Otherwise Unharmed

Chapter 2—Possible Forgiveness

With the illness of the inmates identified as the flu instead of the breakfast sausages, I was permanently assigned into the general inmate population to make room for the physically sick. I remained in the same maximum security cell, and there was always a guard outside of it, but at least I wasn’t shackled to the bedrail constantly. I was even allowed into the prison’s gym to work out and up to the top of the building for a little outside time.

Basketball hoops and prisoners hanging out and smoking filled the triangular shaped exercise area at the very top of the building. I wasn’t much of a basketball player on a good day, and I hadn’t had too many good days recently, so I stuck with sitting up against the wall and alternating between staring at the cloudy sky and staring at the cement under my prison-issue sneakers.

My head was swimmy from lack of sleep, so I closed my eyes and tried to stop the accompanying nausea by swallowing repeatedly. It helped a little but not enough. I had been thinking about my dog, Odin, and wondered if I would be able to sleep if he were allowed in a cell with me.

Lia should have him now as one of the arresting officers had promised. She would take good care of him—I had no doubt about that. He liked her, too. He’d taken to her pretty much the moment she lay down in my bed, much like I had taken to her.

“Arden, right?”

I opened my eyes and looked at the heavily muscled, thirty-something guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a distinctly Mexican accent but didn’t recognize him. There wasn’t any reason to respond to him either, so I didn’t. He wasn’t to be deterred and sat down next to me.

“I met you once,” he claimed. “The name’s Pablo. I ran snow for your boss before I got caught for possession with intent. I got sentenced to six-to-ten, but they haven’t gotten around to moving me to Marion yet.”

He still didn’t look familiar, but his story rang a bell. There were three guys busted about a year ago, and I assumed he must be one of them. I still didn’t see his relationship in Moretti’s business as a reason to acknowledge him, though. There were probably twenty guys in here at any given time who had relationships to the organization in one way or another.

Pablo continued to talk anyway.

“I heard about why you’re in here,” he said.

I took in a long, deep breath before leaning forward and resting my arms on my knees. The cement beneath my heels was cracked, and I kicked a bit of it with my toe to knock a loose chunk of it away.

“I got the routine down here,” Pablo said, “so if you have any questions or anything…”

His voice trailed off as I sighed and looked up at him darkly.

There was a scar on his forearm that was certainly the result of a knife fight, and his calloused palms were indicative of someone who liked to spend his free time lifting weights and proving he had more testosterone than anyone else at the gym. The belly hanging out in front of him and the cigarette made it obvious he wasn’t a health nut at all. He was more than likely one of those who just liked to brag about how much he could bench press.

“Do I look like I give a shit?” I asked him.

He paused and licked his lips nervously.

“No,” he admitted as he looked to his pocket to pull out another cigarette. “Still, if you need anything, I’ll help ya out. While I’m still here, anyway.”

My eyes wandered over him. He had a lot of upper body strength, but his legs weren’t as strong. He either did a lot of lifting and manual labor activities, or he just hated doing squats at the gym so never worked out his legs like he did his arms. He had a variety of uninteresting tattoos that were obviously done by a novice artist, probably in exchange for coke, and short-cropped, black, greasy hair.

I watched the cigarette dangling out of his mouth and wondered what Jonathan was doing right at that moment. I also had a clear memory of leaning back against the side of the motor pool to sneak a cigarette with a young private in my unit.

“Got an extra one of those?” I asked.

“Sure,” Pablo said.

He handed me a smoke and a pack of matches. It was too windy to use matches, so he handed his own cigarette over to me so I could monkey-fuck it to light mine. The smoke burned in my lungs in a way that was immediately familiar and long-forgotten at the same time. It took a couple tries before I got the hang of inhaling again.

Pablo remained silent for a while as I finished the cigarette and ground it out into the cement crack beneath my shoe. I tried to breathe normally for a minute as my lungs attempted to remember how to deal with the smoke and whatever other shit they put in those things.

“You want another one?”

“Not now,” I replied. “Thanks.”

“You let me know,” Pablo said. “I’ll hook you up with some if you want them.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure if I really wanted another one, though. My lungs still burned, and I coughed a couple of times, which caused Pablo to snicker quietly. He shrugged a shoulder when I glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.

