by Joe Hart
“You look like shit,” Barry answered, rubbing his eyes. “What do you think?”
“I think we should watch the videos that our friend Benny sent us.”
Barry pulled his phone from his pocket and queued up the attachment in the email. Sullivan leaned over the table and watched as the dark screen came to life. The video was the one they had watched before in the surveillance room, but this time it was hours earlier when Alvarez had been locked away initially. Barry fast forwarded through the video, watching for any movement in the hall. There was nothing until Nathan entered the scene. Sullivan stared as Hunt came into view and cautiously made his way to the door. Hunt stumbled back, aghast, and ran from the picture. They watched for a flicker of movement or a gap in the video that would signify a manipulation of the content. The digital feed rolled on uninterrupted until a host of shadows came into view and half a dozen male and female guards followed at a fast walk. Nathan trailed after the pack as they closed in on the door, and stopped a dozen feet away, just as he had that morning when he’d escorted them to the crime scene. Sullivan could see Bundy among the guards as the door was thrown open and the group stared into the blood-drenched cell. None of the figures moved for several seconds, and then Bundy’s head turned toward Hunt, and he motioned to one of the female officers. She broke off from the group and gripped Nathan’s arm as she led him away from the scene. Bundy turned back and stared into the chamber.
Barry stopped the video and darkness flooded the small screen in his palm.
Sullivan sat back in his chair and massaged his left temple, felt the scar tissue there and stopped. “That’s unbelievable. Nothing, fucking nothing. No one came in or out. How the hell is that possible?” Sullivan went over the video in his mind again and looked up at Barry. “Can you tell me something?”
Barry’s brow wrinkled as he looked up from the phone. “What?”
“Why in God’s name would trained prison officers not have their weapons drawn when responding to a murder scene?”
Barry blinked and seemed to chew on an imaginary piece of gum. “You’re right. They were acting—”
“Like they already knew,” Sullivan finished. The quiet of the room flooded over them. It was the sound of something unsaid cementing into place, being mortared in their minds.
“Shit,” Barry said.
“Double shit,” Sullivan said. He sat forward and pointed to the phone. “Let’s watch the other one with Alvarez and Fairbend.”
Barry fiddled with the device for a moment, and after a few seconds, the next video began to play.
The shot was centered on three cells in the main holding area. The camera seemed to be mounted beneath the second-floor catwalk, and when Sullivan thought about it, he recalled seeing a few small black spheres positioned there every twenty yards or so. Two guards came into view, each gripping an arm of an inmate that Sullivan recognized as Fairbend. The guards opened the cell door and Alvarez appeared in the innermost confines, leaning casually against the wall. Fairbend entered and the door slid shut. Both guards exited the frame and all was still within the cell. Alvarez remained against the back wall and Fairbend faced the camera, staring out into the corridor. Sullivan could see Fairbend’s lips moving between the bars and his head tilting from side to side as he spoke. It looked as if he was speaking to Alvarez, but neither man acknowledged the other in any way. Fairbend finished talking and Sullivan watched as Alvarez stepped away from the wall, as if he’d been shocked. Fairbend smiled and turned toward Alvarez. There was a beat and then Alvarez launched himself across the cell’s short width and began to choke Fairbend. Sullivan could see the dead man’s fingers wrapped tightly around the other man’s throat, and then, as suddenly as he’d attacked, Alvarez fell away like he’d been shocked by the other man’s skin. Fairbend recovered and began to stalk into the depth of the cell, chasing Alvarez. There were flailing arms and legs, and then both men came back into view. Fairbend fell and landed on his back, while Alvarez pounced on top of him. Again, the dead man began to choke his cellmate, but he was interrupted as a flurry of guards came running onto the screen. After a few seconds, the door was opened and Alvarez came out, swinging his fists wildly in sweeping arcs at his captors. A guard on the left drew a black gun-like object from his belt, and a moment later Alvarez fell to the floor, his legs and arms locked tight by the current coursing through his body. The video ended there, the screen once again turning black.
