Текст книги "Within These Walls"

Автор книги: Ania Ahlborn

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

33

VEE WAITED FOR her dad to pull out of the driveway before sprinting up the stairs. She grabbed her laptop, tucked it beneath her arm, and took the risers two at a time down to his study. Flipping open the laptop lid, she paused to peek out the window—just a quick double check to make sure he hadn’t decided to turn back. She tugged the printer USB cable out of her dad’s computer and plugged it into her own.

34

LUCAS ROLLED UP to what he assumed was Echo’s house. It was the only place anywhere near Montlake Road for at least two miles. It was a little Craftsman-style house in need of a fresh coat of paint, but the flaking clapboard—once a bright red—gave the place a cozy feel. The faded cranberry color scheme was picturesque against a backdrop of never-ending green.

He climbed the four steps to the covered front porch, cast a glance at an old wooden rocker that sat empty in the corner, and knocked on the edge of the wood-trimmed screen door. What looked to be a homemade wreath of lowercase wooden letters hung cockeyed over the door’s mullioned window, promising him that all you need is love.

Echo appeared on the other side of the door a moment later, peeking through one of the glass panes before beaming a bright smile at him. “Lucas!” She greeted him with about as much enthusiasm as the oddly starstruck Josh Morales. Swinging the front door wide, she held open the screen door, waiting for him to come inside.

“Hey, I hope this isn’t a bad time.” He stepped into a house far dimmer than he had expected it to be. Mismatched drapes hung from the windows, giving the place a bohemian feel. The scent of burned incense clambered up his nose. He cast a glance at a small table holding a vase, a strange bouquet of pine branches and twigs poking out from the mouth of the vessel.

“No, not at all. I was just reading. Can I get you some coffee?”

Lucas didn’t have time for coffee. Could Echo watch Jeanie or not? He had a long drive ahead of him, and if he got to Lambert early, he could stop by the prison and harass Lumpy Annie about seeing Halcomb before his meeting with Josh and Marty. But he couldn’t be rude, either. He was a guest here, and needed a favor.

“Sure,” he said. “That would be great.”

Echo motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen and he did so, taking in all the kitsch along the way. The walls were covered in various paintings and tapestries—old landscapes in frames of questionable quality, a macramé tapestry with wooden beads hanging from its fringe. A portrait of a woman with cropped dark hair hung just shy of the kitchen’s entrance. A little girl wearing a crown of daisies was poised on her hip.

“Is this your mother?” Lucas asked, pausing to take in the photograph.

“That’s her,” Echo replied from the depths of the kitchen. She pushed aside a few drapes to let in some light, illuminating a million dust motes with the motion. Gathering a couple of mugs from a cabinet, she placed a can of Folgers on the counter. “That picture was taken by Derrick Fink,” she said. The mention of Derrick’s name made Lucas’s skin crawl. It was strange to hear it brought up so casually, as though Derrick had been nothing more than a family friend, not a face that had made headlines.

“That’s incredible.” He murmured the words more to himself than to Echo, but she heard him regardless.

“Not really,” she said. “I mean, if you take away all the stuff you’ve read in the papers, they were all regular people. Good people.” She paused, scooped a few spoons of coffee grounds into the coffeemaker’s basket, and smiled. “Like you and me.”

That was what got to Lucas the most—the fact that everyone involved with Halcomb had been “regular.” Normal. Not demented. Not psychotic. Not weird and creepy with inexplicable religious beliefs. They were simply people. Shelly Riordan, Laura Morgan, Audra Snow . . . they had been like Jeanie. And yet somehow, they ended up swept off their feet by a madman’s musings.

“What happened to her?” Lucas asked, drawing his gaze away from the portrait and stepping into the kitchen. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“My mom?” Echo shrugged her shoulders, as though her mother’s fate had no real bearing on her life. But despite the casual response, Lucas could tell the question bothered her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being way too forward.”

