Ashes to Ashes (24 page)

Morning had arrived.

Ashe thought about Katherine and how crazy
everything must seem to her. He had to run out on her for a second
time, after leaving behind a story of death and a fleeing son. Part
of him wanted to go back home, hoping that she had stayed, as he
had begged her to. He could take her back to bed, leave everything
else behind. But how could he expect her to stay? She would have
over a million reasons to run the instant that he had stepped out
the door. He came with too much baggage. He came with too much
fucked up shit for any one woman to want to deal with.

It was karma. He was not superstitious but
that was the only word that seemed to fit the situation. Karma.
What goes around, comes around.

Instead of going home, Ashe went to work.

Chapter 27

Ashe felt grungy, stiff and stale in the
dirty clothing that he had hurriedly thrown on upon leaving the
house. They had been within arm’s reach and he hadn’t been willing
to search through his closet or dresser. It hadn’t mattered at that
moment. Thankfully, he always kept an extra set of work clothes in
the closet of his office. A nice shirt. Slacks. And black socks.
Upon returning to work, he changed into the spare clothes and felt
slightly better. He wished for a hot shower but immediately knew
that it was out of the question.

After putting his body load onto his chair,
Ashe went to reach for Scott’s journal, which had been left behind
the day before. Apparently it had been a clue purposely left behind
by Scott, in order to steer Ashe in the right direction.

The right direction toward where? And why
didn’t Scott simply explain thing himself? Why the cloak and
dagger? That type of behavior showed possible paranoia. A rational
person wouldn’t leave a trail of abstract clues hoping they would
lead to the right place. That was…a little crazy. He hated using
the word when it came to his son. He hated using that the word at
all. However, until a better label could be assigned, that word
would have to do.

The day before he had walked away from the
journal, certain that it was nothing more than what it appeared to
be, a notebook filled with abstract images. However, Scott had
insisted that the dream journal was more than that. But Ashe still
had trouble understanding what.

What could the dream journal possibly show
him?

What evidence did Scott’s dreams hold?

Before grasping the notebook, Ashe instead
retracted his hand and pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open,
he stared at it for several seconds. He considered calling
Katherine, but instead called the guards station. A male guard, one
he couldn’t instantly place by voice, answered.

“This is Dr. Walters.”

“Good morning, sir,” the young guard
replied.

“Is Tye on duty this morning?” Ashe
asked.

“Already out walking B-block, sir,” the guard
answered. “You know how compulsively anal he is about his morning
strolls, sir.” The guard giggled.

“Does he have a com on him?” Ashe replied,
ignoring the humor.

“Always, sir.”

“Could you connect me to his com?”

“Yes, sir,” the guard answered.
“Connecting…now.”

A series of beeps came over the phone and
ended with the voice of Tye, “Hello. Tye here. How are you this
morning?”

“Good morning, Tye,” Ashe said.

“Dr. Walters?”

“Where are the D-block cons at right this
second, Tye?” Ashe asked. D-block was also known as Diamond-Block
due to the types of people who got sent there. Rich. Wealthy. Each
inmate got their own cell, while other blocks piled the inmates on
top of each other. Ashe always had an issue with D-block, because
he never fully understood why someone with money should get special
treatment. And how it would even be legal. It wasn’t right. At one
point early in his career, he had questioned the higher ups and
will never repeat the action.

It wasn’t worth it.

Ashe quickly learned where he stood in the
hierarchy of the prison. He sometimes joked to himself that he
stood just above the guards and just below the inmates of
D-block.

“Chow,” Tye told him. “Breakfast, sir.”

Ashe thought for a second. He had known the
answer. Breakfast was served at six a.m. sharp, no sooner or later.
“Could you do me a favor and take Franklin Barrett back to his
cell. I need to speak with him. It is important that I have a few
minutes alone with him.”

“You want to come onto D-block?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t I just bring Mr. Barrett to your
office?”

“This isn’t an official session or meeting,”
Ashe said. “I just need to talk to him for a minute or two. Can you
help me?”