“Well, now we know Fairbend’s lying too,” Sullivan said.
“Yep, he definitely said something that pissed that poor fucker off,” Barry said. “And now we’re stranded here tonight unless I can persuade the sheriff to come get us. Stranded at a creepy fucking prison in the middle of nowhere with one staff member, maybe more, that could be involved in the murder. And I was looking forward to bed.”
“Yeah, we’re in a bad spot. Let’s get Hacking on the line and tell him what’s what. Let him know we might need some extra help here in the morning. If we stay here tonight, I’d feel better if one of us keeps an eye open while the other one sleeps.” Sullivan stood and stretched his back, each adjustment popping like corn in a hot skillet.
“But how could it be Bundy? He was outside when the murder took place, he’s got half a dozen witnesses, along with video evidence,” Barry said.
Sullivan made his way around the table and clapped his friend on the shoulder as they walked to the door. “If I know one thing, buddy, it’s this: don’t ever trust someone that shares a name with a serial killer.”
==
Sullivan chewed the remaining bits of his cold turkey sandwich and sipped ice water to wash it down. The prison food actually wasn’t that bad. Don had been right. Don. He hoped the pathologist was home with his family, nursing his wounded hand, warm and dry with a good shot of liquid painkiller in a tall glass. Sullivan looked around at the rest of the commons, which was eerily silent. The cooks had told him the prisoners ate early, usually by five and never later than five thirty. Now, there was only a cluster of guards seated at the far end of the room. Every so often a head would swivel in Sullivan’s direction, only to turn away when he tried to make eye contact.
Barry appeared from the nearby hallway, holding his phone, looking as if he’d like to take a bite out of it. The older agent dropped onto the seat across from Sullivan and tossed his phone onto the table with disdain.
“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with that thing. Got ahold of Hacking, but it kept cutting out. I think he got the gist of what was going on and where we’re staying tonight.” Barry uttered the last words as he gave a cursory glance around the room.
“So no luck with the sheriff?”
“No, not even a ring this time, it just went to voicemail. The call dropped before anyone picked up at his office too. You done?” Barry gestured at Sullivan’s empty plate and his own sandwich that he’d barely touched.
“Yeah. Let’s find our lodgings for the night and get some shut eye.”
They dumped their plates off at the kitchen and made their way back out toward the warden’s office. As they approached the oak door with the brass nameplate, it swung open and Andrews stepped out like he’d been waiting for their approach.
“Done for the day, gentlemen?” Andrews asked.
“Yes. We were wondering if you could show us the room we’ll be staying in,” Sullivan said.
“Of course. Follow me.”
Andrews walked toward the door Mooring had disappeared behind earlier that day. The warden flashed his own keycard across an electronic eye mounted in the wall and the door clicked open. A hallway extended out and branched off at the end in a T. Andrews took a left and began climbing a switchback of stairs to the second level. Their footsteps echoed off the concrete walls and came back to them, their passage sounding like fifty men instead of three. Sullivan heard the warden panting ahead of him, his breath coming in short, heaving gasps. At the top of the stairs, the thunder that had been muted until then made itself heard once more. Sullivan
followed Andrews as he made his way down another hallway lined with doors on both sides. The doors were old and made of heavy steel. Some were intricately paneled, their designs bordering upon art. The paint was scratched here and there, and Sullivan realized this was a very old part of the prison. While the rest of the building had undergone face-lifts and updates in recent years, this portion appeared untouched.
Andrews stopped at a door at the end of the hall, the corridor continuing further into the wing to the left, to more dormitory rooms, Sullivan assumed. The door was unlocked, and when the warden pushed it open and flipped on the single overhead light, Sullivan thought Andrews’s comparison to the inmates’ dwellings hadn’t been much of a joke.
The room was Spartan at best. Two sets of cast-iron bunk beds were positioned on either side, with a short-legged table nestled between them. A lavatory barely big enough to turn around in was to the left. Other than that, the room had no defining features save an imitation of a window less than eight inches wide, which sat ten feet off the floor. The small gap in the wall revealed a roiling torrent of clouds the color of a river bottom.
