On the inside, some things change and some things stay the same. I can’t get inside Booth’s head—he’s like a steel ball, smooth and impenetrable—and I don’t think I’d want to if I could. But I can still get under his skin.
But we’re fairly chummy now. He doesn’t lurk about, glaring at me, and I don’t deal the sweet stuff or manipulate the wards. He’s figured out something funny happened, but he’s never had the balls to ask me outright. And he’s never asked what happened to Jack.
Today is Saturday, which means no class, the commissary does a booming business, and mail call and visitors are allowed—if you have anyone who cares about you enough to visit or send crackers, cookies, or cash.
The notoriety that greeted me when I returned to Casimir faded fast. It didn’t hurt that I never spoke a word about what happened to anyone, not reporter, priest, or police. Since the events of last winter I’ve been the model citizen of Casimir Pulaski Juvenile Detention Center for Boys, home until my eighteenth birthday. Despite my hero status, they extended my term.
The board members were quite ticked off that I escaped from their institution of juvenile rehabilitation and went off and had an adventure, if you want to call it that. You read about adventures, you watch them on TV, but you never realize how hurt you’ll be at the other end when an actual adventure craps you out.
So I’ll be here for the next two and a half years.
Quincrux may have had a hand in my sentencing, but I can’t be sure.
We came down from the roof together, me and Jack. Quincrux’s smile faded quickly when we were greeted by a mass of reporters and a squadron of SWAT. It became obvious, very obvious, that he was only going to keep hold of one of us.
You can guess who he chose by process of elimination.
“Mail call!” Red Wolf bellows into Commons. He’s not wearing the Native American getup today, thank god. “Bevins! Reasoner! Van Giles!” He whips the letters and cards at the boys. “Whitmore! Washington! Smith!”
He stops, rubs his pate, and then holds out two envelopes to me. I can’t help but hope one of them is from Coco. It never is, but I can’t stop myself from hoping. She’s forgotten me, most likely. I can’t blame her. But still, it hurts some.
“Cannon!” He smiles. “I see that you made some friends beyond these walls.”
“Looks like, doesn’t it?”
“Only you can let them keep you incarcerado.” Red Wolf leans in and taps his temple with one long index finger. “In here, you are free,” he whispers like a conspirator. He taps his chest. “And in here.”
I look at the envelopes.
The first one, I tear open with eager fingers.
Shreveport,
I thought I’d send you a little something for your birthday. But I didn’t know when it was. So I thought I might just send you something. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to spend it all in one place.
Your friend,
Jerry A.
P.S. When you’re out, come visit. I will buy your ticket. The missus doesn’t like Double Shutter. And why should she? She always wins.
The card’s stuffed with a ten-dollar bill. That’s a couple Saturdays at the commissary, at least.
That Jerry. What a guy.
The next letter is larger, thicker. I open it, and a newspaper clipping falls out. Scrambling, I grab it off the floor before anyone can step on it.
Alleged “Twin Killer” Dubrovnik Dies in Jail Incident
Charles Dubrovnik, awaiting trial for over thirty charges related to the kidnap, rape, and murder of three girls, died in the Wake County Correctional Facility in an altercation between guards and inmates. Dubrovnik was found unconscious and rushed to UNC hospital. He was pronounced dead shortly after arrival. Police are withholding evidence until details of the incident can be determined.
On the back of the article, in red marker, is a Q.
I hate it that something Quincrux has done could please me so much. That I have murder in my heart. But there it is.
Not everything my mother said about me is true. And not everything Quincrux said was false. I’ve inhabited the minds of so many people—and had my own mind invaded so often—that the walls between black and white have crumbled. I don’t really know where to stand anymore. I am them and they are me. The good folks of the world. And the bad.
I have to keep my bearings. I have to remember the darkness.
But the world is a little safer today. I hope Elissa has regained her place among the living. That she’s warm and surrounded by light and laughter. That the part of her that can love hasn’t been burned away or left in that pit.
I unfold the letter. It’s written in a clumsy script. All the extra fingers must be hell on penmanship.
Shreve,
I don’t have much time to spare for writing—they keep us pretty busy here—but I wanted you to know that I am well and have found a place where I belong.
After what happened on the roof and we were separated, Quincrux got us to his car using what they call a glamour. Not like the fashion term. Like a spell or something, I guess. I don’t really understand all the psi stuff. I’m purely telekinesis-track. Which is the equivalent of being a jock in high school, at least here. Can you imagine that? Me, a jock?
