Redemption Road

24

Beckett went home at five in the morning. His wife was asleep, so he crept in quietly and undressed by the shower, nudging aside the ruined shoes, leaving his clothes in a heap. Stepping in, he let hot water sluice off the dirt and smell and traces of William Preston’s blood. Beckett had seen a lot of carnage in his day, a lot of beatings.

But this…

The man’s face was just gone. The mouth. The nose. When Beckett closed his eyes, he saw it again, the drag marks and the stumps of teeth, the spilled blood clotted with dust. Preston had been dead now for hours; and the death had catalyzed what was shaping up to be the largest manhunt Beckett had ever seen. SBI. Highway Patrol. Every sheriff’s office in the state. Dyer was talking to the feds, and literally screaming every time some bureaucrat dared a no. That was the dangerous heart of it. People were worked up, angry, eager.

And Liz was in the middle of it. The manhunt. The frenzy. She mattered in so many ways, and the world, it seemed, wanted her life ripped to shreds. The Monroe brothers. Now this.

“Jesus…”

Beckett scrubbed his hands across his face, but barely recognized himself. He felt sick in his heart, and not from the shattered face or the gray bones or the slick, vinyl bags birthed from beneath the church.

It wasn’t even about Liz.

He braced his hands on the shower wall, water beating down, but none of it hot enough or hard enough. He thought of Adrian’s trial and of all the women dead in that goddamn church.

It had to be Adrian.

But what if it wasn’t? What if the bodies in the crawl space were only five years old? Or ten? If Adrian wasn’t the killer, did that mean his conviction paved the way for someone else to hunt and kill for thirteen more years?

Nine women under the church.

Lauren Lester.

Ramona Morgan.

Beckett felt them like a weight, as if their souls were stone and steel and stacked eleven deep on the crown of his head.

“Sweetheart…”

That was his wife’s voice. Distant.

“Charlie?”

It was louder that time, cutting through the steam as the bathroom door swung open.

“Hang on, honey.” Beckett dashed water from his eyes and peered past the curtain. Carol was in the robe she always wore, her hair tousled from sleep. “Hey, baby.”

“Why are you in the guest bath?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Are you all right? You look a little green.”

“It’s just the heat, the shower.”

“You seem upset.”

“I said it’s the shower!” She shrank away from his voice, and he apologized immediately. “It’s been a long night. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”

“It’s okay. I can tell you’ve had a long night. Do you want some breakfast?”

“Ten minutes?”

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Beckett finished the shower, then shaved and put on fresh clothes. He studied his face until it was steady, then went to the kitchen to find his wife. She looked beautiful as he walked in, a little heavier than the month before, a little more lined and tired. But he didn’t care about that. “How’s the love of my life?”

She turned from the stove, and her smile faded when she saw that he was fully dressed. “You’re going back to work?”

“I have to, baby. No choice.”

“Is it that awful man?”

For an instant Beckett feared she saw his thoughts too clearly, that she somehow knew. But it was the television, he realized, Adrian’s face on the silent screen, his photo inset beneath a long shot of the abandoned church.

“He’s part of it.”

“I can’t believe he’s been in our house, eaten at our table.”

“That was a long time ago, baby.”

She picked up the remote and switched off the set. Lines deepened at the corners of her mouth. “Were you with Liz all night?”

“Not this time.”

He slipped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing. She’d always been jealous of the time he spent with his pretty partner. He’d tried for years to make Carol understand that Liz was a friend, and nothing more. But Carol could not accept how much their marriage meant to him, or the lengths he would go to protect it. That was the thing about guilt. Everyone had some tucked away, the only question being how much and how much damage had it done.

He kissed the top of her head; poured a cup of coffee.

“So, where were you last night?”

“The church. Adrian’s place. The hospital.”

“Is that because of the poor guard who was beaten to death?”

Beckett hesitated. “You know about that?”

“Yes.”

“We kept his death out of the news. We were very specific. Doctors. Nurses. We shut that all down. How do you know about it?”

“Oh. The warden stopped by last night.”

“What?” Beckett stood so fast his chair scraped across the floor and toppled. “He was here?”

“Jesus, Charlie. You spilled your coffee.”

“That doesn’t matter. What did he want?”

“He was very upset.” Carol dropped paper towels on the spilled coffee, then righted the chair. “He said the dead guard’s name was Preston, and that he had a wife and a son, and that they were friends. The warden feels responsible. I assume he wanted to talk to you about it. It’s all so horrible.”

“When was here?”

“What?”

“Goddamn it, Carol. When? What time?”

“You’re scaring me, Charlie.”

