by CJ Lyons
“Oh yeah, baby, come show me what a bad boy I am.” He gave up the impression, too hard to maintain when he was cracking up himself. “Seriously, Caitlyn, come back home so we can talk about it.”
Talking with Paul about the future of their relationship. Or chatting up the man responsible for her father’s death. Easy choice. “I really do have to be in Raleigh first thing in the morning. I’ll call you as soon as I’m back.”
“You’ll be back for the weekend?”
He sounded anxious. God, he wasn’t planning anything stupid involving a ring, was he? It would be just like him to orchestrate an elaborate surprise. Part of her wanted to be that girl, the one who had a man eager to delight and surprise her. Most of her was simply too scared to even think about it. “I’m not sure.”
His sigh filled the distance between them. “Okay. Drive carefully. Call me.”
“I will.” She hung up, her attention focused on the lonely highway ahead of her.
* * *
When she made it home, she parked the Impreza in front of the restored Victorian and climbed the creaky outside stairs leading to her apartment on the second floor as quietly as possible. Like Caitlyn, her landlady was a chronic insomniac and prone to stop by for a chat if she heard Caitlyn up and about.
Leaving her apartment would be the second-hardest thing when she eventually was given a new assignment. She loved this place, with its big drafty windows and high ceilings. It was the first time she’d actually turned what started out as temporary quarters into something that felt like a sanctuary.
It wasn’t fancy. The sofa shared the living room with her treadmill. She ate standing at the kitchen counter because she’d never found time to buy a proper table or chairs. But every time she walked through the door she felt a weight lift, she could let her guard down. Really relax. Whether it was curling up and reading a good book or working out while watching reruns of Dr. Who. Or just sitting on the couch and cleaning her guns.
The focal piece of the room stood in the corner: a small, upright gun safe lovingly crafted from cherry, with an old-fashioned dial lock embedded into the door. It was about the size of a footlocker only half as deep, heavy enough to stand on its own, but small enough to easily fit into the trunk of a car. It was the one piece of furniture she’d taken with her every time she’d moved. The only thing she had left of her dad.
She took a quick shower and changed into working clothes: navy slacks, off-white blouse. Then she crouched down before the gun safe and twirled the knob to unlock it. She loved the way the tumblers clicked as the knob spun—it felt like opening a bank vault. As a kid, she’d press her ear to the door, pretend she was Willie Sutton cracking a safe. Of course she never succeeded. But it was fun trying.
The smell of gun bluing greeted her as she opened the door, a scent she associated with her dad more than any cologne or aftershave. She slid her fingers over the safe’s satiny finish, remembered helping him sand its door and walls, sawdust tickling her nose, his smile as they moved together, with the grain, always with the grain.
She selected the backup piece she wanted from the shelves lining the back of the door, a Glock 27. Forty-caliber yet small enough to fit into an ankle holster or wear at the small of her back. The main space was designed to hold long guns: Dad’s old deer rifle and her Remington 870 shotgun stood side by side, waiting like old friends.
Not today. Probably didn’t need the Baby Glock, much less the ASP extension baton or the Gerber folding knife she carried, but Caitlyn liked to be prepared when she hit the road. Never knew what might be out there.
After grabbing enough clothing for a few days—just in case, she told herself—and leaving a message on LaSovage’s voicemail that she was taking a leave day—not that anyone would miss her playing a spare bad guy in training simulations—Caitlyn took off again. She was far enough south of DC and it was early enough in the day that the interstate wasn’t crowded, leaving her the left-hand lane mostly to herself. Past Richmond, I-85 through southern Virginia was a monotonous stretch of highway but she didn’t worry about falling asleep at the wheel. Too many ghosts to keep her awake.
Her father’s face, blood matting his red hair—hair the same red as hers, setting them apart from the rest of the family. The dull film that made his eyes, always before sparking with intelligence and kindness and a hint of laughter, appear fogged, like the mists that clung to the river on cloudy mornings. His skin was still warm when she reached a hand to touch his cheek, unable to believe what her eyes told her. But not warm enough. She knelt there, on the floor of their living room, the room she’d sit and watch cartoons in after school, listening for his boots clacking against the porch steps, waiting for him to open the door and scoop her into his arms, reminding her that the world might be a big, dangerous place but he was there to keep her safe.
A truck driver honked as Caitlyn drifted across the centerline. She yanked the wheel back, blamed it on a lack of coffee even as she wiped her tears with a knuckled fist.
She never blamed her father. Twenty-six years and she’d never blamed him.
Her mom had. The rest of the family. The people at church, in town, at school. Evergreen, North Carolina, was a small town on the edge of the Cherokee Reservation. The kind of town where everyone knew everyone’s business and wasn’t afraid to pass judgment.
Weak, they pronounced Sean Tierney. Coward.
She’d gotten into so many fistfights, cursed and shouted down so many adults—including their minister—that her mom confined Caitlyn to her room. Of course, Jessalyn didn’t realize Caitlyn could hear everything said in the kitchen and living room through the ventilation duct. That’s when she heard the truth: Her dad killed himself because of what Eli Hale had done. He’d been about to lose his job because he was still defending Eli, trying to prove his innocence, saying Eli was with him at the time of the murder, even after Eli confessed to hitting a Cherokee tribal elder with a hammer then burning down the man’s house to cover it up.