“I know it’s not much, but for now it’s all I can offer you,” Andrews said. The older man’s face scrunched with what looked like real regret, and Sullivan felt himself like the warden a little more.
“It’s just fine, David. Thank you. We’ll come see you in the morning bright and early,” Sullivan said as he stepped inside the room.
“Excellent. You can find me at the far end of the hall if you should need anything in the night. The shower room is the only door on the right, if you’re so inclined.”
“Perfect, thanks again,” Sullivan said as the warden turned and raised a hand in parting, then shuffled down the hallway. Sullivan watched him go, sure that a man no older than sixty shouldn’t move like that. Barry stepped inside and shut the door. It made a satisfying clank that spoke of security and strength.
Barry gave the room a once-over, then sat heavily onto the lower right bunk. “Well, here we are.”
“Yeah, here we are,” Sullivan said. He turned and sat on the left bunk, his hand running over the rough wool blanket covering the lumpy mattress. “Wanna take a shower?” He couldn’t resist the grin that spread across his face at seeing Barry’s eyebrows rise in unison.
“Did you just ask me to shower with you in a prison? Really?”
“I’m sure they have a nice setup, soap on short ropes and all.”
Barry groaned and bent to untie his shoes. “How ’bout never in your wildest dreams?”
Sullivan laughed and pried his own dress shoes off. The bottoms were encrusted with mud, as were the laces. He’d have to buy new ones when they got back to civilization. The thought of his house, on its own quiet street, the windows dark and a few cold beers waiting in the fridge, gave him a bout of homesickness so strong he had the urge to leave the confines of the prison and swim back to the car, just so he could sleep in his own bed tonight. The foolishness of the idea made him snort. Two miles of water stood between him and the Trailblazer. He was a strong swimmer, but not that strong.
Barry ran his fingers inside his mouth and rubbed his teeth before smacking his lips in disgust. “Don’t even have a toothbrush.”
“Well if you go to get yours, could you bring mine back too? Try not to get it wet, though. I heard these old prisons have kind of archaic sewer systems. No telling what’s floating out in that swamp.”
Sullivan watched as Barry’s face deepened with comic revulsion. “Jesus, you’re sick sometimes.”
Sullivan chuckled as he lay back on the bunk and undid the top three buttons on his shirt. “Did you call your wife yet?”
“Yeah, left a message earlier, but I should try again now.”
Sullivan watched as Barry dialed and listened for a few moments until his face lit up at the sound of his wife’s voice on the other end. The senior agent stood and ambled over to the door, his words low and soothing. Sullivan listened. Not to what was actually being said but to what the words sounded like. Assurances. That’s what cops and agents made when they called home. They calmed and made bold statements of safety to their families. Yes, I’m okay. Yes, I’ll be coming home soon. No, not dangerous at all, just routine stuff. Let’s talk about your day. How many conversations just like that had he had with Rachel? A hundred? Two? But it was more than telling her he was safe. It had been checking up to make sure she was okay. Making sure that she would answer and there would be some semblance of sobriety in her voice. He could always tell if she’d been drinking. She would slur her Ss, turning them into Zs instead. He would finish work on a case and feel the relief wash over him, only to have a new fear step in to take its place. The fear that she wouldn’t answer. That she’d panicked for too long and that now she was three drinks deep in a bottle of Glenfiddich. His heart would stutter when she finally answered; even if her Ss sounded like Zs, he would be relieved. At least he could talk to her, tell her that he would be home soon and that they could make things “flatten out,” as he always put it. The panic attacks were mountains and valleys, and all she’d ever wanted was a straight line. She’d told him as much when they first started dating. She’d wanted evenness in her life and he’d thought he’d be able to provide it. Something his father used to say came back to him whenever he remembered his ambitions for fixing her. Even fools have dreams, his dad would say. Yeah, that was about right.
Barry ended his call and stared at the phone for a few seconds before he turned and came back to his bunk.