Beckett released his fists; knew his face was red and swollen. “I’m sorry, Carol. Just tell me when.”

“I don’t know. Midnight, maybe. I remember he was apologetic about the time. He said he’d been trying to reach you all day, and that you weren’t returning his calls. He said he’d come by again this morning.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Beckett crossed the room, flicking the curtain to peer outside. It was still dark, but the car was already at the curb. “Wait here.”

Carol said something, but Beckett was in the hall, then out the door. He kept his stride steady; it wasn’t easy. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The car door was barely open when he said it. The warden didn’t seem to mind the aggression. “Get in, Charlie.” He wore a dark suit. Beckett didn’t move. “Your wife looks concerned. Wave to her.”

The warden leaned forward and smiled as he waved a hand at the window. It took Beckett a few long seconds, but he did the same.

“Now, get inside.”

Beckett slid onto the leather seat. The door closed and the world got real quiet. “Don’t ever come to my house,” Beckett said. “Don’t you ever come to my house when I’m not there. Midnight? What the hell were you thinking?”

“You weren’t returning my calls.”

“My wife doesn’t need to be involved in this.”

“Really, Charlie? I think we both know better than that.”

“That was thirteen years ago.”

“What’s the statute of limitations on embezzlement? What about evidence tampering? Or perjury?” The warden wasn’t exactly smiling, but it was close.

“Are you watching my house?”

“Not me, no. I just arrived.” The warden lit a cigarette and gestured at a second car down the block. “But, I do like to check on things I own.”

“You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?”

Beckett swallowed his anger, thinking how even the smallest pebble could start an avalanche. “We were friends, goddamn it.”

“No. William Preston was my friend. We were friends for twenty-one years, and now he’s dead, his face so badly beaten his own wife won’t recognize the corpse.”

“What do you want?”

“A prisoner killed one of my guards, one of my closest friends. That doesn’t happen in my world. Understand? It breaks the natural order of things. What do you think I want?”

“I don’t know where Adrian is.”

“But you’ll find him.”

“Let’s get a few things straight.” Beckett turned in his seat, large enough to fill the space, and frustrated enough to be dangerous. “You don’t own me, and threats are only good to a point. You asked me to keep Liz away from Adrian. Fine. I helped you with that because she’s not thinking straight and shouldn’t be near him anyway. You want inside track on where Adrian goes and what he does. That’s fine, too. He’s a killer, so fuck him. But you stay away from my wife. You stay away from my wife and my house. That’s the deal.”

“That was the deal. It’s different, now.”

“Why?”

“Because prisoners don’t kill guards. Not in my world. Not ever.”

It was said so flatly and coldly that Beckett felt an actual chill. “Jesus, you’re going to kill him.”

“I let you have Olivet so you could issue a warrant, a BOLO, an APB. Whatever you needed. Whatever it took. But this is how it plays between the two of us. You find Adrian for me, and your secret stays safe. Otherwise, I’ll rip it all down. Your world. Your wife’s world.”

“She doesn’t need to know about any of this. I’ll handle Adrian.”

“Handle? No.” The warden laughed, and it was bitter. “What do you know about handling a man like Adrian Wall? Nothing. You can’t. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You find out where he is and you call me. You call me first, and no one needs to know about your wife’s sins or the things you’ve done to protect her. She won’t like prison, and you won’t either. I can promise you that.”

Beckett sat silent for a long moment. It was coming apart; he could feel it. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

“I was never your friend,” the warden said. “Now, get the fuck out of my car.”

Beckett did as he was told. He stood in the road, hands clenched as the SUV rolled away, and the second one followed. Most times he could pretend his life was his own, that he’d never spilled his guts to a devil dressed as a friend. But he had. He’d been distraught and trusting and overwhelmed with guilt. Now, he was this half man, this slave. He reminded himself there were reasons, then thought of his wife, who was forty-three and gentle and lovely to her bones.

She was in the kitchen when he found her, a ring of blue flame on the stove. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure baby. I’m fine.”

“What did he want?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“You sure?”

“All is well. I promise.”

She bought the smile and the lie, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Grab the bacon for me?”

“Sure.”

Beckett opened the fridge and saw the beer can on the top shelf. “What is this?”

His wife looked up from the stove. “Oh, that. The warden brought it for you last night. I told him you don’t drink beer, but he said you’d like that one. Isn’t it Australian?”

“Foster’s. Yes.” Beckett put the beer on the counter. It was cold. He was cold.

“It’s a shame, really.”

“What’s that?”

She cracked an egg in the pan, and the edges cooked solid. “You two were so close, once.”