“Off the books?”

“Off the books,” Ashe complied.

“Can do, boss,” Tye replied. “Give me ten
minutes?”

“No problem,” Ashe said. “Thanks, old
man.”

“Any time.”

And he was gone.

Picking up the dream journal, Ashe flipped to
a page near the middle of the notebook and began to read another
paragraph.

…
Just when I believe that I have woke up
and gotten away from the snarling beast, I realize that I am still
in the dream, but only a second before the beast comes through the
wall at me. I’m just glad that I can’t feel its teeth as it rips
into my flesh…

Ashe dropped the notebook back onto the desk
and groaned. He reached down to the area beside the desk where his
laptop sat, contained safely in a leather carrying case. The
leather case had been left inside of his Mazda last night, or else
it might have been left behind, like his work clothes.

What he had left behind, along with a clean
wardrobe, was Katherine, confused but understanding. He wouldn’t be
surprised if she never called him again.

He put the thoughts to the side.

Finding and right-clicking on the proper
file, Ashe scrolled down through the contents and quickly found
what he was looking for. Barrett was being held in D-block, Cell
23.

D-block felt like miles from his office,
miles that Ashe power walked. His breath became heavy. Sweat beaded
at his brow. But he managed to make it to Barrett’ cell in time to
watch the barred door close and lock. The sound of the locks
engaging gave Ashe a small smirk. He found himself happy the man
would spend the rest of his life behind the cold, hard, steel
bars.

“He’s all yours, boss,” Tye told him and then
walked off.

Ashe approached the bars and looked into the
cell, finding Barrett already sitting on his bed. The bulbs on the
block were lit but there was little light in the actual cells,
causing the murderer to appear as little more than a sitting
shadow. Ashe pictured Hannibal Lecter, the genius cannibal from the
Thomas Harris novels. He had to remind himself that the man behind
the bars was not a criminal mastermind but a leech, a parasite who
killed his own family.

Closing his eyes, Ashe had to face the truth.
He no longer viewed Barrett as a patient, but as something he
loathed. The line dividing the professional from the personal has
been bending and cracking to the point that he wasn’t sure he would
be able to put it back to gather. He could no longer remain
detached, dispassionate.

How could he ever be objective again?

How could he do his job?

Opening his eyes, Ashe was startled to find
Barrett at the bar, gaping at his face. The man’s hair was loose
and falling at all different angles. There was a glint in his eyes,
something that chilled Ashe’s skin.

“Doctor,” the killer greeted.

“Mr. Barrett,” Ashe replied.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes,” Ashe said. “Have you ever met my
son?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Barrett answered,
his head cocked slightly to the side.

Ashe looked closely at the murderer, vividly
remembering the first time that he had seen the man, not even
forty-eight hours before. During that first session, Barrett seemed
broken, retreating into a shell of grief and guilt. But the man in
front of Ashe appeared different, confident and curious, as if he
was a bird inspecting a worm before eating it.

But why? Why the change?

It wasn’t the first time that Ashe had seen
the change in Franklin Barrett. During their second session, the
killer had reacted to Ashe’s questions by changing into a different
creature, but at the time Ashe had been too angry to fully take
notice.

Was it simple aggression that caused Barrett
to come out of his shell?

The psychologist took a second to think about
it and came to a quick conclusion. Barrett had thrown out the name
of Steven Reynolds, which had obviously hurt and weakened him. It
had granted the murderer a sense of power and possible control.
Somewhere inside of Barrett, in spite of the fact that he was
locked away for life in a maximum security prison, a sense of
prestige, hierarchy, and even birthright still seemed to exist.
Maybe it was hardwired in every Barrett, earned or not. All that
Ashe knew for sure was that he might be able to use those feelings
and ideas of superiority against the killer. Barrett felt that he
stood tall overtop of Ashe, high over the head of the psychologist,
and Ashe would use that height to bring Mr. Barrett back to ground
level. He would take out his knees and watch the man fall.

