Taking Liberty (43 page)

___________________________

The sky was the color of a Memphis Tigers jersey. A lackluster sun had shown up out of obligation. And a fruitless breeze was trying to encourage leaves to take the plunge.

Last day of the year.

I followed my feet across the neatly-trimmed lawns, carrying a bunch of flowers like the Olympic torch. Heavy as lead. Watery eyes fixed on my destination. There were other visitors scattered across the cemetery. Ravens flocked around dead relatives.

I arrived at a headstone and leaned the bouquet against the polished granite. Placed both hands against the cool marble. Closed my eyes and prayed for forgiveness.

Condemned.

A lifer, with no hope for parole.

No court in the land able to judge favorably on my failings.

Life is cruel.

Even mass murderers are entitled to due process.

___________________________

I stayed there until demonic shadows were reaching out across the grass to pull me into an early grave.

No such luck.

I returned to the black sedan parked on the narrow roadway and dropped inside.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” I lied. “Reckon I’m about as happy as a father whose son is headed for death row.”

“Maybe it was a bad idea my coming along; it’s not exactly my place to be here.”

I turned to face Rae Burnett.

She was seated behind the steering wheel, her wavy red hair spilling in thick swags over the shoulders of her long woolen coat. She had a green scarf looped around her neck, partly to hide the needlework stitching her jugular together, but mostly because it brought out the verve in her eyes.

“The last thing I want to do is intrude.”

I reached out. She grabbed my hand in hers, squeezed.

“Trust me, Rae. Hope would approve. You’re just about the best thing to happen to me in ages. You make me happy. And that’s what’s important right now. My very own ray of hope.”

She pulled me into her embrace. I didn’t fight back; I knew what battles I could win. We clung onto each other for long moments while the rest of the world revolved around us in a blur.

Then, hot breath swirling in my ear: “I’m here for the long haul, Gabe. You saved my life and right now that makes you responsible for me.”

I eased back and looked into her eyes. “Rae, that’s sweet. But it’s also a cheap Hollywood trope.”

“I know, but it got you smiling.” She smiled, levering one from my own lips. “See. Now listen to me, Gabe. I’m serious. It’s New Year’s Eve. I know you’re in no mood for celebration and all – God knows it’s way down on my priority list, too – but hear me out. Stone’s given us a week’s leave, with instructions for rest and recuperation. Maybe I’m being disrespectful and inappropriate, but right now I’m fixing on making good on the debt I owe you. Gabe, you saved my life, and I want to show you exactly how grateful I am.”

“You’re right,” I said, “it is inappropriate and disrespectful.” I leaned over and kissed her, gently. It felt good. Scratch that – it felt
right
. “Let’s go somewhere. You and me. Far from here. And I don’t mean the nearest hotel room.”

“You don’t?”

“Rae, I am sorely tempted. Trust me, I am. But no. Let’s do this right. Let’s find a room in another country. For the New Year, at least. Preferably someplace sunny. God knows we could use a little sunshine after all that snow. Let’s be impulsive. We can be packed and on a plane by tonight.”

Rae was looking at me like I was talking gibberish, and maybe I was. I didn’t care. Upset had kept me suffocated too long. I needed to breathe, to taste fresher air, and to do so as far away from my homicidal son as possible.

It was Rae’s turn to lean over and kiss me, hard. “All at once I can see why they had you locked up in the Fed Med; you’re certifiably crazy, Gabriel Quinn.”

I smiled, this time of my own volition. “Rae, that’s what happens when you get too close to crazy people: some of it rubs off.”

___________________________

The plain cement walls were an institution gray. A shade lighter than the sheets covering the bedroll, which was no thicker than a tombstone and just as forgiving.

No pillow to nest bedbugs or rest a bugged head.

He had his shoulders pressed against the cool wall, legs crossed in the recognized lotus position, meditating.

Late afternoon sunlight was slicing through a single row of glass bricks high up, painting a burnished gold stripe across the opposite cell wall. Dust motes dancing.

Events yet to be played out, forming and dissolving within the light.

There was a dog-eared book on the bedroll. One of the classics. Something by Hemmingway. Left there to keep an insane inmate from going stir crazy. Fat chance. A giant marlin and a small boat on the worn jacket.

He picked it up and turned to the first page.

A former internee had scrawled the words
‘You’re in deep shit now, brother’
in what looked and smelled like old feces.

Loser.

