Back in her room, Rachel stared at the maybe-Matthew photograph, picked up her phone, and debated calling her sister Cheryl and blowing up her world.
It was odd that David didn’t ask her to show him the photograph again. She had been prepared for that. Doubt burrows in when the photograph isn’t front and center. When you’re staring right at it, you somehow know that it has to be Matthew. When you put it away, when you rely on your imagination instead of something as concrete as the actual image, you realize how ridiculous your supposition is, that your belief that a distant view of a young child is somehow evidence that a toddler murdered five years earlier is, in fact, still alive is beyond ludicrous.
She shouldn’t call Cheryl. She should keep this from her.
But did Rachel have the right to make that call?
Rachel was staying at the Briggs Motor Lodge of Maine, famed, she imagined, for having walls made of some kind of gauze or cotton mesh. Right now, she could hear her neighbors fervently and lustily enjoying their stay as though they were sharing this bed with her. The woman kept yelling out “Oh, Kevin,” and “Go, Kevin,” and “Yes, Kevin,” and even—oh, how Rachel hoped this was something the woman shouted lost in the throes of passion rather than trying to be cute or funny—“Take me to Heaven, Kevin.”
A little afternoon delight, Rachel mused somewhat bitterly. It must be nice.
When was the last time she’d had an afternoon like that?
It wasn’t worth thinking about. Rachel was still coming down from a full-fledged panic attack brought on, she assumed, by the combination of seeing David and going off her antianxiety medicine. The medicine didn’t work for her. Not really. She took the Xanax or whatever, hoping to deaden the pain of being responsible for another human being’s death, but while it may have put some of the guilt at a distance—made it feel more elusive—the guilt clung on.
She blinked her eyes and tried to focus on doing the right thing here.
She should call her sister and tell her. That was what Rachel would want if their roles were reversed and Cheryl was the one holding this photo. Rachel picked up her mobile. Service was spotty up here in rural Maine. This was a prison town. Everyone staying at this motor lodge was somehow connected to Briggs Penitentiary—visitors, vendors, suppliers, deliverers, that kind of thing.
She had enough bars to make the call. Her fingers clicked the Contacts icon and scrolled to Cheryl’s name. Her finger hovered above the call button.
Don’t do it.
She’d promised herself that she would keep this from Cheryl—protect her sister—until she knew for certain. Right now, when you stripped out the emotion, she still knew nothing. She had a photograph of a boy who resembled her dead nephew. Period. The end. David’s enthusiasm notwithstanding, they had diddly-squat.
She flicked on the motor lodge’s television. On the sign outside, the Briggs Motor Lodge of Maine actually boasted that all rooms had a COLOR TV, spelling out each letter in a different color—the C was in orange, the O in green, the L in blue—to emphasize that fact, though Rachel figured that the real draw would be if the motor lodge still had black-and-white televisions. She flicked through the stations. Mostly daytime talk shows and bad-take cable news. The commercials—buy gold, get a second mortgage, consolidate your debt, invest in crypto—all seemed like legal versions of Ponzi schemes to her.
The American economy relies more on the con than we like to think.
The festivities next door reached a crescendo when Kevin repeatedly announced with great gusto that he was nearing the finish line. A few seconds later, the symbolic cymbals crashed and then all went quiet. Rachel was tempted to applaud. David had asked her about her journalism career, and she’d balked at answering. There was no reason to get into how she’d messed up and destroyed herself, how she’d been fired and humiliated and how, in truth, a story like this might be the only chance to resurrect her career. It wasn’t worth discussing. It was a distraction. She would be here anyway. That was what she told herself, and it was probably true.
Her phone was on the bed.
The hell with it.
She picked it up and before she could talk herself out of it, Rachel hit her sister’s number, the top one in her favorites. She put the phone to her ear. No ring yet. Still time to hang up. She closed her eyes as the first ring sounded. Still time. On the second ring, Rachel heard the phone being answered. A clipped voice, not her sister’s, said, “Hello?”
It was Ronald, Cheryl’s new husband.
“Hello, Ronald,” Rachel said. And then, even though the phone undoubtedly had caller ID, she added, “It’s Rachel.”
“Good afternoon, Rachel. How are you?”
“Fine,” she said. Then: “Isn’t this Cheryl’s phone?”
“It is,” Ronald said. He was always Ronald, never Ron or Ronny or the Ronster, which told you everything you need to know about his diction and affect. “Your sister is just getting out of the shower, so I took the liberty of answering for her.”
Silence.
“If you’d like to hold a moment,” Ronald continued, “she will be with you soon.”
“I’ll hold.”
She could hear him put the phone down. Rachel’s skull had a touch of the alcohol swirls going on, but she felt pretty firmly in control. There were mumbled voices before Cheryl got on the line sounding a little frazzled.
