One to Go (26 page)

“She's okay. I think she's afraid she might get hassled at school on Monday. You know how cruel kids can be.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Just a second. And Tom, I really know you didn't do it so, you know, hang in there.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

He could hear the fear in her voice. “Hi, Baby. How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Guess you saw some stuff on TV about me, and just want you to know, honey, I didn't do anything bad to that lady.”

“I know.”

“And you'll probably be seeing some more stuff on TV, but no matter what you see or hear, know that I didn't do it. And also know that I love you so much it aches.”

“Love you, too, Daddy.”

“You listen to Mommy, okay, and I'll try to call again soon, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded so small.

“One more thing. Do not talk to any strangers, no matter how nice they seem, okay? Promise?”

“Promise. Bye, Daddy.”

“Bye, Baby. I love—”

But she'd already hung up.

Tom spent the rest of the morning sitting uncomfortably in the grimy, yellow plastic chair, observing his fellow inmates from the back of the dayroom. He'd decided to start the fight after dinner, before lights out. That way, the confrontation would be fresh and the likelihood his target would seek his retribution that night would increase. Problem was, he could think of no way to assure the visit would take place before midnight. He concluded he could probably increase his odds by targeting the biggest hot-head in the group, someone who'd want to slice Tom's throat as soon as possible.

He'd listed in his mind several possibilities. His first choice was a skinny black man in his thirties, whose heavily pockmarked face sported a permanent scowl. The man already had come to blows with one of Lopes' boys over the TV remote. Briscoe and another guard broke up the fight shortly after it started, and Tom heard Briscoe call him Creek. Afterward, Tom had struck up a conversation with Briscoe, and the guard told him the man was up from Lorton for sentencing on Monday. Just as Tom was about to ask about the charge, Briscoe was called away.

At lunch, Tom purposely sat at the table in front of the table where Creek ate, so he could look directly at the man. Throughout the meal, Tom had purposely engaged Creek in a staredown. After about ten minutes, Creek flared.

“What you lookin' at, New?”

Tom held his gaze. “Not much.”

Creek exploded from his seat, grabbed a plastic fork, and vaulted over his table, knocking over trays and drinks. Tom was ready for him. As Creek lunged at him like a hungry wolf, Tom swung his tray sideways, catching the black man square in the nose full force. Creek's nose split open and blood sprayed over everything
and everyone within five feet. He dropped to the floor, but only for a moment.

Where the hell was the cavalry? Tom's ribs and nose screamed in pain as he stared at the bloody face and crazed eyes of a man with a single thought in his brain: ripping Tom's head off.

Tom froze. From Creek's crouched position he sprung upward, his teeth bared like a rabid dog, then suddenly flipped back when Briscoe's nightstick locked around his neck. In a second, Creek was on the ground and handcuffed.

“Goin' back to the hole, Creek,” said Briscoe. “For you, be like goin' home.”

Creek sputtered, his voice compressed to a croak from the nightstick pressure. “Fu—.”

“No need for that,” said Tom. “Just a misunderstanding. Me and Creek, we're buds, ain't that right, bro?” He locked eyes with Creek, who instantly got the message.

“Me and New, we just fuckin' around.” His wide smile didn't reach his eyes, which sent Tom the message he was hoping for: I'm coming for you.

Briscoe paused, glanced at his colleagues who shrugged. He slowly loosened his grip on the nightstick. “Today's your lucky day, asshole, 'cause I happen to be in a forgiving mood.”

He withdrew the nightstick, allowing Creek to stand to his full height. From a distance, Tom had seen the man as a pencil-necked beanpole, but up close, Creek was all muscle and sinew.

Briscoe pointed to the trays and food on the floor. “Both of you, clean up this shit now. Any problems?”

Creek shook his head.

“No problem,” said Tom.

If things went as planned, within the next twelve hours Creek would become the solution.

Tom shuffled into the private attorney meeting room to see Eva standing there, hands on her hips.

“Are you out of your mind?” When she got a good look at him her expression immediately switched from a punishing scowl to sympathetic concern. “Your face. Are you hurt? What did he do to you?”

“I'm okay.” He offered a weak smile and sat down at the table.

She sat across from him. “I can insist you be taken to the infirmary.”

“I'm okay. Really.”

She shook her head. “First you get into an argument with the leader of one of the most dangerous Latino gangs on the East Coast. Then you start a fight in the prisoner mess with Joe Creek.”

“What's his story?”

“Nickname's Cujo. He enjoys using his teeth to tear a chunk out of whatever body part happens to be closest. What the hell happened to ‘keep your head down and your mouth shut?'”

“What's he in for?”

“Aggravated assault.”

“Priors?” Tom was hoping for a homicide conviction, or at least an arrest.

“Yard long.”

“Homicide?”

“No, but that doesn't mean you won't be the first.”

Her answer complicated matters. If he continued with his
plan, he'd be killing a bad man, probably a crazy man, but not a murderer. Did that make a difference now?

“Aside from your recently revealed suicidal tendencies, we've got other problems,” she said. “Schnabel's sitting Monday.”

“I gather he's not predisposed to the defense.”

“The Fuhrer? You gather correctly.”

“Any chance of getting the matter transferred to another judge?”

“In a word, no. We make the best case we can. And we can file an immediate appeal when—
if
—he rules against us. Your cousin, Estin, will be there, and the fact that he's a cop will help. We'll have Zig representing the firm. I'll get someone from PDS, maybe Danny, to vouch for you.”

