JJ08 - Blood Money (24 page)

I lifted him a little higher and he raised his
arms
and
worked
the noose from around his neck. I then eased him to the cold tile floor, amazed again at how easy it was to lift him. He looked anorexic, and he was lighter than he looked.

“If
you’re
okay I wanna
try
to catch him before he leaves the
chapel.”

“Go ahead. I’m good.”

I dashed out the door, back through the fellowship hall, and into the chapel. Lance was right behind me, and when I stopped abruptly he slammed into me.

We
had
run
right into a small group of inmates, all of whom were wearing the pillowcase hoods to
cover
their faces.

They quickly surrounded
us,
putting us in the center of the circle they formed. They were all breathing
heavily,
their labored breaths coming fast and smelling bad.

“Chaplain, walk
away
now and you
live.”

They were all holding various weapons in their
hands,
from blunt objects found in the chapel to compound shivs and shanks.

I said, “I’ll make you all the same
offer.”

They laughed at that . . .Until they saw
Mr.
Smith leading Merrill into the chapel.

Their laughter
didn’t
fade, but stopped
suddenly,
as if it had been turned off.

They froze as he walked
over
toward
us.

“It’s
just attempted
assault,”
one of them said, easing his shank toward the floor.
“That’s
nothing.
We
cool.”

Just before his shank touched the floor, he flicked his wrist, the shank straightening, and he lunged at me. Coming in
low,
he was falling forward more than rushing.

I brought my knee up and it connected, bone to cartilage, blood bursting from his broken nose. His neck snapped back and he fell to the floor, the shank falling quietly on the carpet as he did.

The others began to slowly place their weapons on the floor.

“We
cool,” another one said.

“We’ve
heard that
before,”
Merrill said. “Get your asses on the ground.”

In another moment, all four inmates were on the ground.

“T
hose men were contract
killers,”
I said. “It
wasn’t
personal. They were doing it for someone
else.”

“That’s
what I figured,” Lance said.

He shook his head
slowly,
tears welling up in his clear blue
eyes.

We
were in the infirmary where
Dr.
Alvarez had just finished examining him. He was reclined on the bed closest to the door, and I was standing next to him.
We
were the only
two
people in the infirmary.

“They
have
a king of hearts with them?” he asked. “They had already put it in your
pocket.”

He nodded.

We
were quiet a moment. “Will they talk?” he asked.

I shook my head.
“Don’t
think
so.
The charges are nothing compared to what they already
have.
If
they’re
being paid as well as they say . . . they’ve got no reason to tell us
anything.”

“I get out soon. Got a great girlfriend. Big
plans.
I’m not safe. Could you
have
me transferred?”

I shook my head.
“Don’t
have
the
authority.
I can talk to Classification about
it.”

The tile floor beneath
my
feet gleamed with a shine to
rival
any hospital in the state, the result of
excessive
mopping, stripping, and waxing by inmate orderlies with not enough to
do.
The windows were as clear and as spotless as if they had not been there at all, but beyond them, the double chain-link fence and razor wire reminded us that no matter how clean it
was,
this was still a prison infirmary.

He nodded.
“I’d
appreciate
it.”

Through the square glass panes of the interior wall, I could see
Dr.
Alvarez walking down the hallway toward the medical conference room. He was walking slowly and seemed to be trying to overhear what we were
saying.

“Guy
gives
me the
creeps,”
Lance said. “If people knew the stuff he does down here.
We’re
like his own little private collection of guinea
pigs.”

“He
have
a connection to the Suicide Kings?” He
shrugged.
“We’ve
all spent time down
here.”
Jamie
Lee emerged from the back of the
hallway,
returning from a cigarette break. She smiled and
waved
as she walked by the open door, the smell of smoke and perfume swirling around
her.

“What about
Dr.
Baldwin?”

“We’ve
all been in her suicide prevention support group.
We’ve
all seen her
individually.
And we’ve all been in her hypnotherapy groups
too.”

“Tell
me about the
hypnotherapy.”

“What’s
there to tell?” he said, rubbing the bandage on his neck
absently.
“She thinks
it’s
the key to unlocking repressed traumas. She does a lot of regression
therapy.
You know,
taking you back to certain critical events of childhood.
She’s
good. She gets a lot of practice around
here.”

In front of me, the rows of toilets, sinks, and showers were dark and empty like the SOS cells across the
way,
but the officers’ station behind us was lit and occupied by an officer, who with the push of one button could hear everything we were
saying.

“Why all the interest in
hypnotherapy,
Chaplain?” Baldwin asked.

I turned to see her standing in the
doorway.
“Find it fascinating.”

“I believe in
it,”
she said. “I really
do,
but never as a shortcut. I never use it when more traditional forms of treatment’ll
work
just as well. Even if they take much longer. I care enough about my patients to invest the time. Right Lance?”

“Yes,
ma’am,” he said.
“Absolutely.”

“Can it be used to influence a patient to do something against his will?” I asked.

