Liquid Smoke

SEVENTY-ONE

The prison looked different.

When I’d visited last, it had looked sullen and isolated. Now, it resembled a shopping mall on the weekend.

Gathered near the main entrance were maybe five hundred people holding signs and candles. They seemed to be equally divided between those calling for Simington’s death and those who were opposed. The scene was calm at the moment, but I knew as the day wore on, the tension would grow.

I spotted Kenney lurking at the perimeter of the crowd. He saw me, too, nodded in greeting, and walked toward me.

“Surprised to see you,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Not really sure why I’m here.”

“They letting you in to see him?”

“I called earlier and set it up.”

Kenney shoved his hands in his pockets and lifted his chin in the direction of the cameras and crowd. “These clowns know who you are?”

“They did in San Diego. Hoping they don’t up here.” “If they swarm you, I’ll come run interference,” he said. “Thanks.”

We stood there, awkwardness filling the space between us. “I’m not sorry for him,” he said. “But I’m sorry you have to go in there.”

I understood what he was getting at, and I appreciated the effort. But at the same time, if he’d known what I’d done earlier in the day, I didn’t think we’d be having the same kind of conversation.

“Thanks,” I told him. “I’m gonna head in.”

He held out his hand. “Good luck.”

We shook, and I nodded without saying anything. Kenney turned and walked back to where I’d first spotted him. He put his arm around a woman whom I’d failed to see initially. She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder.

His sister.

One more victim.

I looked at the prison and went in for the final time.