Part 16 (1/2)

”What's wrong, baby?” he asked.

You didn't call a CO baby. But a CO didn't stand in front of your cell and tremble.

”I'm going through some heavy s.h.i.+t with Shawn Hadley.” The words barely made it out of my tight throat. In my moment of untruth I was crumbling.

Fenton looked surprised. A wariness came over his face, and maybe a twitch of opportunity. He was all business. But he kept his charm on the uptick. He knew how to progress a deal.

”Hadley's got a lawyer,” I said, as if Fenton didn't know. ”I'm in big trouble if the trial goes bad for me. I didn't do anything wrong, but it doesn't look good.”

He wouldn't give a s.h.i.+t if it wasn't coming from me, a reasonably attractive cougar on a cellblock for men. Just the same, I did my best, the lie spooling out like a badly cast line.

”Officer Williams. You have my deepest sympathies. Nothing hits me harder than you being distressed. But what can a guy like me do about that?”

Here it goes, I thought.

”I was hoping you might talk to Hadley and convince him to drop the complaint.”

He didn't say anything for a long minute. I expected laughter, a guffaw, maybe a punch in the face through the bars.

”And why would I do that?” he said, all caution now.

He wanted me to spell it out.

”You must need an item or a bit of info once in a while. I could do something for you. And don't get any wrong f.u.c.king ideas. I'm not talking about anything disgusting. I'm talking about getting you something you need. Maybe bringing you in something from the outside. I don't know how this works. I just need some help.”

I didn't need to sell it any more. We were dealing straight up in lies, and for some reason, that made our communication more direct and honest.

”I'm not a dealer,” he said. ”I'm just a stand-up cat doing too much time who enjoys a taste once in a while.”

Bulls.h.i.+t. ”Yes, but you must know people who are. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing here. I've got to go.” Act or not, I wanted away and would have scooted off, but he stopped me with pressure on my hand.

”Hey, you're a little desperate. I know how that is.” I remembered Julie in the turtleneck gripping the daiquiri. ”You give me your number. I'll get someone to call you. One of these cage monkeys must want something. Maybe I can trade a favor for a favor, discreetly, of course.”

My number? It was the last thing in the world I expected. You never, ever let an inmate latch onto your outside life. You didn't tell them where you lived. What you ate. Where your kids went to school. Your hobbies. But I gave him my cell phone number. I could throw the phone away afterward. Get a new number. Move to another state.

The bell signaled movement. I pulled away as if a Taser had touched the bar.

”Thanks,” I said.

And I was gone, fleeing like a little girl, face flushed, dirty all over. I forced myself to slow down, lift my head, and walk out like nothing had happened. Like I was bored as h.e.l.l.

29.

Two days later my s.h.i.+ft ended at 10:30 p.m., and at 10:55 I pried open the Land Rover door, the metal screeching in complaint about the cold. The men had been docile, juiced out, end-of-day solemn, but I was still bone tired and heavy-limbed afterward. The lack of sunlight, I told myself, the way the days started dark and darkened early. The truck started-every day I expected it not to-and I dropped the glove compartment and fished for my cell phone while I waited. When I clipped up the cover, I saw the message light flash.

A woman's voice. A number to call back. I keyed the number into the pad. Three rings. A man's voice answered. I didn't know what to say.

”You called this number?”

A shuffle, and a light laugh. A TV turned down. I pictured a motel room for some reason.

”Where are you?” the voice asked.

”Driving back,” I answered. He'd either know or he wouldn't. We were speaking the code of familiar conversation. Intimate strangers.

”There's a BP off thirty-six with an all-night truck stop kind of diner. Get a booth, and someone will be there in thirty or forty.”

I heard a woman in the background: ”Yes, you. I'm not f.u.c.king moving. What? Shut up.” A lover's b.i.t.c.hing.

Another sound. It could have been goodbye. Or maybe they'd forgotten about me and closed the phone. I shut my own and pulled back onto the road. My breath was tight, and my hands were doing a little dance.

A booth next to the long window. My parka shrugged off my shoulders. My fingers wrapped around the porcelain mug of decaf coffee. I should have been in bed, reading a book or watching Jon Stewart from between the sheets. What the f.u.c.k was I doing here? A surprising number of cars stopped in to fill up. I thought highway gas stations this close to the city were for emergencies only. But there was another population, from another planet entirely, coursing along the dark lanes. I was riding in the grooves of some other life.

I saw a large green Chevrolet pull up alongside the windows, some hunched-over winter hat wearer inside peering out, and wondered if that was my rendezvous. But the car disappeared around the corner of the building, and another ten minutes went by. I looked at my watch and wondered if I should order something, just to stay put. Then a young woman in a jean jacket with scruffy wool trim and a winter hat with a pom-pom and chin strings slid in before me. The girl smiled and shrugged off her jacket, showing a brightly colored tattoo on her bicep. Her fingernails were lacquered blue with little stars, some of them chipped down to nothing. I sat up, feeling fifteen years older and infinitely less wise.

The girl asked for two coffees and a water. I already had coffee, I started to say. Then I realized the second coffee wasn't for me.

”I have to pee,” she said, and she was gone.

I waited. I needed to go to the restroom, too, but had been too afraid to leave the table for the last half hour.

The door chime clanked, and another customer walked in. A man in a plaid coat. Tall, six and a half feet easy, and long strides. I knew his walk, a cellblock roll. He looked around the room at the three other occupied tables and, without looking down at me, slid into the booth, pus.h.i.+ng the girl's coat to the wall.

”She's in the bathroom,” I volunteered, feeling stupid for saying anything.

The man had blond eyebrows over a sharp forehead ridge. He sipped his coffee, then tore open four packs of Equal and let it collect on the surface like an industrial powder spill, dipping it down with the corner of the packs of paper. Small green squares tattooed on each of his knuckles-prison marks.

”Nasty toilet,” the girl said. She slid in tight to the man.

The man leaned forward, fixing a bootlace or pulling up a sock below the table.

”The stuff's out back. The guy in the library will take it from you tomorrow night between eight and key-up. Don't keep n.o.body waiting.”

The library? He must mean the library in Ditmarsh, but I didn't have time to pa.r.s.e that confusion. ”Out back?”

”Go outside in the parking lot,” the girl said, ”and around the back. Behind the Dumpster is a clear s.p.a.ce except for this tree stump. Kick it over. It's all hollow. Inside is the stuff. Take it out. Put the stump back.”

I waited. ”You're kidding me.”

”Not bad, huh,” the man said, smiling for the first time, proud of himself. ”Saw it on the History Channel.”

I found the stump in the hazy diner light and kicked it over, then felt around underneath. A Baggie. In the truck, I looked more closely. At least five hundred pills. I pulled out of the parking lot, my bathroom need painful, but I was too scared to go back inside where the girl and the tall man were both eating western omelets. At home, I opened the bag and looked more closely. A collection of red, yellow, and green pebbles, some round, some numbered, some oblong and time-capsuled. Way more pills than I'd expected.