he’d better shut up. As he went down the hallway where another guard was waiting at an open door, he heard a metal clunk as the tobacco was tossed inside a metal waste can. He let out a breath and walked ahead. A van was outside.
He settled into the first seat behind the driver. He was the only visitor in the van. The driver climbed in after him, turned on the motor, shut the door, and did a slow U-turn. He looked outside the window at the bare, rocky hills. There were wisps of clouds in a high blue sky and nothing, absolutely nothing, else. Except some antelope, up there on the hillside. Hiding in plain sight.
IT WAS A mile from the Administration Building to the prison. The driver said, “First time?”
“Yep.”
“You want to know what you’re looking at?”
He really didn’t care, but to be friendly, he said, “Sure.”
“That’s the ITU,” the driver said, nodding in the direction of a boxy gray building behind a fence topped with razor wire. “Intensive Treatment Unit. Ultra-rehab. That’s where the drug addicts get sent when they arrive. Or if an inmate needs extensive psychological treatment.”
“That’s probably a lot of them, I’d guess,” he said.
“You’re right about that.
“This is a state-of-the-art prison,” the driver continued, saying it in a way that suggested he had repeated it a hundred times, like a tour guide at a theme park. “It’s a city unto itself. Everything is on premises, cooking, laundry, hospital, everything. It would continue to function if the rest of the world didn’t, at least for a while. We have six hundred and eighty inmates in A, B, C, and E buildings, or pods. The inmates are segregated based on their crimes and their behavior, and you can tell their status by the shirts they wear. Yellow means newbie, or rookie. Blue shirts and red shirts are general population. Orange means watch out, that man is in trouble or he’s dangerous. White means death row.
“The whole place is watched twenty-four/seven by two hundred cameras that are everywhere. I mean it, everywhere. There are also motion sensors everywhere, and I mean everywhere. No one moves in this place that somebody isn’t watching him.
“That includes visitors,” the driver said, looking at him in his mirror to make sure he had heard him.
“It’s slow today for visitors. Summer weekends, we get more than a hundred people. The average day is fifty. Are you meeting your inmate in the contact or noncontact area?”
He wasn’t sure. “Noncontact, I think.”
“Who is it?”
He told him.
The driver nodded. “Yeah. Noncontact. He’s in for murder, right?”
He said yes. Multiple homicide. Death row. He’d be wearing white.
“He doesn’t get many visitors,” the driver said, leaving it at that.
HE STOOD IN another waiting area. He wished the driver hadn’t told him about the cameras, even though he should have known. If he’d felt exposed standing in a parking lot, he really felt exposed here. He’d been told the conversation he was about to have wouldn’t be recorded. But how could he be sure of that? He’d have to keep his comments obscure, the way he had in his letters to the inmate. Get things across without actually saying them.
Beyond the waiting room, through three-quarter-inch glass, was the big visiting room with tables and chairs in it. A guard, a woman, sat at a desk in the corner, doing paperwork. On the desk was the biggest box of sanitizing wipes he had ever seen. He grimaced, thinking about what it was she had to wipe up out there, what kinds of fluids oozed out of these people, this scum. There was a table with an urn of coffee and columns of white Styrofoam cups. Bright plastic toys were stacked in a corner. A television was on with a game show on it. Jesus, the place is almost cheery, he thought. It reminded him of a modern high school without windows.
A guard came into the room with a clipboard.
“You’re John Wayne Keeley?”
“Yessir.”
“You’re here to see Wacey Hedeman?”
“Yessir.”
“Follow me.”
SIX YEARS BEFORE, Wacey Hedeman had gone crazy. Until it happened, he had been a game warden working for the Wyoming Game and Fish Department in northern Wyoming, near the Bighorn Mountains. He had a good reputation and was well liked; a former champion rodeo bull rider in the PRCA, star of the university rodeo team, state champion wrestler before that. He was gregarious, ambitious, and cut a wide swath. He was, in practically everyone’s opinion, paid the highest compliment a Wyomingite paid another: He was thought “a good guy.”
But that was before he got the urge to run for Twelve Sleep County sheriff. He had needed money and influence to win, and he hooked up with former supervisor and mentor Vern Dunnegan, who had reappeared in the area as an advance landman for a natural-gas pipeline. Dunnegan could deliver the office to Wacey because he had the goods on the current sheriff, if Wacey would clear the way and anyone in it for the pipeline project. The situation spiraled downward into places no one anticipated and in the end, Wacey murdered four men and shot a pregnant woman before he was stopped.
Keeley had been told some of the story, and had looked up the rest. Wacey Hedeman had been sentenced to die by lethal injection, but he was still waiting for it to happen. His partner in crime, Vern Dunnegan, was serving out his sentence in the same prison, but in the general population, not maximum security.
KEELEY WAS TAKEN through a door labeled NONCONTACT VISITS and down a narrow hallway. The guard opened another door and Keeley went into a narrow cubicle with a desk, a stool bolted to the floor, a foot-wide counter, and a thick piece of glass that revealed a setup on the other side that was similar. A half-inch slot was cut in the glass near the counter, enough room to pass papers through. A black phone was mounted on the wall.
