Authors: Nevada Barr
13 1/2 (14 page)
“Dylan, you’re a good kid. A smart kid. In here, you’ll end up garbage. No kidding. Garbage. If you don’t fight like a panther the doctors will make you crazy, or the crazies will make you like them. These boys—most of these boys—never had a chance. They lie because they have no idea what the truth is. They steal because they can’t picture tomorrow, so what the heck, take what you want today. You could be different, but you’ve got to get out. You’ve got to have a place to go that’s sane.
“A safe place,” Phil said. “Are you up to building?” Phil taught all the math sciences: algebra, trig, geometry, calculus. Trigonometry was his favorite, and he often set Dylan to building something in his mind. That skill had been the foundation of the walls he’d made to contain his evil.
“I’ve got a safe place,” Dylan said. Phil was the only one he’d told about the fortress in his head where the beast was caged.
“No, man, a beautiful place, a good place. A garden maybe. Yeah, a garden.”
Dylan had never considered a place of peace, of beauty. The idea warmed him and, in Drummond, in January, the cold bones of winter broke brittle in the soul.
“I don’t know how to . . . ” he began and faltered because the tears wanted to come back into his voice. When he’d frozen them, he went on. “I mean, shit, man, what do I know about gardens?” What did he know about beauty, was what he’d been going to say, but it sounded like such bullshit in his brain he didn’t.
“We’ll do it from pictures. How hard is that? Come on, man. Do it. You got to do it or you’ll die here,” Phil pleaded. “We start with dirt. Jeez, man, you know dirt, don’t you?”
“Dirt.” Dylan closed his eyes to please his friend and teacher. He and Phil picked a place with gentle rolling hills, like those that could be seen from the third-floor windows. They laid out a wandering path. That was enough; it was a start.
The door opened, and a guard stuck his head in. “Got a visitor.” Dylan returned from the survey of his interior garden. Visitors were never allowed in any deeper than the reception area.
Surprises in Drummond were not a good thing.
This one was. Rich pushed in behind the guard. Time was screwed by acid, but it seemed to Dylan as if he stood too long staring at him and Phil. He felt the warmth of Phil’s hands leave his wrist and, in the drug residue, he saw the warmth flit away, gold and fragile.
“You two look cozy,” Rich said with a smile.
“Hey, brother,” Dylan said. “This is Phil, my math teacher. I’ve told you about him.”
“Yeah.” Rich shook hands with Phil Maris and took his place by Dylan’s bedside.
The math teacher stood awkwardly for a second, then left with a “Later, Dylan.”
“Phil’s a good guy,” Dylan said. “He’s about all that keeps this place from being hell.”
“I’m glad you have somebody you can talk to,” Rich said, but he didn’t seem all that thrilled. “How you doing, brother? One of the guys bribed a guard and called me. I had to raise holy hell to get in. Sara pulled some serious strings. They manage to completely fry what little brain you’ve got?”
“’Fraid so,” Dylan said. “Goddamn fucking weird. Kowalski’s crazier than the kids he works on.”
“No shit. The warden said he’s history.”
Acid residue was turning the stain patterns old leaks had left on the ceiling into ugly things. Dylan closed his eyes. The garden he and Phil had been planning appeared, rolling hills, the serpentine path they’d laid out, marked with stakes, each tied with orange surveyor’s tape.
Dirt.
Dirt.
“I love old Phil,” he said, the sedatives overlaying the LSD slurring his words.
“Yeah?”
Rich, the room, the cuffs slid away. Dylan held out his hand, a shovel came into it, and he began to dig. He’d plant butterfly bushes so they would come back.
16
“I love Phil.”
Dylan passed out after that. Richard watched his eyes. He was dreaming, the eyeballs twitching under the lids. “Brother,” Richard said, then louder, “Dyl!” but got no response. Richard had never dropped acid, didn’t touch pot, and drank sparingly; drugs weren’t what got him high.
