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  “No idea. But don’t do anything yet. Wait to see what––”

  “Not now. When they stop to get us out.”

  Time passing.

  Listening to the sounds of the road. Trying to figure out where they are, where they’re taking them.

  Highway. No traffic. No stopping.

  Seams of a short bridge.

  Slowing. Turning onto a dirt road.

  Chris sounding bad beside her.

  “I’m sorry for everything,” he whispers. “I just got caught up in some stupid, selfish stuff.”

  Nodding. Not saying anything.

  “I love you, Anna. Always have. Always will.”

  Van slowing. Squeaking breaks. Stopping.

  Doors opening.

  Chris lunging. Yelling.

  Bodies hitting the ground. Rolling. Gasping. Groaning. Punches. Thwacks and thuds. Slaps. Heaving breathing.

  Someone yelling for help.

  Fast, heavy footfalls. Running. Kicking. Moans.

  Loud gunshot blast.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter Five

  Morning.

  Daybreak.

  Soft pink glow growing beyond the slash pines along the eastern horizon.

  Phone. Shattered silence.

  It was Dad.

  “Did you shoot Chris Taunton?” he asked.

  “I did not. Why do you ask?”

  “He’s in Bay Medical in bad shape. Been shot.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “Barely. That surprise you? What’s going on?”

  “What did he say?”

  “Says it was an accident, that he did it to himself while cleaning his gun, but it is not a self-inflicted wound, and he’s asking to see you.”

  My first thought was that Chris was dead.

  My second was if he wasn’t, he soon would be.

  Sallow skin stretched over skull-like dried-out cigar paper. Matted, tangled, oil-tinged hair. Dark stubble. Dirty, blood-stained face. Erratic, labored breathing.

  When he blinked his small, inky eyes partially open, he looked worse. Bloodshot. Unfocused. Jaundiced.

  When he finally recognized me, he strained to open the tiny moist marbles all the way as anger transformed his tear-streaked face, contorting his parchment-thin skin.

  “What . . . the . . . hell . . . have you done?” he managed to push out in airy, harsh whispers.

  “What do you know?” I asked. “What can you tell me?”

  “Why . . .” he said, then trailed off, taking a moment to regroup.

  “Take your time,” I said. “Use your energy for communicating rather than anger.”

  “Why . . . are . . . they . . . doing this?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Who . . . are . . . they?”

  “I––”

  “What . . . did . . . you . . . do . . . to them?”

  “I don’t know anything yet,” I said. “Except they want me to do something––get something to trade for Anna.”

  “If . . . any . . . thing . . . happ . . . ens . . . to her,” he slowly, breathily hissed, “I . . . will . . . kill . . . you. Swear on her . . . life . . . I . . . will. On . . . her . . . life.”

  “What can you tell me about them? What did you see? Hear? How are they treating her?”

  He shook his head slowly, dislodging more tears that snaked down his soiled face.

  “Not . . . much. Seem . . . sort of . . . professional . . . Like amateurs . . . taking . . . a pro . . . fess . . . ional . . . approach. Two guys. One . . . young . . . dark hair . . . skin . . . eyes. Not . . . black, but . . . dark.” He shook his head. “Got . . . nothin’ . . . on the other. Rough . . . with me. Not . . . with her. But . . . doesn’t . . . mean . . . they won’t . . . be.”

  I nodded and tried not to think about that.

  “Do . . . what they . . . say . . . goddamnit. Don’t . . . try too . . . hard . . . to be . . . too smart. Get . . . her back. I’d . . . rather her . . . be alive with . . . you . . . than . . .”

  I nodded again and indicated something with my eyes––appreciation, maybe. Or solidarity. Or understanding.

  “Are . . . we . . . only ones . . . who know?” he asked.

  “Think so.”

  “Let . . . me . . . help . . . if I . . . can.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding.

  Something flickered in his eyes and they widened momentarily the way eyes do when the mind has an aha moment.

  “They . . . think I’m . . . dead,” he said. “Leave . . . it that . . . way. Get . . . your dad to . . . put me under . . . different name. Best . . . for Anna . . . they think . . . I’m dead. Maybe . . . I can help with . . .”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  He nodded and we were quiet a moment.

  “I . . .” he began, “. . . hate you . . . so . . . fuckin’ . . . much. And . . . the life of . . . only person . . . I’ve ever loved is in. . . your hands. I . . . I . . . don’t know . . . what to do . . . with that.”