She waved a hand at him. “Oh, please. I’m the one who brought all that stuff over to you. If I didn’t want you asking questions, I should have probably kept to myself.” She filled the coffeemaker with water and flipped the switch, then moved across the kitchen to the little table that sat next to the window. Sliding a mess of mail and books and receipts away from its middle, she took a seat and motioned for Lucas to do the same. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “I don’t usually have guests.” A pause. “Actually, I don’t ever have guests.” She laughed. Lucas cracked a faint smile. “After what happened over at your place, my mom got really depressed. I mentioned that she and Audra were best friends. Well, she took what happened to Audra pretty hard.”

“I can imagine.”

“When all of this was going on, I was staying with my grandmother a lot. She lived just outside of town, a quick fifteen-minute drive.” She shrugged again, gave him a wistful smile. “But something happened. Being so young, I can only assume what. Suddenly I wasn’t staying with Gran anymore. I remember that vividly. I just can’t remember if it was Gran telling my mom that she wouldn’t take care of me any longer, or whether it was my mom refusing to take me over to Gran’s anymore.”

“What do you think happened?” Lucas asked.

“I think my grandmother found out about Jeff,” she said matter-of-factly. “She probably got spooked by something my mom told her about the group. I ended up staying with an aunt just outside of Portland full-time after that. All the while, my mom was here. And then things got crazy—the group killed themselves, Audra died, Jeff got arrested. My mom killed herself a few weeks after that.”

“Jesus,” Lucas murmured. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

Another shrug. “Life is hard. Death is easy.”

“What about your dad?”

“Never knew him.” Echo leaned back in her seat. “For all I know, he might pop out of the woodwork one day. That would be a trip, right? So, the photos I brought over . . . they’re helpful?”

Lucas looked away from the pile of junk on the table and gave her a nod. “Yeah, I can’t thank you enough. It’s all incredible. They belong to you? If I wanted to obtain rights to reprint them in the book, who would I ask?”

“Everything in the box that I gave you came from my mom,” Echo said. “All her stuff was legally passed on to me when I turned eighteen. So I guess you’d ask me.” Another smile. “It’s nice to finally have someone living so close by. Weird that you’re writing about Jeff, but I guess that’s what you call a happy coincidence.”

“I guess so,” Lucas said.

“The last family who lived in your house only stayed for a few months. They were a lot like you and Virginia, just a man and his son. But we never did gel.”

“Why’d they leave?”

“Something about work,” she said. “They broke their lease and moved to Seattle, I think. Maybe Vancouver. But I never did believe it was work related.” She paused, gave him a knowing look. “I think it was the house.”

The back of Lucas’s neck bristled. Had something happened to the man and his son that had driven them away? Like maybe the kitchen table magically ending up in the middle of the living room? Had they found people wandering around the property, holding séances and fire-lit rituals in an attempt to speak to the dead?

“Do you know who they were?” he asked. “Their names, I mean? Maybe I could interview them, see what drove them out.”

“Unfortunately, no,” she said. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they took off when someone told them what happened there. I doubt they were aware of the history of the place. Or maybe they picked up on it on their own despite not knowing where they were living. Some people are really sensitive to those types of things. On some level, I think we’re all a little psychic. Maybe they just couldn’t handle it.”

“Handle what?” Lucas asked.

“The shift in energy,” she said.

“I don’t know.” Lucas leaned back in his seat, skeptical. “What’s done is done.”

Echo gave him a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”

The coffeemaker blipped behind her. She rose from her seat and moved back to the counter, poured two cups, and returned to her seat. “Jeff wasn’t a bad guy,” she said. “None of them were. I just hope that your book reflects that rather than rolling with the whole, you know . . .” She frowned, shook her head, and took a sip of coffee. “The satanic thing.”