“You got to clean up your act,” he said affectionately to his brother’s inert form. “What kind of creep gives a sixteen-year-old kid LSD? I should have gotten the bastard fired when he tried to electrocute you. Fuck.” Richard turned from where his brother lay in uneasy sleep and crossed to the window. It was dark out, the heavy wire mesh dulling even the searchlights around Drummond.
“What kind of creeps give an eleven-year-old kid seventeen years in prison?” he whispered. Dylan could be locked up until he was twenty-eight. He looked back at his brother, pale and sweating under the room’s single light. What kind of a man would Dylan be by then?
“You going to be a drug addict, brother? Go with the gangs when you get to the big house? You can’t do that to me.” If juvie had changed Dylan, Richard did not want to see what the state pen would do to him.
Dylan’s hands were moving spasmodically in the padded cuffs and there was a slight smile on his face.
Dreaming of old Phil?
The thought soured Richard’s already dark mood.
It was a hell of a long drive to Drummond from Rochester, and he’d had to cut school to do it. Not that he gave a damn about school. He’d surpassed those morons when he was in eighth grade. And that was just the teachers. He’d been born smarter than the pimply fools he sat in homeroom with. He maintained a 4.0 average just to let them know he could.
“Brother,” he tried again, but Dylan was still in Never Never Land. “I drive four hours, and you pass out on me. What a deal.” Dylan’s hand, palm up where it threaded through the restraints, convulsed, the fingers grasping. Richard took it between his own. Flesh on flesh was not a sensation he usually enjoyed, but he did with Dylan. Maybe because he was family.
His brother’s hand was rich with life. Richard felt it coursing under the skin, touching up against his own life with such force the two flowed together. He could feel the acid burn leaking into his blood, the dulling of the sedatives blanketing his thoughts. He didn’t remember being this close to his brother when they were kids. The whole power thing between parents and children worked against it. The night of the killings something had happened. Their blood had mixed on the blade of the axe and they’d become more than brothers—they’d become blood.
Richard took back his hand. “Got to quit the drugs, brother. They’re killing me.” He laughed, then said, “I’m not kidding.” He leaned back and stretched his legs. He was six feet even in his stocking feet, taller than Dylan by two inches, though he doubted that would last. Dylan had a couple years to catch up.
Richard had fought against sending Dylan to Drummond, but, fourteen and wounded, no way was he effective. In hindsight, Drummond was probably the right choice. He’d been too naïve to realize after the killings that Dylan would probably have been beaten to death by the good citizens of Rochester if he hadn’t been locked up. They paid lip service to the tragedy of his extreme youth, but they were scared to death of him. Scared their own little boys and girls would flip out some night and start butchering the family.
Drummond was giving Dylan a better education than he would have gotten at the jail in Rochester—as good as he would have gotten in public school. The warden was a cutting-edge kind of guy. Until he’d let a berserk psychiatrist mess with Dylan’s brain a second time, Richard had been cool with him.
The state penitentiary was going to be a different ballgame. Richard had heard stories of what happened to guys in the pen. Dylan said it wasn’t a problem in juvie, that there were “girls”—boys who were into it—and they took the pressure off. In the penitentiary, rape wasn’t about sex. Sex wasn’t about sex; it was about dominance. Richard knew that instinctually. The thought of anybody touching his brother made his skin clammy. For a miserable heartbeat he could feel the rape inside of himself.
“Shit,” he said to banish the visceral image. “Dylan! Wake up, man. Talk to me!”
Dreaming his dreams, Dylan slept on.
Richard settled back into his slouch. Four and a half years had passed since his brother was locked up. Richard was old enough to get custody of him as a minor, if he was free and if Sara would vouch for him. Sara was a nurse. That was about as solid as a citizen could get. She wouldn’t like it; Dylan frightened her.
I would be my brother’s keeper,
he thought.
he thought.
The door behind him creaked open. “Hey, man, give us a few more . . . ” Richard stopped. It wasn’t the guard; it was the math teacher.
