With each passing second, as Haywood’s thoughts turned to a rising hatred of the man, a budding pressure started to expand at the base of his skull as if someone had reached into him, grabbed the top of his spine, and started squeezing. He had felt this before . . . this same mystic constriction intermixed with rage and anger.
All at once, Haywood felt the sensation of being entirely outmatched. That if he stayed too much longer, his bones would shatter under his skin. He looked to the barn, to the house.
“Alright,” Haywood said quietly. “Alright.”
“Probably best if you all just get going.”
Haywood turned back to the car and walked deflated to his seat. He got in and told Clinton to head back to Coldwater.
“What was that all about?” Davis asked.
“He’s hiding something.”
“Michael? You think he’s here?” Clinton asked as he turned onto the dirt road and headed south.
“If I was betting on it, I’d say yes.”
“Only one of him,” Davis said. “Can’t be too hard to get around.”
Haywood exhaled. The throbbing in his head diminishing with each passing moment down the road. “Something tells me we wouldn’t stand a chance.”
fifty
THE WARDEN STRODE ACROSS THE YARD of the prison, his hands behind his back, each step echoing on the paved walkway and adding an air of authority to his gait. Michael walked behind him, his bedding stacked in his arms, two strides for the warden’s one, just to keep pace. A guard rounded out the informal parade. He was several steps behind the boy and seemed more focused on enjoying the fresh air and sunshine than worrying about the child doing anything foolish. From the windows of the cell blocks, heads looked out and wondered at the small inmate being led away.
They soon arrived at a small outbuilding that had not been actively used by the prison for some time. It had become a utility shed for the maintenance workers. The building was in its own fenced area, no yard attached to it. A large metal door hung on giant hinges. It was more of a brick hut. The warden opened the door and it squealed like a large beast emerging from the depth of the ocean and sucking in air for the first time in a millennium.
Two barred windows curtained the door, and the warden stepped inside and breathed the stale atmosphere. Michael stood on the step and peered inside.
The warden had the maintenance crew clean out the small enclosure of all their accumulated items. The only thing inside now was two rooms. One had a cell much like that of an old western town. It was an open cage, in it was a wood slat that the boy’s curled mattress would go on. A steel toilet, recently scrubbed, still looked as if nature was winning the war to rust it out of existence. Across from the cell stood another locked door with a thin window in it. Through the window Michael could see the remains of a large wooden chair. A throne. A king’s chamber that had not been occupied for years.
Michael took his place in the cell, unrolled his bedding, and sat down. The guard closed the cell door behind him and locked it with a key that was as old as the prison. The key was huge and stuck out amidst all the other keys the guard carried with him on the ring.
“You sure about this, Warden?” the guard asked.
“I am.”
“Just seems . . . I don’t know.”
“It’s the safest place for him. Safest for him, and safest for everyone else.”
“What if his lawyer catches wind of this? Or some bleeding-heart group. Keeping a kid in the old execution cell ain’t going to sound good on the news.”
“I know. But if the state refuses to provide a solution for him, I am left on my own to improvise. Segregation from the others will keep him out of harm’s way, and I can’t afford to clear a whole cell block for him.”
The guard stepped out of the door and back into the sunshine. He may have felt a twinge of guilt in his belly at leaving the kid out here, but the warden was right. There was no place to put him that would guarantee his safety. And the guard himself had been suffering from an unrelenting headache for months. When he caught wind that the boy had something to do with it, he also felt a sense of relief that this might just cure him. He walked back to his duties and left the warden with the boy.
“Now, you’ll be alright here. I have it worked out with the guards for them to swing out here on their rounds and make sure you’re doing fine. I’ll have some books brought out for you, and I’m working on getting a TV to keep you company.”
The warden turned and opened up the door to the king’s chamber. Michael watched him as he walked into the room, reached over his head to a pull chain that was next to a lightbulb, and tied a string to it. The warden unraveled the string and brought it back out through the door, tying the end to one of the bars on the cell.
“Now, this is a bit unorthodox, but if you have an emergency or anything, pull this string so the light comes on. I’ll be able to see it from my office. I’ll have it in mind to keep an eye for it. Other than that, the guards will be around.
“Same routine as usual: Breakfast, lunch, dinner, recreation.”
The warden stopped and gazed at the child.
Nothing in this world made sense anymore. During his career he had taken pride in bringing a firm hand to the state’s prison population, but being the keeper of this boy had made him feel more like the devil than a man of justice. He turned to leave when he heard the small voice of the boy.
“Warden . . . what’s that? In there?”
The warden looked and saw that the boy was pointing at the chair.
“That’s what we used to do to the worst of the worst.”
“Am I the worst?”
The warden thought about it. “You know, son, if you are, I don’t see it.”
fifty-one
THE BARN DOOR OPENED and the morning light rushed in, exposing the interior like an otoscope. Michael opened his eyes and saw Nick standing at the door.
“I have some breakfast on if you want some.”
“Alright.”