She was shaking her head before I finished.

“There’s
certainly some controversy and disagreement about that. But I for one firmly believe that even the strongest suggestion
won’t
be taken if
it’s
against the
person’s
will.”

“Haven’t
people in regression therapy falsely accused a parent or guardian of molesting them when they were children because a therapist planted the thought in their minds?”

“I am, of course, aware of such claims, but I
haven’t
seen anything
that’s
convinced me of it. I rather believe that the patients just backed down because of the social stigma and family
pressure.”

“But victims are in a very vulnerable and highly suggestible state when
they’re
under hypnosis, right?”

“Patients,”
she said. “Sorry?”

“You
said
victims
.
You
meant
patients.
It’s
true, the inducted person is
much
more suggestible, but not to do things against his will.”

“What if
it’s
something that they
don’t
have
a strong will about either
way,”
I said. “Is it possible to—”

“I
don’t
believe
so,
but come
by
some time and I’ll see what I can get you to
do,
okay?”

“R
ollins and Allen were in the chapel just before the latest attack on
Lance,”
I said.

Merrill nodded.

“What if they’re working together?” Anna asked. I nodded.
“Don’t
seem like the type that
would,
which might make it
genius.”

We
were sitting in a booth in the back at
Rudy’s
like we had so many times before, but this time Anna and I were together, had arrived together,
would
leave together, would
go
home together,
would wake
up together.

Wash.
Rinse. Repeat. Ad infinitum.

“You
ever talk to Donnie?” Merrill asked. “Foster?” I shook my head.

“His name keep coming
up.”

“It
does.
I should
have
by
now.
I’ve tried a few times, but I’ve missed him. Just been following where the case leads, but,
you’re
right, I need to—”

“I’s
just
asking.
Wasn’t
saying you should.”

“His name keeps coming up ’cause
he’s
a criminal,” Anna said.
“Also
why
he’s
avoiding you. If
he’s
not
involved
in this,
he’s
dirty on something.”

She was right. He was one of the ones who
shouldn’t
be allowed to
go
home at night.

Carla walked up with our food.

“Warden
and inspector were in here talking about the case
earlier,”
she said. “I eavesdropped on them.

Overheard a lot.”

“You
did?”

“I’m so freakin’
Veronica
Mars.”

“
Yes
you
are,”
I said.

“Who?” Merrill asked. She told him.

He
shrugged
indifferently.

Carla sat down beside him after placing our food on the table. All three of us were having a full breakfast of bacon, eggs, hash browns, grits, and pecan
waffles.
Anna was also having buttered biscuits and
gravy,
because the baby liked them.

“Love eatin’ breakfast at
night,”
Merrill said. “Me
too,”
Anna said.

“Me
three,”
I said.

Carla looked at me.
“You
like everything better at night.”

I smiled.
“Want
some?”

A look of horror appeared on her face.
“You
kidding? I
don’t
eat the shit they serve
here.”

A trucker in
Wrangler
jeans, cowboy
boots,
and a flannel shirt sat at the far end of the counter, finishing up an omelet and his fourth cup of coffee. Draped
over
the bar chair beside him was a two-tone brown down vest.

“There’s
nothing wrong with
it,”
she added. “I just eat, breathe, and sleep it every night. After a while you get sick of
anything.”

“Why I
didn’t
become a gynecologist,” Merrill said. “Sheeit, wife meet you at the door naked when come home from a long day at the office and you
say,
‘If I see one more . .
.’”

We
all laughed.

“So,
what’d
you accidentally overhear?” I asked. She turned in the seat so she was facing me. “Lawson believes it was a suicide.
He’s
working real hard to convince Matson.”

We
ate while she talked. Carla made the best breakfast in Florida. Maybe in the South. Maybe in the world. When she finished talking, I had to wait a moment to respond because of all the good food in my mouth.

“Warden’s
not convinced?” I asked.

She
shrugged
and scrunched her face together to think about it. “I
don’t
think
so,
but
it’s
hard to tell much of anything with
him.”

Merrill smiled.

A bell dinged and Carla stood, bounced back behind the counter, and returned a moment later with a saucer piled high with toast, the butter dripping down the side of the stack.

Merrill and I looked at Anna. “The baby likes
bread,”
she said.

“Did he mention the attempt on Phillips?” I asked. She nodded.

“And
their connection?”

“The card? Said some inmate was trying to fuck with his
head.”

“He say where they got the rope?” Merrill said. She shook her head.
“Sorry.”

“You
did great.
You
heard a lot.”

“I tried. Kept bringing stuff to their table. They thought I was the best waitress
ever.”

I looked at Merrill.
“And
I already found out about the rope. It was traced to
two
pieces missing from the maintenance department. Inmate probably snuck it in and sold it to them.”

The trucker finished his coffee, wiped his mouth with a wadded up napkin, stood, put on his vest, zipped it up though it was a warm night, and walked out of the restaurant, waving to Carla as he did.

The four of us were now alone in the diner.