Lucas nodded, though he couldn’t help but wonder where Echo was garnering her sympathy for Jeff. He was a murderer. Except, rather than killing with a knife, he did it with the power of persuasion. If Echo’s mother had been as close to the group as it seemed, she’d been lucky to escape Halcomb with her life, regardless of whether she had cut that life short in the end. If Echo’s mother had had the slightest inkling of what Halcomb would end up doing to Audra Snow, he doubted she’d have been posing for family photos with Echo in tow.

He tapped his fingers against the rim of his mug, a question balanced at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to ask if Echo’s mother was close enough to Halcomb to be in the group, but he wasn’t sure it was appropriate. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to put her off and risk having her take back the photos.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, cutting him off midthought.

Lucas glanced up at her, reflexively feigning innocence.

“There were a lot of people like my mother out there, a lot of outsiders who began to creep in. From what I understand, Jeff never was one to turn away a willing set of ears. He loved to talk about his philosophy and people loved to listen.”

“Your mother—” he began, but Echo didn’t allow him to finish.

“My mother is beside the point,” she said. “What’s important is that the people who died that day weren’t the only ones who believed in what Jeff was preaching. The kids that died here . . .” She shook her head with a knowing look. “I’ve read all the news articles and the biographies, probably as many times as you have. The media spun it so that it was sensational. Demon worship, satanism—all that is a lie. My mother was a good person, just like Jeff and his family were. She would have never associated with the type of person the papers painted Jeff to be. But that stuff sells.” She leveled her gaze on him. “That stuff sells books.”

“I only want to tell the whole story,” Lucas told her.

“After the papers scared everyone, they dispelled public fear by saying that Halcomb’s true believers were limited to the kids who died here that day. Everyone seems to think that the ones who were here were the only people who loved Jeff enough to sacrifice themselves for him. But they’re wrong.”

Because there was January Moore, a self-sacrifice thirty years too late. Lucas had no doubt there were others, but how could he track down nameless ghosts? Lucas furrowed his eyebrows, picturing dozens, maybe even hundreds of Halcomb’s Faithful living quietly out in the world. Guys like Charles Manson got mail because they were accessible, they wanted to talk. But Halcomb had become a ghost himself. He refused interviews and TV appearances. Guys like Halcomb were forgotten, their own crimes buried beneath more recent, heinous acts played out by far more vocal criminals. And yet Jeff received stacks of envelopes from a secret fan club. And here, at Jeff’s old stomping ground, Lucas was seeing people in the orchard, he was hearing things, items were being moved. Pictures hung upside down.

“And what was Halcomb’s philosophy? Do you know?”

She shifted in her seat, stared at her coffee cup. Eventually, she spoke. “That if you live right, you can live forever.”

“Literally?”

She lifted a shoulder to her ear.

“Like what he was telling the kids in Veldt?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never been to Veldt.”

His gaze settled on her face. “But do you believe it?”

Echo stared at him for a long while, and for a second he could see it in her eyes—the uneasy spark of being found out, of being caught. “I’m just a helper,” she reminded him. “I had what I thought you might want, that’s all. Speaking of which . . .” She placed her cup on the table. “Here I am rambling about my mother without ever asking to what I owe the pleasure of your visit.”

Lucas blinked, suddenly shifting his attention from his mug to his cell. He yanked it out of his pocket and checked the time. Shit. He’d been at Echo’s place for over forty-five minutes, and Selma had yet to return his call. “Christ.”

“Gotta run?” Echo asked.

“Yes, I do. But that’s exactly why I came over.”

“Oh?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but I’m kind of out of options here.” He gave her a pleading look. “Would it be possible for you to come over for the afternoon and watch Virginia? I have an interview with a couple of guards . . .”

Echo straightened in her seat. “Guards?”

“Yeah, from the prison out in Lambert.”

She glowered, as if disturbed by the news. “For the book?”

“I’m not sure yet. I hope so. But I have to leave in, like, fifteen minutes.”

Echo’s gaze flitted to her cup, then back to him.