  “Nothin’ to do,” I said.

  “Meant . . . what I . . . said. Fuck this . . . up . . . and I . . . will . . . kill . . . you.”

  “Assuming you’re still alive yourself,” I said.

  “I’ll . . . stay . . . alive . . . just to do . . . it.”

  “I need your trust,” I said to Dad.

  “You’ve got it. You know that.”

  We were standing in the ICU hallway right outside Chris’s room. Activity around us. Nurses at the large station in the center of the ward, others in and out of rooms. Guests, two at a time, entering and exiting the rooms of loved ones. An occasional doctor. A two-person cleaning crew in light burgundy scrubs slowly making their way around the unit. None of it quiet. None of it particularly careful.

  “I need your blind trust.”

  “Okay. You’ve earned it. Thousand times at least.”

  I thought about how true that statement really was. I had proven myself over and over to this man in a variety of situations and circumstances over the course of several decades. He knew I’d keep my word and do the very best I could to do the right and honorable thing.

  “I’ll tell you everything when I can, but until then . . .”

  He nodded.

  “Can you put out a release saying Chris died from a gunshot wound, then put him under a different name?”

  “He still in danger?”

  “No questions. Not yet.”

  He nodded again. “Okay. Done.”

  Chapter Six

  Work.

  Normal routine.

  Acting as if my entire world was not being held hostage for an as yet unknown ransom.

  Stopped at the front gate. Called over to the window by the sergeant––a young guy with short, dark blond hair, bright blue eyes, and bright white teeth almost always on display in his kind, infectious smiles. Professional, friendly, and pleasant, it was little wonder Randy Wayne Davis was the first face staff, volunteers, and visitors encountered at PCI.

  “Morning, Chaplain,” he said through the slot next to the document tray. “How are you?”

  Both the slot and tray were built in to the control room. Made of heavy metal, they represented the only access points to the control room from the exterior of the prison. They were used for everything from law enforcement checking their weapons before entering the institution, to staff, volunteers, and visitors signing in and out, and passing paperwork.

  “Good,” I said, leaning down a little to make sure he could hear me. “You?”

  “All good in the hood,” he said. “Hard not to be happy on a day like this.”

  I turned and considered the day. He was right. It was a brilliant, beautiful morning.

  “Is Ms. Rodden coming in today?”

  “She might be in later,” I said. “She’s not feeling well at the moment.”

  He nodded as if he knew why and sympathized. “Hope it’s just a little morning sickness and noth
ing more.”

  “It is. Thanks.”

  “I’ve got a few messages for her,” he said. “Should I just . . .”

  “I’ll take them,” I said. “Make sure she gets them.”

  He dropped several pink phone message slips into the drawer and slid it toward me. “Some in there for you too.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took the slips but didn’t look through them.

  “You okay, Chaplain?” Randy Wayne asked.

  I nodded.

  “Sure? You seem a little . . . I don’t know, distracted.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t realize. Just thinking about what I have to do today.”

  “No need to apologize. Just makin’ sure. Figure somebody should check on you occasionally.”

  “Thanks. I’m good.”

  “Well, have a good day,” he said.

  “You too.”

  I moved back over to the gate, held up my ID, and he buzzed me in. I had to wait a little longer than normal inside the sally port, because of a phone call that came into the control room, but eventually he buzzed me through the second gate and onto the compound.

  Chapter Seven

  “CHAPLAIN. CHAPLAIN.”

  I was walking toward the chapel trying to appear as normal as possible, while wondering where and how Anna was, when I heard Sergeant Helm’s rough voice yelling for me.

  When I turned, I saw that she was motioning me over to the mailroom window on the back of the visiting park.

  “I just heard,” she said.

  It was a very small town and news traveled fast––particularly bad news––but it surprised me that word of Chris Taunton’s death was already making the rounds.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “About Richie,” she said.

  Oh. That.

  “And after what happened to Hahn . . .”

  So much death. I’m surrounded by it. Death beside me. Death before me. Death behind me. Death on all sides.

  “Are you okay?”

  Carrie Helms was fifty-eight years old and looked it. Not in a bad way. She just looked her age. She wore too much makeup, and she misapplied it––an action that emphasized her wrinkles, but she had a vibrancy about her, a youthful gleam in the big blue eyes that twinkled beneath her short gray hair.

  I nodded.

  “You sure? You seem . . . distracted.”