“You gonna kill me for thinking that’s kinda funny?” he asked.

Other times—other days—I would have. Well, I would have considered it anyway. At the moment, I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind. I obviously didn’t have a gun on me, and though I was quite sure I could get a shiv of some kind delivered to my hands without a lot of trouble, they were messy. If I was going to kill Pablo, it would have to be with my hands, and that was just a lot of effort for a chuckle at my expense.

“No,” I finally said, “I’m not in the mood right now.”

He let out another laugh, but it was a nervous one. He seemed to be getting the idea that what I said hadn’t actually been a joke and it was best for him to remember who the hell I was. I might have been a little lost inside, but no one else needed to know that.

“I guess I’m lucky, then,” Pablo finally said with a short exhale through his nose. “Still, though, if there’s anything you need, I can probably get it for you while I’m here. You want weed?”

“I don’t touch the shit,” I informed him. Even when my unit needed a little break from reality and would sneak a bit of pot, I never indulged. I never stopped them from doing it, but I didn’t like the idea of being out of control at all. Even drinking more than a couple of beers or a glass of good scotch was rare for me.

“Well, if you think of something, I’m here for ya, man.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t mean it, but the response came out automatically. I didn’t give a shit about some snow runner and what he could bring to my fucking jail cell. He probably considered himself all kinds of useful in here but not to me.

I didn’t want anything.

After an hour, we were all led back down to the common area, which wasn’t a place I wanted to be. I went back to my cell for lack of any better options and leaned my head against the back wall where I could see out the window and down to the street.

The building was a rather strange one architecturally. It was triangular instead of the usual rectangle, and from the street, people could see the seven-foot tall windows of the cells covering the twenty-seven-story building. Lots of people likened the sides of the building to an old-style punch-card because of the window slits in the pale, cement walls.

I wasn’t sure exactly what floor I was on but could tell I was up pretty high—certainly more than half way up the nearly thirty-story building. There was a single bar going through the center of the thin window from top to bottom, just in case anyone was crazy enough to try to escape from so high up. Crazy or not, people had tried, and a couple had even succeeded. When I looked out of the south-facing window, the view kind of sucked. I could see the Harold Washington Library, but that was about it. All the cool stuff was to the North and East.

I turned back toward the bed with its plain white sheet and single pillow. Just looking at it sent that warm, sleepy feeling through my body. I blinked slowly a few times as I shuffled over and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

“Don't sleep,” I told myself as the mattress gave way below my ass.

I didn't have to check the tags to know it wasn't a name brand mattress. There weren't any actual springs poking me in the back, but it was one step away from it. It smelled like strong detergent instead of anything nastier, at least.

I laid back and rolled to one side. Fatigue continued to spread over my body, and despite my desire to stay conscious, I knew it was a losing battle.

“Stay awake.”

Fucking talking to myself again.

Rolling over with the hope movement alone would keep the sandman away, I heard the springs below me groan in protest. I was immediately reminded of another small, crappy bed in the heart of the Arizona desert. Inside of my head, I could hear the rhythmic sounds of the squeaking wrought iron bed as I pounded into Lia.

My hand releases her neck, and I grab her hair instead.

“My cock feels so good fucking you,” I growl into her ear. “You like that? Huh?”

A groan is the only response I get, but it is enough.

I slam into her harder, hold myself deep inside for a moment, and then slowly slide almost all the way out. I would have pulled all the way out, but it would be too awkward to get back inside of her without getting her back up on her knees again, and I like having her all splayed out under me the way she is.

She likes it, too.

“Do you know how easy it would be,” I moan, and my voice is gravelly and husky in her ear, “to fuck you in the ass from this position?”

I feel her tense, and there are goose bumps springing up over her neck and shoulders. I smile slightly—she’s never taken a cock up the ass before. My lips press against the skin below her ear.

“Not this time,” I whisper, and I feel her relax underneath me for a brief moment.

I never did have anything other than straight sex with Lia. As many times as I had fucked her in that cabin while she was there, I never did take her in the ass. Other than that single comment when I had been on top of her, I hadn’t thought about it much. I would have taken her any way she was willing, but unlike any other woman I had ever been with, my cock’s focus was all on her pussy.