“I can pay you,” he offered, sensing her trepidation.

“No, it isn’t that,” she said. “I’m just surprised. We don’t know each other that well. I’m not sure Virginia would be happy about some stranger babysitting her for the day.”

“She suggested it,” he said.

Echo perked. “Really?”

His gut told him that he should figure something else out. He could take Jeanie with him to Lambert, drop her off at a Barnes & Noble, and go about his business. Sure, Echo had saved his ass with the box of stuff and yes, she was the object of Lucas’s current intrigue, but she was still a stranger. He could trust her to water the plants or check the mail, but not to watch the love of his life.

“You know what? Never mind. I shouldn’t even have asked, putting you out like this . . . It’s insane.”

“It’s okay,” Echo said. Lucas got up.

“Thanks for the coffee. We’ll definitely get together again soon—”

But Echo cut him off.

“No, seriously, I’d love to do it.” She rose from her seat and, with a defined sense of determination, left the kitchen to grab her bag.

35

VEE HEARD THE car crunch up the driveway. She shoved her clothes back to where they originally were on the closet rod, pushed an empty cardboard box into the corner, and closed her closet door. When she finally stepped into the upstairs hall, she was just in time to catch Echo following her father inside.

Echo tilted her chin upward and gave Vee a warm smile. “Hello, Virginia,” she said. “Remember me?”

Vee caught her bottom lip between a row of teeth, unable to help wondering if suggesting Echo coming over was the most fabulous idea. She seemed nice enough, but there was something about her that tied Vee’s stomach into a loose knot. Suspicion. Vee had never been all that great around strangers. Try harder.

“Hey,” she finally said. “Yeah, I remember. Hi.” She forced a smile before slowly descending the stairs.

“Sorry, you two get acquainted, I need to . . .” Vee’s dad stopped midsentence, as if cycling through all the stuff he had to get done before hitting the road, random things he’d not realized would take as long as they would. He passed Vee on the staircase like a whirlwind. A moment later, the pipes groaned in the walls.

Vee pulled her attention from her dad’s bedroom door to Echo, who was inspecting the place like a tenant looking to rent. She eventually looked back up to Vee, who had stopped in mid-descent, not sure whether she should go all the way down to the ground floor.

Echo arched a questioning brow over one eye, then gave Vee a knowing sort of grin. “He’s like that all the time, huh?” she asked. Vee nodded, still unsure. “Well, between you and me, my dad was the same way.”

“Really?” Vee rubbed at the back of her neck, surprised by the unexpected confession.

“Really, but don’t tell. I told your dad I never knew who my father was.”

“Why?”

Echo shrugged. “Eh. I guess I sensed that they were probably both alike,” she said. “And I didn’t feel like telling your dad that my dad hardly knew I existed. What’s the point of talking about someone like that? You may as well say you never knew them at all.”

Vee considered that logic. She thought about refuting it, wanted to argue that her dad knew she existed—he was just really busy. But something about defending him after being forgotten the day before brought a sourness to the back of her tongue. Why should she defend him? Yesterday, he had promised to take her to the beach. Today, he had promised to take a day off and take her to Seattle. Both vows were empty and worthless.

“Hey, maybe we can take a walk along the coast,” Echo suggested. “Have you gone yet?”

Vee shook her head that she hadn’t.

Echo gave her a dubious stare. “You aren’t even a quarter of a mile away and you haven’t gone yet? Oh, you poor girl.”

She was supposed to have gone yesterday, but no, thanks to dear ol’ dad.

Echo was right, Vee was a poor girl. And maybe Echo had been a poor girl, too. Maybe, finally, Vee had found someone who understood what it was like.

NORTHWEST NEWS 1 TRANSCRIPT

Aired April 2nd, 1986 – 06:15 PST

JAMES MARKEL, NWN1 REPORTER: Breaking news this morning regarding Washington State congressman Terrance Snow.