No, she didn’t blame her father for abandoning her all those years ago. For taking a coward’s way out. For ripping her world apart.
She didn’t blame her father. She blamed Eli Hale.
* * *
By the time she drove onto the Butner campus her anger had coalesced into a perfectly foul mood, more suited for a rain-soaked day than the sun-filled, crisp January morning the world presented to her. FCI Butner One, one of several medium-security facilities on the campus, was gorgeous. If you ignored the double ring of twelve-foot fences topped with razor wire, you’d think you were driving up to the corporate headquarters of an environmentally conscious manufacturer.
Trees and ornamental bushes surrounded the courtyard behind the administration building, each bush trimmed into a neat green ball. Large green spaces separated the housing units, named after Atlantic Coast Conference universities. The rec yard boasted a bocce court, running track, baseball diamond, and a sweat lodge for the large Native American population housed here. The only thing separating it from an elite athletic resort was the overhead wire preventing helicopters being used to break out prisoners.
She parked in front of the admin building and wondered if the Native Americans ever gave Eli Hale a hard time. After all, he was a black man who’d killed an Eastern Band Cherokee tribal elder in a particularly brutal manner, bludgeoning the man to death and burning his house down. Maybe life here wasn’t the country-club existence the pretty shrubbery and gently curving pathways suggested. Part of her—the nine-year-old part of her—hoped so.
The other part wondered how anyone stayed sane locked up for life, no matter how nice the surroundings. Even after twenty-five years, Hale would only be in his late fifties, still plenty of time left. Time to think about what he’d lost. About how he’d betrayed his best friend. About what he’d taken from Caitlyn and her mom.
Jessalyn had never recovered from her husband’s death. Never dated again—at least not as far as Caitlyn knew. Had given up her childhood
home to take Caitlyn far away from the bad memories. Had given up everything to offer Caitlyn a new life.
All because of Eli Hale. Caitlyn took a deep breath, trying to choke off the bitterness surging into her veins like a shot of cheap tequila. Another breath followed as she reminded herself she was a federal law enforcement officer here to interview a prisoner. Nothing more, nothing less.
She placed her credentials into her blazer pocket, her gun in a holster on her waist, and secured everything else in the trunk where she had a lockbox bolted to the car frame. Not as nice as her dad’s gun safe, but it added a layer of theft deterrence. No cell phones were allowed inside, so that stayed in the car along with her wallet, leather car coat, backup weapons, and overnight bag.
It was still early, just past ten, but she knew it would take time to process her. Since actual visiting hours didn’t begin until later in the day, they’d need to pull guards to escort Hale to her, which would take more time. Probably why the warden scheduled the visit to coincide with Hale’s transfer from the medical center back to his unit. Efficient use of manpower.
The guard manning the reception desk didn’t seem to think so. He grunted without making eye contact after Caitlyn filled out the requisite forms and showed her ID. His entire world seemed to consist of the computer screen and keyboard in front of him.
“We’re at almost double our capacity and short-staffed.” He answered her unasked question with a defensive tone as if she should just beg forgiveness and leave him the hell alone. “You’ll have to wait.”
“For how long?” Caitlyn asked. The reception hall was already filling with families queuing for visitation.
“Look, lady, you either wait here or sit in an interview room.”
“I’ll take the interview room.” Better than standing here being scrutinized by resentful women and risk being contaminated by snotty-nosed kids. Another strike against Paul—he wanted a family, would make the perfect father, while she’d be Mommy Dearest at best.
Growing up, her friends all loved her mother because Jessalyn Tierney treated them like adults, the same way she treated her daughter. No coddling, although plenty of hugs and kisses, but mostly a determination that her daughter would be strong. Stronger than her father was the unspoken refrain that colored every moment of their life together.
Watching her mom stand so strong against her grief, while also being treated like an adult, expected to fend for herself since the age of nine, hadn’t cultivated any maternal instincts in Caitlyn. Just the opposite: To her kids were miniature aliens from a strange planet invading her world.
“Suit yourself.” He waved to another guard, who made her fill out more forms as he took her weapon and locked it into a drawer, then ushered her through the metal detector.
The second guard, Smith was his name, seemed in a better mood than the first. They walked to the visitation area, passing through several layers of doors. Once they were inside he led her down a hallway, nodding to two inmates mopping the floor and a guard juggling a cup of coffee while turning a key in a door leading to the monitoring room.
“So this is why I’m starting my shift early,” the second guard said to Smith, eyeing Caitlyn. “Guess it’s worth it.”
The two inmates looked sideways at her and she stared right back. One, a black man with short dreadlocks, smiled a hopeful smile. Caitlyn arched an eyebrow at him in incredulity. His partner laughed and elbowed him back to work.
Smith led her past the three of them to an entrance to a corridor. Inside there were interview rooms along one side, ringing the main visitation area. The interview room was empty except for two vinyl chairs, too light to be used as weapons, and a table bolted to the floor. Two walls were solid, white cinder block, while the two with doors were made of reinforced glass, floor-to-ceiling, thick enough that as soon as the door closed behind her, all noises of the prison block died.