He sat down, straddling the stool, his palms flat on the counter, his nose just a few inches from the glass.
The door in the other room opened, and Wacey Hedeman stepped in and looked at him.
Hedeman was smaller than he thought he would be, Keeley thought. The old newspaper photos he had seen of Hedeman made him look taller, and more than a little dashing. His drooping gunfighter mustache was still there, though, but streaked with some gray. He had a bantam rooster kind of cockiness to his step, and the way he looked at Keeley from beneath his eyebrows . . . he looked like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. One of Wacey’s sleeves flopped around as he moved. That’s right, Keeley thought, his arm got shot off. Idiot.
The guard behind Wacey Hedeman said, “I’ll be right outside”—Keeley could read his soundless words through the glass by watching his mouth—and Hedeman nodded but didn’t look back at him. The guard withdrew and the door closed. Wacey sat down. Their faces were no more than eighteen inches apart, through the glass. They reached for the handsets simultaneously.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” Keeley said.
“Did you bring me what you said you would?”
Keeley raised his eyebrows. “They wouldn’t let me bring it through secur
ity. I tried, though. The first lady let me but the guy at the metal detector took it.”
Wacey’s face started to turn red. He glared at Keeley through the glass, and lowered the handset from his face. Keeley thought for a second that Wacey might just stand up, turn around, and demand to be let out.
“I’m sorry,” Keeley said.
Wacey just stared at him.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Wacey said, after bringing the phone back to his face. “Do you know how much I crave that stuff in here? Do you have any fucking idea?”
“No.”
“Some of these guys have it,” Wacey said, nodding toward the inmates with visiting families in the open room. “How is it they get it and I don’t? Why is it okay to smoke but not okay to chew? It pisses me off. This is Wyoming. A man ought to be allowed to chew here.”
Maybe because you’re on death row? Keeley thought but didn’t say. “I don’t know. It don’t seem too fair. I’m sorry.”
“Quit saying that,” Wacey said, his eyes on Keeley. “You sound like one sorry son-of-a-bitch.”
Keeley felt his always-present anger flare up, and fought to stanch it. He would let this man humiliate him if it would get him the information he needed. Who cared if a stupid con treated him badly? It wasn’t as if he’d ever see the guy again.
“Let’s start over,” Keeley said. “Thanks for seeing me, putting me on your visit list.”
Wacey rolled his eyes and his mouth tightened. “Yeah. I had to bump twenty visitors to the bottom of the list just to get you in. And you didn’t even bring me what I wanted.”
“I said I was sorry. I tried. Maybe I can send you a roll of it.”
Wacey scoffed. “Everything gets searched. The guards would take it and use it themselves.”
While he talked, Keeley dropped one hand under the counter and unzipped his fly. He found what he was looking for, and raised it up so Wacey could see it. It was a can of Copenhagen, all right, but much thinner than a normal plastic can, with a plastic lid that wasn’t picked up by the metal detector.
“This is how they give out samples as you probably know,” Keeley said. “At rodeos and county fairs and such. It’s about a quarter the size of a real can. I picked it up last summer, and used it as my backup in case they took the real one, even though you said it’d get through. It’s better than nothing, I guess.”
Wacey’s eyes were focused on the can of tobacco. “Give it to me.”
Now Keeley felt in control. “I will. But I got a couple of questions for you first. That’s why I’m here.”
Keeley could see Wacey lick his lips, then raise his eyes back up, then back to the can. He was like a drug addict, Keeley thought. He needed the Copenhagen. But how could he need it so much if he’d gone six years without it? Then he remembered: Convicts are stupid. Even Wacey Hedeman.
Wacey looked up, eager to talk. Keeley thought, Pathetic.
Keeley said, “I think you know why I’m here. I got a big interest in you. See, my brother moved out here to Wyoming eight years ago. He was an outfitter up in Twelve Sleep County. Name of Ote. You remember him?”
Wacey seemed interested now. “I remember.”
Keeley watched Wacey’s eyes for a hint of guilt or remorse. Nothing.
“He got killed,” Keeley said.
Wacey just nodded.
“He used to send me letters. That’s when I first heard your name. And the name of the other game warden. You remember him, don’t you?”
Again, the nod. Keeley knew Wacey was wondering where this was going, since it had been Wacey who shot his brother in an elk-hunting camp. Keeley proceeded as if he weren’t aware of that fact.
“What I’m interested in is this other game warden.”
Wacey swallowed, said, “What about him?”
“You don’t like him much, do you?”
“He was the one put me in here,” Wacey said. “So no, I’m not real fond of him.” He spat out the word fond.
“You hear about what happened a couple of years ago up in that same country?” Keeley said. “A big confrontation where some good people got burned up in the snow? A woman and her little girl?”
“I heard.”
“She was my sister-in-law, and her child, God bless them. They was also Keeleys,” he said. “They was the last Keeleys, ’cept for me. And you know what?”
Wacey hesitated. Then, finally, “What?”
“That same damned game warden was involved in that too. Can you imagine? The same guy involved with the end of our family name.”