Nick led the way back to the house and through the screen door on the porch. Michael followed him, but stopped at the doorstep. Inside he could see a small kitchen that looked as if it had been designed in the ’50s, its built-in cabinets with chipping white paint and uneven doors. The table was set for two.
“You can come in,” Nick said. “It’s just eggs.”
Michael opened the screen, walked slowly to the closest chair, and sat down. Nick put a bowl on the table and sat down across from him.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Fine, I suppose.”
“Better than outside.”
Michael nodded, looking at the bowl of eggs with reservation. He was starving and his stomach was begging him to grab the eggs and devour them all. But if life had taught him anything, it was to not trust the appearance of kindness.
“It’s okay. It’s just eggs. Ain’t put nothing in them. Here, see?” Nick said as he scooped himself a helping and started eating them. “Ain’t poisoned.”
Michael allowed himself to relax and felt a grin force its way to the corners of his mouth. He grabbed the spoon and served himself. Before long the two had polished off the meal.
His stomach now somewhat full, Michael leaned back in his chair and looked around. He wasn’t sure what the next course of action was. Part of him wanted to get moving, to keep heading home. But there was another part that wanted to linger. He wasn’t sure of Nick, but at the same time felt like he was in the company of a kindred soul. That feeling, however, also unnerved him.
Michael was fully aware of himself, of his sins, of his crimes, but since they were his sins, he thought of them like they were external baggage. Not entwined with the fabric of his character. When those same sins were in someone else, he didn’t trust that person.
We gloss over our own sins, softening their edges, while assuming the sins of others are forever razor sharp and at the ready to slash our throats.
Michael had met several people
in prison with lesser crimes to their name, but they were always worse in his eyes than when he reflected on himself.
“So what are your plans?”
Michael came out of his daze and looked across the table. “Keep on moving, I guess.”
“Suppose to rain today. You’re welcome to hold up till it passes.”
Michael nodded.
Nick reached across the table and grabbed the plates. As he did so, Michael caught a glimpse of his host’s wrists. They were scarred up like those of a suicidal teenager who repeatedly tried to slice their veins but could never find them.
Nick put the dishes in the sink and returned to his seat. He looked Michael dead in the eyes and rolled up his sleeves.
“I had a hard time of things once,” Nick said, exposing his scars.
They were on both arms. He then unbuttoned his shirt at the collar and exposed his neck. The flesh was scorched, a rope burn that went all the way around to his spine.
“I’m going to assume that you have some marks of your own,” Nick continued. “If not, well, you will someday.”
“I’ve never tried . . . tried to . . .”
“Kill yourself? Someday maybe you will. If you’re human, that is. I met a lot of guys in the pen who didn’t mind the solitary life. They were animals. It’s how you know when you’ve crossed the line. You don’t miss being part of the world.”
Michael studied Nick, listening intently to each word.
“My first years out, I thought I could manage this here lifestyle. Do my thing, mind my business. But the world cutting you off—and I mean, absolutely cutting you off—doesn’t do much for your well-being.
“I tried reintegrating myself back into society, but they won’t have it. I often thought how great it would be to be anonymous, to have nobody know me, know my past. The gloriousness of being invisible.
“But I’ll never be invisible. I’ll never blend in to the background and melt into the fabric of society. No matter where I go . . . where we go . . . we will be marked. Outcasts. We will never be trusted. Never let into the community of civilized men.” Nick took a sip of coffee and pressed his lips. “These scars, well, these scars are from times I got tired of the life altogether. I thought I could put an end to it. But that’s just one added-on bonus to this judgment that sits upon us. No man can end us, and we can’t end ourselves until our time has come.”
“You hung yourself?” Michael asked, pointing to the scar on Nick’s neck.
“Out there in the barn. Tied up to the beam, put my head in the noose, and kicked over the chair.”
Michael looked at him in awe.
“But . . . it didn’t work. So I tried, again. And again. And again. Either the rope would break, or the noose would unravel. One time, I just hung there for what seemed like an hour until I got bored and cut myself down.”
Outside the rain eased in gently across the yard, and once it had lightly dampened the ground, the clouds unleashed sheets upon sheets of water.
“We ain’t immortal. God knows I wish we were. But we are destined to live out the full penalty of our crime unhindered by our fellow men or ourselves.”
“Who’d you kill?” Michael asked.
“My brother,” Nick said. “Much like what I suspect you have done.”
Michael remained silent and cast his gaze at the rain beating against the screen door.
“Nature has a way of preserving its work. I am the fruit of my father, obligated to pass down my nature and so on. My brother carried that same fire. We were born of the same coals, passed on and on through generations. When I killed him, I took away all the future fire he would create. His fire was the same as mine. I killed myself in the doing. I’m all that is left of what my line has produced through eons of struggle and survival. And nature will preserve it until its last possible moment. Perhaps there is a chance to rekindle that flame. To pass it on. But nature doesn’t know the world anymore. It ain’t the same as when it started.”