Reaching up to my head, I grabbed the thin pillow and pulled it to my chest. It smelled like cheap detergent with a hint of bleach, but I tried to ignore the burning in my nose as I pressed my cheek to the pillow. I wanted to recreate the feeling I had when I woke up that morning with my head on Lia’s stomach and her hand running through my hair. I closed my eyes briefly and immediately felt consciousness trying to leave me.

“Not yet,” I whispered into the empty room. “Need to have her in my head first.”

Maybe I’d dream of her if I did. It was possible, wasn’t it? All the dreams started again shortly after I came back from that cabin, so shouldn’t I be able to conjure up a dream of her?

“Please?”

I thought about the feeling of her skin under my hands and the way she smelled the next day—like she’d had me in her all night, which she had. I remembered the sound of her panting breaths and low moans as I first entered her body. I could still taste her tongue in my mouth after she’d borrowed my toothbrush in the morning.

I tried to fill my mind with thoughts of her sad smile as she glanced over her shoulder and walked up the steps of the bus. She didn’t want me to drive her to her mother’s house, and I couldn’t have left my post long enough to do so anyway.

She’d just been a girl, lost in the desert.

She should have meant nothing to me.

When I returned to Chicago, I had tried to forget everything—especially the lost girl I had taken to my bed and held far too closely in my mind. I kept myself occupied with my work and with a whore, but I knew that I had actually lost myself in that cabin as well—lost myself in her eyes as well as between her thighs. That loss was what drove me over the edge and brought me to this tiny bed in a tiny cell, just as Lia had been brought to my small bed in a one-room cabin.

I couldn’t hold sleep off any longer, and even though I knew my chances of success were nil, I continued to try to fight it.

I lost.

The dreams came.

I woke up screaming.

“You got a call-out, Arden.”

The words flowed around in my head, but I didn’t find them very interesting. I was far more focused on trying to hold on to the memory of soft, dark hair through my fingers and the way my soul seemed to relax into Lia as I lay my head against her stomach.

“Come on, Arden—scheduled appointment.”

I didn’t remember having one, but at some point a couple of the guards and the unit manager came in and dragged me down to one of the private visiting rooms. The handcuffs around my wrists were checked, and then the other end secured me to the arms of a chair. I lifted my hands slightly, but they weren’t able to move far.

I pressed against the floor with the balls of my feet and tried to keep the panic at bay as the metal lay across my wrists, but the movement wasn’t distracting enough. I frantically tried to think of something to keep my mind off the restraints. I tried to think about what I would do if there was an itch on my nose. I thought about the last soccer game I had watched and wondered if I would be able to watch any of this season’s games from inside. I wondered what Lia was doing right at the moment and if Odin liked staying with her. I was sure he did and was comforted by the idea that he would like living with Lia.

A few minutes after I was placed in the chair, Rinaldo Moretti walked into the room with a tall, lanky guy in a suit behind him. The look in my boss’s eyes was stern and closed—nearly unreadable, except I knew exactly what he was thinking. I was supposed to come to him if I got to the point of breaking, and I hadn’t.

The problem was once you have crossed that line, you don’t exactly think rationally. It was sort of the definition of breaking.

My throat seized up. I couldn’t look at him and opted to look straight down at the table instead. My lungs couldn’t seem to get enough air, and I had to force myself to breathe through my nose. I balled my hands into fists to keep them from shaking and making the chains rattle.

Rinaldo cleared his throat, and I glanced up.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said with an uncharacteristically shaky voice.

Rinaldo just stared at me, his eyes flickering from the emotionless façade he was trying to maintain to fury. There was tightness around his eyes and definite tension in his forearms. His fingers flexed once as he leaned back in the metal chair.

“We’ll have that discussion another time,” he said with promise. “Don’t doubt that. For now, I’m here to introduce you to your attorney.”

“Michael Beard,” the young man said. “I specialize in cases where the defendant has suffered from PTSD. I understand you’ve been given this diagnosis? Can you tell me precisely when?”

I looked over the man in the suit. He wasn’t much older than I was, and I doubted he was beyond thirty. For a moment, I considered that Rinaldo had found me a shit attorney to make sure I went away for a long time, but that didn’t make sense. If he wanted me out of the picture, he wouldn’t be here at all, let alone with a lawyer in tow. He knew all my money was cash and inaccessible from inside, and he would have just left me to rot with a public defender if he wasn’t serious about getting me out.