“You’ve never met my son, Scott Walters?”
Ashe asked, backing a few steps away from cell door. “Are you
sure?”

“That is what I just said,” Barrett assured
him. “I don’t normally hang out with high school kids.”

“He’s in college, actually,” Ashe corrected
him.

“Either…or,” the killer stated. “He is
probably an overachiever like his father. Straight A student in the
psychology department?”

“No…not psychology,” Ashe said. “He is more
of a sportsman…but still a bright bulb, though. How did you do in
school, Mr. Barrett? You seem like an intelligent man. You probably
had the big university education. Harvard? Yale?”

“Neither,” Barrett admitted. “I’m more street
smart than book smart. Real life experiences can teach a person
more than a book ever could. I hung around my old man’s offices
instead of some college campus and I am a better and wiser man for
it. He taught me everything I needed to know about the family
business.”

“Were you and your father close?”

“At times,” he replied.

“How does he feel about where you are
now?”

The killer hesitated.

“He doesn’t feel shit,” Barrett said. “He is
dead and buried going on 5 years now. Only thing he feels are the
worms in his nostrils and Satan’s pitchfork in his ass.”

“You think your father went to Hell?” Ashe
asked.

“I’m sure he did.”

“Do you think you will see him again?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Barrett
replied.

“Do you think that you are going to Hell, Mr.
Barrett?”

The face of Franklin Barrett turned red and
his lips clenched shut. Cocking his head, he cracked the joints in
his neck, before turning and walking away from the bars. He took a
few steps toward the back wall of his cell and stopped. He stood
still for nearly a minute before putting himself back at the barred
door.

“We are not talking about damnation,” the
killer stated. “That is for God to decide.”

“And you are privileged enough to have spoken
with God, as I recall,” Ashe said. “Isn’t that what you said?”

“I never said that,” Barrett corrected. “No
man is privileged enough to speak to God.”

“What about Moses?”

No answer.

“What about Noah?”

No answer.

“Wait. Hold on,” Ashe began. “You said that
your eyes were opened…by God. Is that right? Isn’t that what you
said? What did you mean by that? If God doesn’t speak to you, then
how did he open your eyes?”

“He showed me,” the man said.

“He showed you what?” Ashe asked.

“The truth,” Barrett replied.

“The truth about what?”

The murderer began to glare at Ashe. “Death,”
Barrett answered. “He showed me the truth about death.”

“He showed you…how to kill, you mean?” Ashe
asked. “How to kill your family?”

Barrett had to be speaking about
hallucinations, but the man insisted that he had never heard any
voices. Had he seen something, instead? Ashe wondered. Was the
hallucination that had caused him to kill his family a visual one?
The presence of a hallucination of that caliber would point toward
a psychotic disorder or psychotic break, possibly
schizophrenia.

But what did one man’s psychotic break have
to do with Scott?

“Is that what happened,” Ashe asked.

“No…you idiot,” Barrett responded. “God
showed me the truth about death, the same way that Steven Reynolds
showed
you.
By putting it right in your face…without any
chance of turning away.”

Ashe contained his gut reaction to the name,
holding his emotions at bay. His face remained still and calm,
lacking emotion. He wouldn’t show how the name made him feel. He
would simply act unfazed. He would take away the power that it gave
Franklin Barrett.

He took a step closer.

“That is not what Steven Reynolds showed me,”
he said. “Steven Reynolds showed me how a coward and psychopath can
kill an innocent person.
That
is what Steven Reynolds showed
me.”

Barrett began to laugh and the sound was
cold. It echoed around the cell.

“Like I said,” the killer replied. “He showed
you death.”

“Your wife and son were innocent,” Ashe told
him. “Just like my wife.”

“They were not innocent,” Barrett
growled.

“How do you know?”

“God showed me,” the man replied, still
growling.

“Do you know what a hallucination is, Mr.
Barrett?” Ashe barked. “A hallucination is a perception brought on
by one or more senses that appears to be real but is not based in
reality. Do you understand that definition? Do you see what it may
imply in this situation?”