The White Angel Murder

59

Noah Sherman sat on the plane back to Pelican Bay State Prison and thought about the last time he had been on a plane.

It was almost ten years ago. He had been dating a girl that loved to travel and though he lived on a meager detective’s salary, she was independently wealthy. An inheritance given to her by an uncle that she talked about incessantly. Sherman had always suspected they had been lovers in her youth.

He remembered sitting next to her on the plane and the child across the aisle. He was perhaps ten and reading a book quietly to himself when his father knocked the book out of his hand and said something about not being a “faggot.” The child then leaned back and stared at a spot on the chair in front of him and didn’t move. Not when his little brother kicked him and not when the stewardess brought out drinks and peanuts.

Sitting now in a four passenger plane, shackled from ankles to wrist, he wondered what had happened to that little boy. What he had grown up to become. A father like that could either break you or make you stronger. He hoped that the boy had been made stronger for it.

The marshal sitting next to him jabbed a finger in his ribs. “Excited to get back you piece of shit?”

Sherman stared forward, to the horizon before him. He had been cut out of the loop and would not be given anything Harlow had promised. He suspected as much and was not surprised. The trip was worthwhile anyhow. Even shackled, the sunlight and the ability to walk without walls made a man feel free.

The plane landed after scarcely an hour in the sky and he was placed in a Department of Corrections van and taken back to the prison. It was smaller, he thought. Smaller and more gray and the sounds were louder than he remembered. There was wailing and laughing and crying and maniacal conversations that made no sense. Seemingly out of the ether, Sherman’s mood changed. His persona had to go back up. His chest puffed out, his chin tilted upward. It was all an act, as was everyone else’s. Hardened criminals all acting like they were harder than they are. And only for the benefit of each other.

He was led back to his cell but no one was there. Sherman sat on the bottom bunk and stared at the floor. He was waiting for someone. To pass the time, he flicked on the television and watched cable news. Something about a military strike in the Middle East. He followed the Iraq War closely. Thousands upon thousands of people dead over a lie. How was it that politicians could get away with killing so well?

An hour passed and he noticed someone standing by the cell. A female guard. She was overweight by at least sixty pounds and her hair was long and brunette. She had a pug’s face, he thought.

“I missed you,” she said.

“I missed you too.”

“I kinda thought that maybe you wouldn’t be back.”

He rose and walked to the cell door. “And how would I manage that?”

“I don’t know. You’re smart. I didn’t think you would let them bring you back.”

She reached into his cell and down his pants, pulling out his penis and beginning to stroke it. She glanced around and made sure there was no else on the floor and then began kissing him through the bars, their tongues rolling over each other. He reached out of the cell and between her legs and began caressing her.

“I need something from you,” he said.

“What is it?” she said, her breathing heavy.

“I need you to send a letter for me.”

“Okay,” she said, her eyes closed and her head tilted back.

“And then I need you to bring me something.”

“What?”

“A new belt.”

“For what?”

“I’m going to trade it for something.”

“What are you trading it for?” she asked, her strokes speeding up.

“I’ll tell you when I have it.”

He bit down hard into her lip as he ejaculated and he tasted blood. She groaned, and climaxed as well, tasting the ejaculate on her hand before wiping it on her shirt.

“I’ll get you some paper,” she said.