DTA? If Danny stood up for him, Tom might be compelled to remove the TA. “But traditionally, the strongest community tie is immediate family. Unless you have an objection, I'm planning on contacting your ex-wife. I assume she'll be cooperative.”

Tom didn't want Gayle and Janie dragged into his predicament, but it was in his daughter's best interest that he be freed. “I think she'll agree.”

Assuming his plan worked, and he was able to take out Creek by midnight, there was a chance Emma Wong would be saved, and Janie would still be in jeopardy. What was he going to do if he couldn't get out on bail? Kill another inmate in two weeks? He answered his own question: yes. And once she was saved, he didn't care what happened to—

“Tom, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I need to get back to the office, work on my presentation, and make some calls. Can you please promise me you'll stay out of trouble? I mean it.”

“Promise.” He was hoping for an under-the-table hand squeeze, but she stood quickly. He followed her to the door, but she took a circuitous route along the wall next to the door where, for a moment, she was out of sight of anyone peering through the
window. She stopped abruptly, turned, and wrapped her arms around him. Her kiss was short but deep. Without a word, she knocked on the door. Briscoe let her out, then addressed Tom.

“Don't go nowhere, New,” said Briscoe. “You're Mr. Popularity today.”

After a few minutes, Father Matthew Sheran entered, a somber expression on his face. Briscoe closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.

Matthew's handshake was little more than perfunctory.

“Thanks for coming,” said Tom.

“You know, the prison has its own chaplain.” The unsaid message was unmistakable: You're a killer, you're nuts, and you're not even Catholic. What the hell do you need with me?

Tom sat and, after a few moments, Matthew followed suit. “I need your help,” said Tom.

“I took note of the untimely death of one Reece Mackey.”

“Alcohol poisoning.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

Tom couldn't hold his gaze. “He was a murderer, and his death saved the life of a seven-year-old girl named Abby Jackson.”

“I remember. The demons from hell. What were their names? Brad and Buffy?”

“Chad and Britney.”

Matthew bent closer. “Tom, listen to me. I'm not a shrink, but it doesn't take an advanced degree to see you need help. Don't know whether you can afford a psychiatrist, but if not, the city provides psych services to inmates. It may even assist your attorney in developing an insanity defense.”

“I didn't do it.”

“She was a young woman with her whole—”

“I said I didn't kill her. I swear to you on my love for my daughter, I had nothing to do with Jess' murder.”

“So somebody stole your gun, shot her, and replaced the gun without you knowing it to frame you. Any idea who might've wanted to do that? Oh, I forgot, the devil's disciples.”

“To my knowledge, they had nothing to do with Jess' death. That's not part of their game. You're the expert, but I would assume that if one's job title happened to be demon from hell, your skill set would include the ability to kill just about anybody you wanted. Again, they want
me
to do the killing. That's what makes the show interesting.”

Tom could feel his face flush and his voice rise. “You're a goddamn priest. Why is it so hard to accept that Satan exists and does bad things? After all, he's Satan.”

Matthew's expression softened. “Tom, why did you call me here?”

“In less than ten hours, if I don't take another life, either my daughter or a young girl named Emma Wong will die.”

Tom expected an instant comeback, the message being some variation of the theme: you're friggin' nuts. But the priest remained silent.

“I've been thinking. Maybe if a man of God, a priest, were to be there with Janie and—”

“Sprinkle holy water over her? Perhaps brandish a silver cross and drape her with garlic?” It may have been Tom's imagination, but Matthew's sarcasm appeared forced.

“No, I want you to drive out to Arlington, and stay with her for fifteen minutes before midnight and fifteen minutes after. I'll call Gayle and make up something. If she won't let you in, sit outside the house in your car. Will you do it? Please.”

This time the period of silence didn't last as long. The priest got up to leave. “All I'll promise is that I'll think about it.”

“Thank you.”

The priest knocked on the door, and Briscoe promptly opened it.

As the priest stepped out of the room, Tom called after him. “And a little holy water wouldn't hurt.”

Tom scrunched into the front corner of his cell, looking out the small window, attempting, without success, to read the clock in the dayroom. But he figured, best case, only about ten minutes remained until midnight. He was so frustrated he could scream.

Earlier, he'd called Gayle to tell her about Father Matthew. Prior to contacting her, he'd thought about what to say without coming across as a total nutcase. When she answered the phone, he told her some members of Jess' family were crazy for revenge and he was fearful for Janie. He'd heard from one of his fellow inmates something might be attempted that evening. His attorney had talked to the cops, but they weren't taking the threat seriously, so he'd arranged for a friend who was a former cop to watch over her. The former cop was going to dress as a priest just in case he was spotted. Tom hoped she'd let him in, maybe sleep on the couch downstairs. Otherwise, he'd probably be outside in a car.

Tom couldn't have been more surprised that she actually believed him, and said she'd call the Arlington police herself and demand a cop be stationed outside the house as a deterrent.

Now, as midnight drew closer, his stomach spasmed, and he had difficulty breathing. Where the hell was Creek? Earlier, he'd concluded he needed to take action himself and visit Creek's cell. He'd watched Virgil use a hairpin to pop the lock on the cell door, but he kept the pin attached to the band of his underwear and there was no way Tom could retrieve it and exit the cell without waking the man.

He slumped to the floor. The clock was ticking, someone would die, and there was nothing he could do about it. Should he hope—pray?—that if another little girl died, the victim would be Emma 2 instead of Janie? No, he couldn't do that. But he did.
Please, please don't take Janie. Please
—