(Begin Video Clip)

JAMES MARKEL, NWN1 REPORTER: Police report that Congressman Snow’s vehicle, a silver Lincoln Continental, was found having veered off the road a few miles north of Thurston County’s Schneider Creek. The vehicle, traveling northbound on US Highway 101, was involved in a possible sideswipe scenario, causing the congressman to lose control of the car.

(End Video Clip)

JAMES MARKEL, NWN1 REPORTER: Both the congressman and his wife, Susana Clairmont Snow, were pronounced dead at the scene. President Reagan issued a statement early this morning regarding the congressman’s untimely passing.

(Begin Video Clip)

PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN: Nancy and I were saddened to hear of the passing of our friend and congressman Terry Snow. Terry was a great leader. He led with diligence and honor. We will truly miss his presence and his unwavering devotion to our great country.

(End Video Clip)

JAMES MARKEL, NWN1 REPORTER: The couple lost their daughter and only child, Audra Snow, three years ago at the hand of cult killer Jeffrey Halcomb. Congressman Snow has been using the Halcomb case to strengthen his argument for retaining the death penalty as a form of punishment in Washington State. He was due to speak on the Congress floor regarding his capital punishment stance later this month. NEWS 1 will continue to report story details, as well as keep you informed of plans as they develop regarding a memorial for the congressman and his wife.

36

LUCAS PULLED THE Honda into the Chili’s parking lot, tucked a hardcover copy of Bloodthirsty Times beneath his arm, and stepped into the restaurant. He spotted Josh and Marty just left of the door. Josh raised a hand, motioning him over.

The two coworkers were already snacking on a plate of nachos when Lucas took a seat. A cola sat at Josh’s elbow, fizzing in a plastic mug fashioned to look like a heavy-bottomed beer glass. Marty had a matching mug, his filled with pale yellow pilsner.

“Hello again,” Lucas said, extending a hand to Marty for a formal introduction. “Lucas. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Good to officially meet ya,” Marty said. “I bought your book. It’s good. Really good. I sure would appreciate an autograph, if you don’t mind doing that sort of thing.”

“Not at all.” Lucas took a seat and gave the two corrections officers a pensive smile. “Speaking of which . . .” He held his book out to Josh, who immediately brightened.

“Thanks, man,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”

Lucas shook his head and held up his hands. “Don’t worry about it. This meeting is payment enough. Consider it a thank-you.”

“Hey, thanks a lot.” Josh reached out and swatted the back of Lucas’s shoulder, then flipped through the pages of his new book. “It must be pretty cool getting your stuff published, huh? It’s like, even after you’re gone, this book will still be here. Almost like immortality.”

“Well . . .” Lucas gave Josh an indulgent look. “Until it goes out of print.”

“What? Why would it go out of print?” Josh peered at the thick volume before him, then gave Lucas a dubious glance.

“Just the nature of the beast.”

“Ebooks,” Marty cut in. Both Lucas and Josh turned their attention to the man who looked even more like a grown-up Goonie out of uniform than he did in it. “You know, ebooks?” he asked. “Those don’t go out of print. They’re just a file sitting on a server, right?”

“That’s true. Ebooks will save the world. So, Josh mentioned that you have a family emergency,” Lucas said, veering the conversation toward the point. “Hope everything is okay.”

Marty shrugged and peered down at his beer. “Wife’s pop,” he said. “He’s been sick for a while. It’s been a long time comin’. The old man finally gave up the fight.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Lucas told him.

“It’s all right,” Marty said. “The old guy was a pain in the ass, if I don’t mind sayin’ so myself. Never did like me much. But when the wife’s pop dies, you drop everything and fly out to the funeral to hold her hand.” He dislodged a cheese-covered chip from a mountain of nachos, stuck it in his mouth, and crunched down. “You married?”

Lucas hesitated just long enough for Marty to catch on.