“Hey, Rach.”
Rachel realized that some might view her distaste for Ronald Dreason as either overblown or unfair. That was probably accurate, of course. Cheryl’s fault. Her introducing this new man into her life had been poorly timed.
“Hi,” Rachel managed to say.
She could almost see her sister’s frown. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You been drinking?”
Silence.
“What’s wrong?”
Rachel had been rehearsing her words in her head since she got back to her room, but that all flew out of her head now that the time had come. “Just checking in. How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good. The morning sickness stopped. We have an ultrasound on Thursday.”
“Terrific. Will you learn the sex?”
“Yes, but don’t worry—no reveal party.”
Thank God for small favors, she thought. Out loud she said, “That all sounds great.”
“Yeah, Rach, terrific, great, whatever. Do you want to stop stalling and tell me what’s wrong?”
Rachel lifted the photograph again. Irene and Bugs Bunny and that boy’s profile. She thought about David’s scarred face through the plexiglass, the way his head had tenderly tilted to the side as he lifted his finger up to the image, the naked, haunting pain in his hollow eyes. She had been right before. David had nothing. Cheryl had a life. She had suffered immeasurably, losing her child and then finding out the cause was her own husband. It was not fair to uproot her over what was probably nothing.
“Yo,” Cheryl said. “Earth to Rachel.”
She swallowed. “Not over the phone.”
“What?”
“I need to see you. As soon as possible.”
“You’re scaring me, Rach.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“Fine, come over now.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Cheryl asked.
“I’m not home.”
“Where are you?”
“In Maine. Briggs County.”
The silence was suffocating. Rachel gripped the phone and closed her eyes and waited. When Cheryl finally did speak, her voice was an anguished whisper. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. Meet me at my place. Eight p.m. And don’t bring Ronald.”
* * *
There is a fine line between day and night in Briggs.
We have “lights out” at ten p.m., but that just means dimming them. It never gets dark in here. Perhaps that’s a good thing, I don’t know. We are all in our own cells, so it isn’t as though we could walk around and bother one another. I have a lamp in my cell so I can read late into the night. You would think that I would do a lot of that in here—read and write—but I have trouble focusing due in part to my eye trouble from the first assault. I get headaches after more than an hour at either task. Or maybe it isn’t just physical. Maybe it’s more psychosomatic or something. I don’t know.
But tonight, I put my hands behind my head and lay back on the flimsy pillow. I open the mental floodgates and for the first time since I entered this place, I let Matthew in. I don’t stop the images. I don’t put a block on them or filter them. I let them flow in and surround me. I practically bathe in them. I think about my father, no doubt dying in that same bedroom he shared with my mother. I think about my mother who died when I was eight years old and yes, I realize that I never quite moved past that. I can’t see her face anymore, haven’t been able to conjure up her image in many years, relying on those photos we had on the piano more than anything from my memory banks. I picture Aunt Sophie, my wonderful Sophie, the kind and generous woman who raised me after Mom died, the celestial being whom I love unconditionally, still trapped in that house, caring no doubt for my father until his final breath.
A sound by my cell door makes me cock my head.
Night sounds are not uncommon here. They are awful sounds, sounds that chill a man’s blood, unescapable, constant. This wing is not full of men who sleep soundly. Many cry out in their sleep. Others like to stay up at all hours and chat through the bars, reversing their internal clocks, staying awake all night vampire-like and sleeping during the day. Why not? There is no day or night in here. Not really.
And of course, there are men who openly masturbate with far more lusty pride than discretion.
But this sound, the one that makes me cock my head, is different. It is not coming from another cell or the guard booth or anything involving the general population blocks. It is coming from the door to my cell.
“Hello?”
A flashlight lands on my face, momentarily blinding me. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. I block it with a cupped hand and squint.
“Hello.”
“Stay still, Burroughs.”
“Curly?”
“I said stay still.”
I don’t know what’s going on, so I do as he asks. We don’t have traditional locks and keys in Briggs. My cell door works off what’s called a “slam lock,” an electromechanical system that automatically deadlocks. It is all controlled by levers in the guardroom. The doors only work on keys as a backup.
Which Curly was using now.
I have never seen the key used before.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
“No need,” I say. “I feel fine.”
“Not your call,” Curly says in a near whisper.
“Whose call it is?”
“Ross Sumner has filled out an official complaint.”
“So?”
“So the doctor needs to catalogue your injuries.”
“Now?”
“Why, you busy?”
His words are typically sarcastic, but his voice is tight.
“It’s late,” I say.
“You’ll get your beauty sleep later. Get your ass up.”
Not sure what else to do, I stand. “You mind taking the light out of my eyes?”