Smart design, Caitlyn thought. Privacy but without the need for additional staff to monitor them. The single man operating the video feeds and watching out the observation window above them could handle it all.
“Not sure how long it will be,” Smith told her. “He’ll be coming through the inmate entrance.” He pointed out the window to the secured glass doorway on the other side of the large general visitation room. “If you need anything, here’s the intercom.”
His radio buzzed. He raised it to his lips, gave her a wave, and left, the door shutting with a thud behind him.
Caitlyn took a seat and faced away from the door she’d come in through, out the glass wall opposite. The second door and window led to the general visitation hall, a large cafeteria-like room with chairs swiveling out from round tables. There was a play corner for kids; the far wall was lined with vending machines. If not for the guard sitting inside a glassed-in monitoring room one level above or the signs reminding visitors and inmates of the rules, it could have been a low-priced family-style fast-food joint.
The inmate entrance was below the monitoring room. Hale would be processed through a metal detector just as she’d been and screened by a guard. Then he’d be allowed access to the visitation area and through it the private interview room she waited in.
A lot of fuss to talk to a man she never wanted to see again. But she couldn’t stop thinking about little Lena—she might be twenty-six, but in Caitlyn’s mind she was still toddling around with a droopy diaper hanging from her hips. What kind of trouble could she have gotten herself into?
The chaplain’s words had stuck with her as well. He’d said Hale told him her father was right, that death was the only silence they’d accept. Who the hell were “they”?
The answers were the only reason she was here. Waiting for the man who’d destroyed her family. And if there was one thing Caitlyn hated, it was waiting.
She spent the time counting ceiling tiles: fifty-four; eyeing the video camera in the corner; practicing imitations of movie lawmen from Gary Cooper’s tight-lipped expressionless anger to John Wayne’s eye-wrinkling scowl—a game she’d played with her dad as a kid; and watching the guard at the monitor station above. From where she sat only the top of his head was visible, but he sure seemed to bounce around a lot for someone whose job was to sit and watch a bunch of video screens. Finally he settled down into his chair and vanished from her sight.
Just in time for her attention to focus on the inmate entrance. The doors slid open and Eli Hale entered.
It was as if twenty-six years had never happened. He didn’t shuffle or hunch like many men she’d seen in prison. No, still the same head-high stride, gaze moving from left to right and back again like a king surveying his domain. He saw her and a smile began to crinkle his eyes, just for a heartbeat, before fading into a sorrow-filled nod of appreciation.
He understood how hard this was for her. She dropped her professional facade, caught between the nine-year-old girl’s desire to run to the man who’d been a second father to her and the thirty-five-year-old weighed down by decades of pain. Standing at the glass door, waiting, she watched him walk across the empty room, threading his way through the maze of tables.
The doors behind him opened once more. He blocked her view of what was happening, but a quick glance at the clock on the wall told her it wasn’t yet time for official visitation. Maybe a guard?
She couldn’t hear anything beyond the glass, but something alerted Hale. He stopped, not ten feet away from the door leading into the interview room, turned his head to look back, his body still facing her.
That’s when they jumped him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two inmates, both Hispanic with shaved heads and Sureno gang tatts. What the hell were West Coast gangbangers doing waltzing into the visitation area? Caitlyn hit the panic button as one Sureno tackled Hale from behind, grabbing him in a bear hug so tight Hale was lifted off his feet. The other danced forward, his fist grasping a small object.
Caitlyn lunged for the door, but of course it was still locked. Trapping her on the wrong si
de to watch helplessly.
“We need help in the visitation area,” she called into the intercom.
No one answered. She shouted, waved at the video camera, but there was no sign of the guard in the monitoring station overhead. He was probably also the one on the other end of the intercom and panic button. Shit.
No gun, no way to intervene, no one to call for help. All she could do was watch as the Surenos stabbed Eli over and over, smiling and laughing at the overhead cameras, wiping Eli’s blood across their faces like it was war paint.
Caitlyn’s fury reared up so hard and fast it brought tears to her eyes. She slammed her hand into the thick glass, the pain barely registering as she stood witness to an execution.
The two Surenos finished their work. One blew her a kiss, the other grabbed his crotch and gave her the finger, and they ran out the way they came in. Hale slumped against the table next to the door, blood blossoming into tiny rosebuds across his shirt. Not so much blood, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing, Caitlyn knew. The real damage would be internal.
She pounded on the door, more out of frustration and anger than an attempt to break it down. Her eyes locked on Hale’s. He struggled across the length of the table to get closer to her. His mouth opened and closed, but she could hear nothing through the glass.
His body shuddered as he hauled in a breath and pointed at her. Then he slowly mouthed words impossible to deny: Lena. Save Lena.
“No,” she called to the dying man, willing him to hang on. Childhood memories, her and Vonnie, Eli and her dad, all of them laughing, so happy … she’d locked the good times away along with the bad. Now to have to watch this … she choked down a sob. It was like her own father dying all over again. “Eli. Hang on. Please.”