“Divorced, then. Yeah, it happens. Me, I’ve been married for thirty years this September. I keep telling Josh here to get himself hitched, but he listens as well as a deaf guy.”

Josh raised both eyebrows at his coworker. “Who am I supposed to marry, Marty? I don’t even have a girlfriend. Besides, mi madre is a picky woman. If the girl doesn’t stack up to Our Lady of Guadalupe, she’s a putana and gets her ass thrown out onto the street.”

Marty barked out a laugh and chomped another chip. Lucas nodded at the waitress who approached. “Just water for me, thanks.” The girl wandered away, and the conversation at the table waned into silence.

“So,” Lucas said after a moment, “rumor has it you may have some information about Jeffrey Halcomb that could be useful? Josh mentioned a visitor.”

Marty nodded and wiped his mouth with the corner of a napkin. “All off the record, though, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Lucas agreed.

“I’m being dead serious here. Because the last thing I need is to be losing my job, you know? If that happens, I’m gonna be divorced, too, and let me tell you, a sad sack like me can’t afford a breakup. I’m not a fancy world-famous writer like you.”

Lucas bit back a comment. Yeah fucking right, he thought. The sob story I could tell you, Marty. It would break your goddamn heart. Instead, he forced a smile and offered more reassurance. “This will all be anonymous, if I use any of it. This is all for background information, I promise.”

“You swear?” Marty asked. “We don’t have to sign some sort of paper or anything like that?”

“Only if you don’t trust me,” Lucas said.

Marty and Josh exchanged looks, as if considering their options. Finally, Marty exhaled a breath and murmured, “Shit, forget it. Whatever happens happens, right? Dance like nobody’s watchin’.”

“What?” Josh laughed.

“It’s something the wife always says.”

“Oh, okay.” Josh peered at his friend, then gave Lucas a look that swore he had no idea Marty was so sensitive.

“Anyway, after Josh told me you were writing a book about the guy, I kept my eyes peeled. You know, just in case? I’m pretty close with a few of the guys on the row. And we just call it the row because we don’t know what else to call it—it isn’t death row, but I’m sure you know that already.”

“Sure,” Lucas said.

“But even in supermax, you’ve got inmates, and then you’ve got inmates. They’re good men, really; just folks who took a misstep and ended up on the wrong side of the law. Could happen to anybody, if you ask me.”

Lucas wasn’t sure how right Marty was on that point if they were being held in supermax, but he kept his silence, simply nodding to urge him on.

“I gotta admit, though, Jeffrey Halcomb . . .” Marty paused, squinted as if considering his next string of words. “Halcomb is a creepy dude.”

“How so?” Lucas asked.

“That’s the thing. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch.”

“And it’s not just you who thinks that way, either, right, Marty?” Josh chimed in.

“No, it’s almost all the inmates on the row—at least the ones who have any contact with him at all . . . which isn’t much, by the way. Those guys stay in their cells for twenty-three hours a day. They don’t get rec time the way you think they do, like they did in that Shawshank movie. Whatever free time they get, they spend alone in an animal pen.”

Lucas motioned for Marty to hold that thought. He dropped his messenger bag onto his lap and pulled out his digital recorder. “You mind?” he asked.

Marty gave the recorder the side-eye, then shot Morales a look. “You weren’t kidding,” he said, then turned his attention back to Lucas. “You’re really going to quote me on this stuff?”

“As an anonymous source. And only if you let me. You won’t be named.”

Marty leaned back in his seat, the chair groaning beneath his weight. He was grinning, as though someone had just promised him a gig on TV. “Hell, I’ll let you put my family photo in your book if it didn’t cost me my job. It would give my wife something to brag about to that windbag of a mother of hers. The mother-in-law always did like giving me crap for not making much of myself.”

“See,” Josh said. “You tell me to get married, and then you follow up the suggestion with shit like that.”