I’m sorry I can’t tell you where I am. I want to … but I can’t. I mean, I physically can’t do it. I can’t make my hand write the word on this paper. I know it, I can spell it out loud, and I can say it. But every time I try to write it, I’ll find myself staring out the window or biting my fingernails or tying my shoes and there’ll be nothing on the paper.
There are other kids here. And older folks, like 25 or 30. Quincrux runs everything, and he’s still the same. Really polite and scary. His politeness seems rude, somehow. But he makes a big deal about being nice to me. That doesn’t make anything better, I know. He tried to kill you …
There’s nothing I can do. He tells me he’s going to leave you alone, but I can’t make myself believe him.
I don’t know. My brain is always foggy around here. I can’t remember things. Things I know I should remember.
But I’ll never forget you.
Please consider coming to us. Quincrux says he can have you moved here, but you have to want to come. Because of your “notoriety”— his word —you’ve attracted the attention of undesirables.
Be careful, Shreve. The witch isn’t here. I know something happened to her, but I can’t remember exactly what.
Anyway, here’s a picture of me —yeah, I know, I’ve put on some weight, but some of it is muscle! I’m a jock, remember? Ha!— and there’s a number on the back you can call at any time, and someone will come and get you out of there.
Think about it.
Your friend,
Jack
The picture is a Polaroid, thick and yellowed at the edges. Jack and a girl stand in front of a small tree ringed by industrial—military, even—buildings. Jack and the girl are holding hands. He’s filled out some, and his hair is long and hanging into his eyes. He looks washed-out and a little worn. I can’t tell if that’s because of the photo quality or something else.
The girl stares into the camera. She’s a pretty brunette, slim and willowy, unsmiling, one hand raised as if in greeting or in a gesture to the camera operator.
She has six fingers on her hand.
At the end of the day Booth escorts me back to my cell, frowning. He wants to say something, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to be able to spit it out before we get there.
“What do you remember?”
“Huh? Whatdya mean?”
I sigh. “You’ve been brooding since I got back here.”
He stays silent.
“Listen, Booth. I don’t know what he did to you. But it was real. It happened. And if you can … I don’t know… sense things now, if you can pick up—”
“Pick up what?”
I stare at him. He’s not manicured anymore. He doesn’t glisten with pomade. His mustache isn’t perfectly trimmed. His chest has lost its arrogant puffiness.
“Just try to remember. And when you have questions, I’m ready to answer them.”
We stand like that, looking at each other, for a long time. Then I can tell that something in him relents, and he nods almost imperceptibly.
I turn and enter my cell.
It was a good day, Saturday.
When she came into the visiting area, her eyes were red, as bloodshot as a vampire’s, and it didn’t take a mind reader to know she’d been drunk not long ago. But she was dressed as neatly as I can recall seeing her.
Vig was holding her hand, smiling and hopping up and down.
I hugged them both, and my heart grew and for a moment I felt like I was moving out into the wide blue yonder, knocked out of my body by pure joy. I thought I was going to blubber like a titty-baby, but Vig grabbed my shirt and tugged.
“Lemme see the scar, Shree! Lemme see! Did it hurt when she stabbed you?”
And I never believed it would be possible, but at the thought the Dubrovnik woman had done something that might bring me closer to my family, I could hardly contain myself. I laughed.
We’re born into pain. We live in it, our constant companion through life. And when, finally, we shuck off this prison, we’re free of it. For a while, at least, until we’re reborn into the world.
But there are times of joy. Times of lightness and happiness. For now, I’m content being incarcerado. I’m content with Casimir, and Booth, and my cell.
Going to the mattress, I lift it up, dig underneath. When I first returned, I thought they tossed the cell, but all my stuff was here, exactly in its place. I’ve got a sneaky suspicion it’s courtesy of Assistant Warden Horace Booth. I remember when he said, so long ago, “That means I’m your daddy,” and pointed at the Parens patriae engraving above the Commons entrance.
It takes a moment, but eventually my hand finds the glossy surface and I withdraw the comic. Run my simple, five-fingered hand over the cover, the beautiful floating woman on the cover, shooting arc lighting from her eyes.
I climb up onto the familiar springs of my prison mattress, and I try to imagine Jack sleeping in the bunk below, his breath rising and falling in time with mine.
The air-conditioning kicks on. The vent near my head hisses and gives a hollow hush, and the black blows out, covering me like a shroud.
I sleep.
And dream of Maryland.