Wacey stared at him through the glass. “That wouldn’t be the end of it,” he said. “You got the same last name. Whyn’t you just go out there and make a bunch more? Isn’t that what you people do in the South?”
Now the anger did flare up. Keeley lashed out and thumped the glass with the heel of his hand. Wacey sat back in reaction, even though there was no way Keeley could have broken through.
The door behind Wacey Hedeman opened and the guard leaned his head in. “Knock off the noise,” the guard said, and Keeley could hear him through the handset.
“You don’t understand,” Keeley said, after the guard had left. Wacey looked back, wary. It was obvious he hadn’t expected that blow to the glass.
“Don’t understand what?”
“Just shut up, and answer a couple of questions. I drove all the way here for this, and I don’t need your mouth. I drove through Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska to meet you, Mr. Wacey. I don’t need to hear your shit-for-brains views of my people, or my name.”
Wacey swallowed again, shot a glance at the miniature can of Copenhagen.
“Tell me about him,” Keeley said. “Tell me what makes him tick. Tell me how to get under his skin.”
Wacey seemed to weigh the question, his head nodding almost imperceptibly. Then: “He’s not going to look or act the way you might expect. In fact, when you meet him, I predict that you’ll feel . . . underwhelmed. That’s his trick, and I don’t even know if he realizes it.” Wacey paused for a moment. “I take that back—I think he does. But that doesn’t mean he acts any different.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He likes being underestimated. He doesn’t have any problem with playing the fool. But just because he isn’t saying anything doesn’t mean he’s stupid. It means he’s listening.”
Keeley nodded, go on.
“The worst thing about him, or the best, depending on how you look at it, is that when he thinks he’s right, there isn’t anybody that can change his mind. The son-of-a-bitch might even act like he’s going along with you, but deep down, he’s already set his course. And nothing, I mean fucking nothing, will get him out of it. He’s a man who thinks he’s looking at everything for the very first time, like no one else has ever looked at it before so he’s got to figure it out for himself. You know what I mean? There’s some real arrogance there, but he’d never admit that.
“Once you set the hook in him,” Wacey said, “he won’t shake it out. Even if he knows you set it. He’ll see it through to the bitter end, no matter what happens. Just realize that. Once you start with him, you better be prepared to hang on.”
AFTER ANOTHER TWENTY minutes of talking, Keeley slipped the can of tobacco through the slot, and Wacey grabbed it before it was all the way through. Keeley watched Wacey twist off the top and plunge his nose almost into the black tobacco and breathe in deeply, his eyes closed. Without another word, he put the lid back on and stuffed the can in his pocket, then reached up and hung up his phone. His part of the conversation was over.
Keeley couldn’t detect the chew in his side of the room, but he tried to imagine it. He also tried to imagine the other odor, the one that was overpowered by the tobacco. The smell of almonds.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Wacey said soundlessly.
Keeley smiled through the glass. Wacey didn’t smile back, but stood and knocked on the door so the guard would let him out.
AS
HE RODE in the van back to the Administration Building, John Wayne Keeley thought over what Wacey had told him.
“Good visit?” the driver asked.
“Good enough,” Keeley said.
WHEN HE PASSED back through the security area, he fished the large can of Copenhagen he had brought out of the garbage can, and slid it back in his pocket. The guard saw him, and winked. They didn’t care a whit what you took out of the place, Keeley thought, only what you brought in.
At the desk he retrieved his driver’s license from a guard who had replaced the woman. He quickly cleaned his wallet and keys out of the locker, while noting that number 16 was locked. The old couple were still inside, visiting.
IN THE PARKING lot, he wiped down all the surfaces in the SUV with a soft cloth, then removed his duffel bag from the back seat and the sock of valuables from the glove compartment of the SUV. He carried them across the pavement to the old yellow Ford pickup and tossed the duffel into the back beneath the camper shell.
As he guessed, the cab of the truck was unlocked. He opened the door and tripped the hood latch. After a glance toward the Administration Building to make sure no one was coming, he leaned under the hood. It took less than a minute to locate the red coil wire, strip it, run half of it to the positive side of the battery coil and tie it off, and trigger the starter solenoid. The engine roared to life. These old Fords were easy to hot-wire, and he’d had plenty of practice on his own when some dumb-shit camp cook lost the keys. That’s why he’d targeted the truck right off, rather than any of the other vehicles in the lot that were nicer. He slammed the hood shut and slid behind the wheel. The steering wheel unlocked as he jimmied the locking pin on the column with the flat screwdriver blade on his knife. Easy.
He peered over the dashboard to make sure no one had watched him. No one had.
John Wayne Keeley backed up and drove out of the parking lot, up the service road, beneath the NO TRESPASSING sign. He steered with his left hand while he threw the old couple’s belongings out the passenger window: a thermos, some women’s magazines, sunglasses, cassette tapes of polka hits. Before he took the entrance ramp to the interstate, he pulled the can of Copenhagen out of his pocket, the one of two he had laced generously with potassium cyanide stolen from a jewelry store in Kansas, and tossed it out the window.