Lucas exhaled a laugh and placed the recorder on the table. A small light glowed red next to Eperson’s sweating beer glass. “Okay. You were saying that you think Jeffrey Halcomb is creepy, that all the inmates you interact with share the same sentiment.”

“Off the record?” Marty asked one last time.

“Yes, off the record,” Lucas assured him.

“Most of the guards that work the row think he’s damn weird, too,” Marty continued. “But as I said, you can’t really figure out what it is about the guy that makes him so strange. He’s just got this . . .” He moved his hands in front of him in crude semicircles, searching for the right word.

“Vibe,” Josh cut in. “Tell him about that one guy. Halcomb’s neighbor.”

Neighbor.

Lucas’s thoughts were momentarily derailed, his attention tumbling away from the conversation and to Jeanie 150 miles away. A sickening sense of having chosen the wrong option crept beneath his skin. What if he returned to an empty house? What if he stepped inside and Jeanie was gone, lost forever, all because he had to take a meeting, had to chase the dream of fixing his broken life by writing another blockbuster? Did he really believe that a million sales would win Caroline back? Would she care, or would she simply smile and hand him divorce papers and murmur sorry, Lou, before climbing into asshole Kurt Murphy’s brand-new sports car?

“Yeah, his neighbor,” Marty said, pulling Lucas’s attention back to the conversation. “There was a guy a few years ago, he was new to the row. Schwartz. He came in on murder charges. Double homicide. My memory is fuzzy because he wasn’t around for long, but I’m pretty sure he slashed up his wife and kid.”

“Was he transferred to a different facility, or . . . ?”

Marty shook his head. “No, no, he stabbed himself to death, right in the neck.” Marty gripped a butter knife in his hand, as if considering a reenactment. “And that was pretty damn strange, because of the stuff I do remember, that Schwartz guy was a tough bastard. The kind that taunts the guards. Not a nice person. He was no soft heart bleeding out guilt behind bars.” He paused, gave Lucas a sideways grin. “That’ll make a good quote, huh? It’s got a nice ring to it. Anyway, Schwartz left a note that said he was going to join his wife and kid in the afterlife, but he didn’t say afterlife, he said eternal life.”

If you live right, you can live forever. Echo’s words.

A shudder cartwheeled down his back.

“And who do you think gave him that idea?” Josh asked, raising both eyebrows at him.

“Wait . . .” Lucas peered down at the recorder, held his tongue until the waitress—who had returned with his water—took their orders and meandered away. “So, this inmate, Schwartz,” Lucas continued. “He was in the cell next to Jeff Halcomb?”

“Yep.”

“And he was there for . . . how long?”

“I don’t know, a few months, give or take. Oh, and get this: he stabbed himself with a cross.”

Lucas’s mouth went dry. His thoughts tumbled to the cross Halcomb had left at the front desk—no, that someone had left at the desk for Halcomb. The prison would have never allowed an item like that in a supermax cell. Yet somehow, there it was. Those guys could kill a man like Marty in two seconds flat, and yet Schwartz had used the weapon on himself rather than on somebody else.

“Jesus Christ,” Lucas said.

“If that’s who you believe in.” Marty popped another cheese-covered nacho into his mouth.

“How did he get something like that inside to begin with?” Lucas asked.

“I don’t know, really. I wasn’t on the case, I just heard about what was going on from other guards. But stuff like that happens on occasion. We get some clever visitors now and again, folks trying to smuggle stuff in every which way . . .”

“You don’t wanna know which way,” Josh said with a snort.

“And Schwartz wasn’t a suicide risk?” Lucas asked.

“Not that I know of,” Marty replied. “As I said, he was more of a riot risk than anything. He was edgy. The guards didn’t like him. He was definitely the kind of guy who would slash your throat if you gave him an inch.”

It seemed impossible. How could one man convince another to kill himself? How could one man have so much influence over a complete stranger—over a convicted murderer, no less?