Nick drifted off into a half-mad philosophical dream and then snapped back to the present moment. He took another sip from his mug.
“Or maybe we’re just cursed. Straightforward like.”
“Or crazy,” Michael said.
“Or that. But who knows. Maybe it will be different for you. Maybe you won’t get to this point of desperation. Maybe you’ll keep trying to get yourself out of this lot that we’ve cast for ourselves.”
Michael hesitated, then cracked open the door to his soul. “I have hope. Sometimes. I don’t know why. But I plan to go on living.”
Nick smiled a malevolent grin. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“So what are we doing here?” Michael asked.
“We’re just having coffee, waiting for the rain to stop.”
fifty-two
MELISSA! YOU IN THERE?”
The pounding on the door woke Melissa from a fitful night’s sleep. She rolled over and saw the alarm clock. It was so late, later than she usually slept, but the poor night’s rest coupled with the room-darkening blinds of the hotel room had not prompted her inner timer to go off. She sat up in bed and ran her hand through her hair. Her head hurt as if there were too many thoughts crammed into too little a space.
“Melissa?”
The pounding continued.
She walked to the door and peered through the peephole. The fish-eyed lens distorted Lila’s face in a grotesque way. She opened the door.
“Good, you’re here,” Lila said. “I got Haywood over in the diner. He said he’d love to talk with you.”
Melissa looked past Lila to the outside world. It was gray and cold, a bitter rain dropping from the skies onto the asphalt parking lot. Her thoughts quickened at hearing the man’s name.
“Give me a minute,” she said. She walked to the bathroom, put herself together, and stepped back out. She put her coat on and her hood up and stepped out the door.
Lila walked with Melissa across the parking lot of the motor lodge and through the front door of the diner. The chef called out to her in Chewbacca-like noises, and Lila waved off the words with a discourteous shrug. She pointed toward the back booth to a man sitting by himself. His cell phone rested on the table, along with a plate of burnt eggs and toast. Melissa walked over to the man cautiously, wary that he might turn and attack her at any moment, but he just sat motionless, his eyes ever vigilant on his phone.
“Are you Haywood?” Melissa asked, doing her best to calm the tremble in her voice.
Haywood looked up at her absentmindedly, but his gaze quickly focused when he saw the woman standing before him. He stared at her, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. It occurred to her that she looked a lot like Michael, easily passing as his sister. As nervous as she was, she nearly laughed at the thought of how it must have unnerved the man.
He cleared his throat. “Melissa Sullivan, I assume?”
Melissa nodded.
“Lila told me about you. Please, sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee?”
“No . . . I know what they do to coffee around here.”
“Smart choice.”
Melissa sat down and the two looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Neither one flinched at the other’s gaze, sizing the other one up and coming to the quick conclusion that they were of equal fortitude.
“I guess there is no easy way to start this, so I’ll just jump right in with both feet,” Haywood said as he pushed his plate aside and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Lila said that you were asking after Michael.”
Melissa wasn’t in the mood for idle talk. “Was that you following me in the truck out at my brother’s house?”
Haywood was taken aback. “Me? No.”
“Someone you know?”
“Earl and Frank. Yeah. But they were not there to scare you. I asked them to go up to your brother’s house to make sure everything was alright. They aren’t the brightest of people, and so they probably thought you were up to no good. Dim-witted as they
are, they thought they were doing right by following you back to town.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want.”
Melissa stared at Haywood, but his steeliness was impenetrable. “Were they part of your group? The group who kidnapped Michael?”
“Now hold on, that’s a pretty big accusation.”
“One of your lackeys has already been talking. I wouldn’t think that the accusation should surprise you.”
“You mean Kyle, don’t you? Down at South Falls? He’s half comatose, drugged up on painkillers. He probably knows who the second gunman was on the grassy knoll. I wouldn’t trust his word on anything at the moment.”
Lila stepped over with a glass of water and some toast, setting it down in front of Melissa. She appeared to do it more as an opportunity to snoop than to be gracious, but the ice-cold countenance of the two conversationalists had her heading back to the kitchen at a quick pace.
“So, you see anything interesting at Michael’s house?” Haywood asked.
“It was practically destroyed. Falling down.”
“A house is a reflection of the soul.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your brother is a lunatic. Now, you might have some romanticized memory of him, but us here in Coldwater, those who have lived with him the past little while, know where he comes from, where he’s been, what he’s done, well . . . wouldn’t expect anything less of him if he chose to live in a junk pile.”
“It looks like he lives in the trailer behind it.”
Haywood shrugged as if that piece of information had little bearing on his opinion.
“Why do you consider him a lunatic?” Melissa asked.
“Because that’s what he is. Tell me, what did you see out there, besides a fallen-down old house? Did you see anything . . . unnatural?”
Melissa thought about the wasted earth around the cabin, the absence of any living thing forming a buffering circle around her brother’s house. The retreating nature. The place felt like an open grave and its lingering absence of life still shaded the corner of her heart.
Coldwater Page 15