What he’d do to me after I was released, well, that was anyone’s guess. He wouldn’t have spent the time and effort to get me out to kill me, though. That would be a waste of money when he could accomplish the same thing cheaper with a bribe to a guard or an inmate.

Michael Beard was all business—that was for sure. He waited patiently for me to answer his question and didn’t seem to be the least bit nervous or rushed. Considering Rinaldo must have told him who I was to his organization, I was somewhat surprised at how calm he was. Often, when I was first introduced to someone, they would be all fidgety around me.

“Answer him, Arden,” Rinaldo commanded when I didn’t respond right away.

I tried not to focus on the use of my last name as I swallowed, nodded, and faced the lawyer.

“When I returned from Germany,” I told him. “That was three years ago. I was discharged in May of that year.”

Michael made some notes on his legal pad. I could almost see him in one of those little school desks, jotting down notes during an English Lit class with his knees all tucked up underneath the desktop.

“Were you medicated as part of your treatment?”

“Yeah, for a while.”

“Do you still take drugs as part of treatment, either prescribed or illicit?” Michael’s eyes watched mine as I answered, and I had the distinct feeling he was watching for any untruthfulness.

“No.” I leaned back in the chair and planned on keeping my gaze on his, but the clang of the handcuffs distracted me. I clenched the arms of the chair and took a couple of deep breaths.

“Do you have nightmares or recurring thoughts about what happened to you?”

I swallowed hard.

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Every time I close my eyes.”

I didn’t miss Rinaldo’s narrowed eyes as I admitted this to the attorney. Yes, I had been too broken to come to him after I had killed Terry and Bridgett, but it was obvious the nightmares had been getting worse for a while. I hadn’t told him about those. Even when I confessed that Bridgett had slept in my bed with me, I never told him the reason why.

“Do you ever feel numb?”

“Most of the time.”

“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself or someone else?”

I actually laughed, which caused Rinaldo to smile slightly as well.

“Evan’s right,” he told the attorney. “That’s a seriously stupid question.”

“Moving on,” Michael muttered. “Do you have trouble focusing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever talk to your family or friends about what happened to you?”

“Fuck no.”

“Are you going to diagnose him or get him the fuck out of here?” Rinaldo growled as his patience waned.

“I’m just trying to understand his state of mind at the time of the incident.”

“He was fucked up—temporary insanity brought on by the stress of one of his co-workers and friends being found dead, right, Arden?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please, Mister Moretti, let me do my job.” Michael reclined in the plastic chair and looked into Rinaldo’s eyes.

He was a brave man; I’d give him that.

Rinaldo glared for a moment but finally waved his hand dismissively.

“Whatever. Continue.”

He asked me a bunch of other questions, which I answered the best I could. After the final question, he took his finger and traced it down the edge of the page as he reviewed his notes, nodded once, and stood up from the chair.

“That’s all I need for now,” he announced. “If I have further questions, we’ll set up another meeting. I’ve given your unit leader my contact information if you think of anything you believe is pertinent. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble having you released on bail as long as the Marine psychologist doesn’t have any major objections.”

“I’ll meet you outside,” Rinaldo said.

Michael closed his notes into his briefcase and left the small room. I glanced at my boss and tried not to feel too emasculated as he stared down at me with disappointment in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“I know you are.” He let out a big sigh as he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “One way or another, this will all work itself out.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be more concerned with the one way or the other, but I was positive I wasn’t completely cleared in his eyes. His next words did have a calming effect though.

“I’m going to get you out of here, Arden,” Rinaldo said with conviction. “You’ve been far too valuable to let you rot. You have also left me in the awkward position of not just missing you, but also missing your backup.”

“Sorry, sir,” I said again. I couldn’t argue with what he said—I’d removed myself to jail right after killing his number two hit man, Terry Kramer.

“You aren’t sorry for that,” he muttered as he stood up.

I couldn’t even pretend he was wrong. I’d hated Terry Kramer from the moment I set eyes on him. When I found out he had lured my hooker-slash-girlfriend into giving him information I had inadvertently told her, I’d lost it completely, killed them both, and then landed myself where I was.

“We’ll be back,” Rinaldo promised. “Hang tight, son.

Nothing could have satisfied me more than hearing that word from his lips.