He tossed the book into a corner.

Out in the hallway, several sets of footfalls grew louder as they approached. Sounded like four men, suited up, agitated. A lock mechanism rotated. He sat up as the door squeaked open.

A curved riot shield appeared in the doorway first, closely followed by a shuffling guard and his buddy, holding a Taser, spooning him from behind. Tight on their heels, another pair of burly unit officers in body armor, taking up the back line, armed with nightsticks and determined faces.

Springfield overkill.

“On your stomach!” The guard with the Taser commanded.

He did as he was told; he knew disobedience was met with unnecessary brute force. He flattened his cheek against the poured cement floor. Saw boots scuffle. Gloved hands grabbed his wrists and slapped manacles over them, tight enough to cut off circulation. Same restraints around his ankles. Both sets of handcuffs joined with a chain.

Prison bling.

Rough hands hoisted him to his feet.     

Then two of the guards fed their batons through his arms and marched him out of the cell, at a speedy shuffle. The guard with the Taser brought up the rear. No one spoke. Testosterone soup. Not exactly a Sunday stroll.

Who did they think he was – Hannibal Lecter? Or something much worse – if there could be a monster worse than a serial killer with a proclivity for eating his victims. Dr. Lecter with a predisposition toward premonitions, then. Real life much scarier than the fictional.

Fear is weakness.

The guard with the Taser was itching to unleash electric discipline; he could smell his unease.

He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

With his arms behind his back, he was walked down one underground passageway after another, the pace sustained. Inmates mopping floors moving aside, eyes averted. He might have been the President of the United States, being escorted by the Secret Service, had it not been for his prison-issue khakis and his shackles.

They ascended concrete steps, passed through doors, eventually arriving at a processing station. His name was checked against a roster. Words were exchanged. The green light was given and he was shepherded into a large room with plastic-covered tables and chairs bolted to the floor.

There was a woman seated at one of the visitor tables:
a small redhead with a boyish figure and a sallow complexion. Hair scooped up and held in place with a long clip. Bony hands placed palms-down on the tabletop. Everything still and orderly. She looked thinner than the last time he’d seen her. Gaunt. No more than a skeleton with shrink-wrapped skin.

She didn’t get up as he was forced between empty tables, then forced again to sit in the chair facing her. His chains were fed through a clasp on the back of the chair, keeping his hands safely secured at the small of his spine.

Then his entourage hovered behind him in silence, like servitors attending a king.

“Hello, Anne,” he said through a slanted smile. “I like what you’ve done with your hair. I have to say I didn’t care much for the pageboy cut. The scoop-up suits you much better. You might say, it redefines your head shape, making it look less like a rutabaga.” He leaned forward, just enough to take up the slack. “How’s Seattle? Moreover, how’s Peter, that big bumbling hubby of yours? Has he got himself another German Shepherd yet? How’s the health food business working out for you? You’re not exactly a poster child.”

All the while – from the moment her eyes had first fixed on his entrance – the woman hadn’t breathed.

Until now.

“You took my daughter from me.” Six cutting words, each as cold as an icicle dagger. Emotionless despite the crippling content.

She was the cool epitome of self-restraint.

Good for her.

“Your child was destined to kill a million other children,” he corrected. “She was going to be a brilliant scientist. Create a super-vaccine. Only she was fated to factoring in a flaw. And that mistake would cost the lives of millions of babies. I did the world a favor, Anne. One less mass murderer for the history books. You should thank me for putting it down.”

Her hand moved quickly, in a practiced blur, faster than the eye could track. Small fingers pulling the long alligator clip from her hair. Red locks unfurling as her arm swung round, fist gripping the prong like a knife.

The movement caught everyone by surprise.

But not him.

He’d seen it coming – a long time ago.

“Her name is Jennifer,” she breathed as she staked the metal clip into the side of his neck, pushing it in deep with all her strength, twisting it. “And she didn’t deserve to die.”

A heartbeat later, the guards reacted: two rushing in to restrain her, one barking orders to his buddy to get the medic in here ASAP.

They dragged Anne McNamara away from the table, her cool eyes unmoving from his.

He knew it had cost her her life savings finding him.

He knew it had cost her her family business and her home.

He knew it had cost her her marriage and maybe her sanity.

And now he knew it would cost her her life.

He stared at her, smiling lopsidedly, as luminous blood arced from the puncture wound and painted a pretty pattern across the plastic-covered furniture.