“Everything good at home?” Sullivan asked.
Barry raised his head and smiled. “Yeah, lucky I got through. Jen’s already got Josie and Darrin in bed. They were scared of the storm, so she had to sit with them for a while.” Barry’s eyes grew distant for a few seconds. “I usually do that for them.”
The quiet between them said all that needed to be said, and it wasn’t long before Sullivan stood and walked soundlessly to the door, locked the heavy bolt home, and flipped the light off.
It was sometime later when Barry spoke in the darkness. “I’m sorry for earlier today.”
Sullivan frowned and turned his head toward the other man’s bunk. “For what?”
Barry was silent for a long time. “For making the cracks about the doctor. I can’t imagine what you went through with Rachel, and here I am making dumb jokes.”
Sullivan blinked at the mention of her name, but smiled a little. “It’s okay, buddy. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” Sullivan paused and turned his head so that he stared up at the bottom of the bunk above him. “It’s just hard to think of anyone else that way. It feels like she’s still here. Like she’ll be waiting for me when I get home.”
Sullivan heard Barry breathe deeply. The other man had never even met Sullivan’s dead wife, but the compassion that resided within Barry Stevens was something almost immeasurable. Sullivan had never known another person more empathetic in their line of work.
“I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine,” Barry repeated.
“It’s okay. It is what it is, as they say.”
“Yeah.”
Lightning clawed its way into the room and outlined their cramped quarters in strobe flashes. Thunder answered after a moment, and to Sullivan it felt like a freight train passing a few yards outside the room.
“Think we need to sleep in shifts?” Barry asked.
“No, not after seeing that door and the big fucking dead bolt on it,” Sullivan said. “I’m thinking we’ll be safe.”
“Good. I think I can sleep now.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
The room lit up again in a cavalcade of dancing negative images as Sullivan curled onto his side, pulled the pillow close to his head and fell asleep before he heard the thunder.
==
He chased her again.
She ran away from him on a broken landscape of rock and volcanic glass. Her feet bled and he could see t
he red mixed with the black and gray of the ground. As he ran he looked around at the place they were in and absently wondered where exactly they were.
The air smoked with the smell of sulfur and something else. A stench, almost like rotting meat in the sun. The sun. He glanced overhead and saw what looked like a large star in the distant sky. It did not fully light the ground that they ran upon but gave the entire surrounding an ambivalent illumination. Shadows were everywhere, thrown from mountainous rock formations with protruding jagged edges shaped like blown glass. In the distance he could see an openness in the air that suggested they were traveling toward a cliff of extreme height. Beyond that, the land was pockmarked with holes wide and deep enough to house entire cities.
Rachel ran.
He tried to call out to her, but every breath was choked and he barely could keep his legs pumping beneath him. He could not gain on her. Her bloody feet pelted the shards beneath them, even as his own plodded to keep up. A vibration of a sort he had never felt before thudded through his chest and he looked overhead to be sure a storm wasn’t upon them.
A storm. A storm. So much water.
But there was no water here, or anything that resembled it. Dust spun up in ghosts across the land and twirled in dances unknown to him. He tucked his head and leaned forward as another vibration racked his internal organs. A sound now audible became clear. A groaning so deep it dwarfed any lighthouse’s horn came from nearby, and he looked around, afterimages of rock ledges and serrated buttes coating his vision.
Rachel neared the cliff’s edge, an abyss of such depth he couldn’t fathom it. Her dress billowed out behind her, and if he could just reach out and snag it, he could stop her, because there was no iron railing on the cliff’s edge for her to pause at. She could tumble off into the nothingness and fall forever. Maybe this time he would follow her over. It would be a relief to do so. To just fall along with her and hold her and tell her soon it would all be okay.
She reached the edge and stopped without any real effort, her hair falling against her back and her dress settling around her like a cloud ready to disperse. He cried out to her, this time to tell her to wait, instead of to stop. He would go with her now without any reservation. He belonged with her; the meager strings of purpose that held him within life were weak and worthless in her absence.