Good old Phil.
“Sorry,” Phil said. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“Where else would I be?”
Phil didn’t answer that. He pulled up a second chair and sat too close, studying Dylan’s face. “Rest will do him good,” he said.
“Yeah.”
For a minute they sat in silence. Richard waited for the fool to go and got the feeling Phil was waiting for the same thing. It pissed him off. Good old Phil could wait until hell froze over.
“Dylan ever talk to you about that night?” Phil asked.
“He doesn’t remember it,” Richard said coldly. “I nearly bashed his brains out with an axe.”
“So they tell me.”
Richard didn’t like the math teacher’s tone.
“I’ve seen your brother nearly every day for four years. Dylan’s a good kid.”
“For a killer,” Richard said.
Phil looked at him hard.
Richard said nothing.
Phil kept staring at him. “You don’t live with a kid for four years without getting to know him.”
Phil, good old Phil, was heading toward something. Richard watched him warily.
The hippy hair, the I’m-your-best-friend note he took with Dylan, what kind of teacher was that? “What are you getting at?” he asked.
“Long drive isn’t it? Four hours or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Never miss a visit, do you?”
“You have a problem with that?” This guy was getting on his nerves in a big way. “I’ve got a good barber I can recommend,” Richard said.
Phil ignored the cheap shot.
Rose above it,
Richard thought acidly.
Rose above it,
Richard thought acidly.
“Eight hours round-trip twice a week. Lot of time and energy. Most kids your age wouldn’t do that.” Phil’s pupils widened slightly as if he wanted to look past Richard’s eye sockets and into his mind. “Why do you?”
“Because he’s my brother,” he snapped. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, man, just talking is all.” He stood up. “Take it easy,” he said. “We’ll look after your brother.”
He left.
Goddamn stupid fuck, who did he think he was talking to? “Fucking cunt,” Richard whispered. “Guard!”
An old man in a gray uniform stuck his head in the door. “We’re counselors now, didn’t you know that boy?” The old guy grinned, but Richard wasn’t in the mood.
“I have to see the warden.”
“Warden’s gone home. Having his supper about now, I expect.”
“I don’t care if he’s having his goddamn hair done, I need to see him. Now.”
The guard looked uncertain, deciding whether Richard’s rage or tearing the warden away from his dinner would go hardest on him.
“The warden will want to hear what I have to tell him,” Richard said. “Trust me on that. And trust me, if you’re the one makes him hear it later rather than sooner, you’re going to be out of a job.”
The guard blinked then. “Okay, kid. You win. Come with me.”
Richard left without saying good-bye to his brother.
LOUISIANA, 2007
James Ruppert. Kills eleven family members at Easter dinner. 1975. This guy was nuts. I guess we’re all nuts though, so I’ll do him. I don’t see myself killing family the way Ruppert did and, before you ask, no, I didn’t crave this sort of action back when I was at home. But you’ve got to admit his family was shitty to him. And here he is, forty-one and still living at Mommy’s house. That had to say “failure” in a big way, proving what his dad was always saying he was. Big brother’s over to dinner with his eight kids—Eight! You’d think the brother would have shot his own self—and his wife who used to be James’s girlfriend, and while she’s cooking up the Easter ham, he knows Mom’s thinking about throwing him out on his ear; and he hasn’t got a job, so he’s broke. Then you factor in that he stands to get a lot of dough from insurance. Shooting the family starts to look pretty good. Sane even. Until you get to the kids. Maybe he figures they aren’t quite people; with eight of them, they wouldn’t seem like an endangered species exactly, just a housecleaning issue. What I don’t get is why go to all that trouble then wait for the cops? Did he think he would get off on a thing like that? If he did, then he really was nuts. Hey, maybe he should have gotten off on the insanity plea. Catch 22. We’re all nuts, but if we tell you that, then we’re not. I feel sorry for James; he was fucked from the start.
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