“Just move.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“You and Sumner got this place riled up. You think I want to do that again?”
That makes sense, I guess, but again the words ring hollow. Still, what choice do I have? I have to go. I don’t like it, but really, what’s the big deal? I’ll go. I’ll see the doctor. Maybe I’ll smirk at Sumner lying in the bed.
We leave our block and start down the corridor. Distant shouts from the general population bounce off the concrete walls like rubber balls. The lights are dimmed. My footwear is prison-issue canvas slip-ons, but Curly’s shoes are black and echo off the floor. He slows his step. I do the same.
“Keep walking, Burroughs.”
“What?”
“Just keep going.”
He stays half a step behind me. We are alone in this corridor. I sneak a glance behind me. Curly’s face is ashen. His eyes glisten. His bottom lip is quivering. He looks as though he might cry.
“You okay, Curly?”
He doesn’t reply. We pass a checkpoint, but there is no guard here. That’s odd. Curly unlocks the gate with some kind of fob. When we reach the T-intersection, he puts his hand on my elbow and steers me to the right.
“The infirmary is the other way,” I say.
“You have to fill out some forms first.”
We move down another corridor. The sounds of the prison have gone from faint to nonexistent. It is so quiet I can hear Curly’s labored breaths. I don’t know this section of the prison. I’ve never been here before. There are no cells. The doors here are pebble-glassed like shower doors. Philip’s office had a door like this. I assume I’m in some kind of executive area where we will meet up with someone who will help me fill out the paperwork. But there are no lights coming through the pebbled glass. It feels very much as though we are alone.
I notice something else now that I hadn’t before.
Curly is wearing gloves.
They are black latex. Guards rarely wear them. So why now? Why tonight? I am not one who believes you always go with your gut or follow your primitive instincts. They often lead you in the wrong direction. But when you add it up—the gut, the instincts, the hour, the excuse, the gloves, the route, Curly’s attitude, his demeanor—something is definitely off.
A few days ago, I wouldn’t have cared much. But everything has changed now.
“Up ahead,” Curly says. “It’s the last door on the left.”
My heart is thumping in my chest. I look up ahead, at the last door on the left. That too has a pebble-glass door. That one too has no light coming through it.
Not good.
I freeze. Curly stays behind me. He isn’t moving either. I hear a small sound coming from him. I slowly turn. Tears are flowing down his face.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Then I see the glint of steel.
A blade is heading straight toward my stomach.
There is no time for thought or anything beyond a reaction. I lean my body to one side while hammering down toward the blade with my forearm. The blade veers off course just enough—it misses my right side by no more than an inch. Curly pulls the blade back hard toward him, slicing through the flesh of my forearm. Blood spills, but I don’t feel pain. Not yet anyway.
I leap back. Curly and I are a few feet apart now, both in fight crouches.
Curly is crying. He holds the blade in front of him, like a scene from a poor man’s West Side Story. Sweat coats his face, mixing in with the tears.
“I’m sorry, Burroughs.”
“What are you doing?”
“So sorry.”
He regrips the knife. I’m holding my forearm, trying to stem the blood that’s seeping now through my fingers.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
But Curly isn’t listening. He lunges at me. I jump back. There is a rushing sound in my ears. I don’t know what to do. I know nothing about knife fighting.
So I do the simplest thing I can.
“Help!” I scream as loud as I can. “Somebody, help me!”
I don’t rely on that, of course. This is a prison. I’m a prisoner. People are yelling crazy shit in here twenty-four seven. Still, the suddenness of my scream makes Curly pull up. I use that. I turn and sprint down the corridor, back toward where we came from. He chases me.
“Help! He’s trying to kill me! Help!”
I don’t turn around. I don’t know if he’s closing in on me or not. I can’t risk it. I just keep pumping my legs and screaming. But now I’m reaching the end of the corridor, that same checkpoint we had gone through earlier. No one is there.
I ram the gate. Nothing. I try to pull it open.
No go. It’s locked.
Now what?
“Help!”
I glance back over my shoulder now. Curly is closing in. I’m trapped. I turn to face him. I keep screaming for help. He stops. I try to read his face. Confusion, anguish, rage, fear—it is all there. Fear, I know, is always the overwhelming emotion. He is scared. And the only way to not be scared anymore is to silence me.
Whatever led him to this, whatever doubts he may have had, they are no match for his need to survive, to save himself, to worry about his self-interest above all else.
And that means killing me.
I am backed up against the gate with nowhere to go. He is about to lunge for me when a voice from behind me says, “What the fuck is going on here?”
Relief courses through my veins. I am about to turn and explain that Curly here is trying to kill me when I feel something hard smack the back of my head. My knees buckle. Blackness closes in around me.
And then there is nothing.