  “I’m just tired. Maybe a little drained.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be? You singlehandedly stopped those––”

  “I didn’t singlehandedly do anything. Merrill. Anna. My dad. Even Jake. Lots of people worked together to––”

  “Everybody’s talkin’ about it,” she said. “How did you figure out what was going on in Medical?”

  “I really need to get to the chapel. Can we talk about it a little later?”

  “Oh, sure. Drop by later when you can. Is Anna coming in today?”

  “She’s pretty sick,” I said. “Probably not.”

  “Then bring your lunch down here and eat with me, and we can talk then.”

  Chapter Eight

  I was in my office, the desultory sounds of Gregorian chant drifting around the room, counseling an inmate named Kevin whose grandmother, the woman who raised him, had recently died, when Bat Matson, the warden, walked in without knocking.

  When I first started at PCI, Edward Stone, a fastidious, aging African-American man, had been the warden. He had presented certain challenges for me, and I for him, but eventually we had settled into a relatively comfortable working relationship––something that had not happened with Bat Matson, and wasn’t likely to.

  A fleshy man in his early sixties with prominent jowls and thick gray hair swooped to the side, Matson, a man as harsh and rigid in his work as his fundamentalist religion, was wearing what I had come to think of as his uniform––cheap black tie, white cotton shirt with button-down collar, black poly/cotton flat-front work pants, and black Polyurethane lace-up shoes. Never a coat. Never any color. Never any style or creativity. Never any variation or alteration.

  He was accompanied by an athletic youngish woman with shoulder-length blondish-brown hair, cinnamon-tinged skin, and stunning grayish-green eyes.

  “Inmate,” Matson said, “wait outside in the hallway until we’re done.”

  Without hesitation, Kevin jumped up and headed toward the door, nodding deferentially toward Matson and the woman as he did.

  “Wait,” I said, standing. “Kevin just lost his grandmother. We’re in the middle of a very––”

  “It’s okay,” Kevin said. “I’m fine. I’ll be out here when you’re done, Chaplain.”

  With that, he exited the room as quickly as possible, closing the door behind him.

  “Most of what I do here is crisis counseling,” I said to Matson. “You can’t keep barging in when I’m in the middle of it.”

  “My institution,” he said. “I can go anywhere in it anytime I like. Don’t like it, you can resign.”

  “I appreciate you being reasonable about it,” I said.

  The beautiful young woman with him smiled.

  Matson sat down in one of the seats across from my desk. The young woman in the one beside him. After she did, I sat back down in mine.

  “This is Rachel Peterson,” he said, tossing a thumb in her direction. “She’s the new IG of the department. She’s investigating the death of the psych specialist and the arrests of the medical personnel and your involvement. Give her your full cooperation.”

  I smiled and nodded at her. “Nice to meet you.”

  The previous Inspector General of the Department of Corrections had been my ex-father-in-law, Tom Daniels. I had worked with him some. Like my marriage to his daughter, it had not ended well. I hadn’t spoken with either of them for quite a while, though recently I had been trying unsuccessfully to get in touch with Susan. Maybe it was time to try Tom.

  Merrill and even Anna asked why I felt the need to attempt to reconnect with Susan or Tom or Sarah, why I couldn’t just let it lie where it died. I had never been able to answer them to either their or my satisfaction. It was just something I felt I had to do, an intuition common and familiar to me––the ones I so often let guide me through my life. In addition to whatever else it was, part of my motivation was part of what made me who I am. I wanted peace if possible. Connection. An open channel of communication so that I might minister or help in some way one day.

  “Nice to meet you,” Rachel said, extending her hand across the desk to shake mine.

  There was something in her voice––plenty of Southern drawl, but something else besides, something just under the drawl.

  “Where’d you grow up?” I asked.

  “All over. Military brat.”

  I nodded.

  Her hands were strong, her shake firm without being aggressively so.

  And it wasn’t just her hands. Her entire build and bearing were strong and solid––something her mind and spirit had to mirror for her to be the first woman to hold the position she did.

  Anna would like her. She would like Anna. Have to make sure they meet.

  “I’m gonna leave you two to it,” Matson said, sliding to the edge of his chair but not standing. “But before I do . . . I heard what happened last night . . . about your involvement with the conclusion of the Potter Farm incident. Seems there might not have been a conclusion if it weren’t for you.”

  It was the closest thing to a compliment he had ever given me.

  “I think you’re a better investigator than I realized,” he said. “I mean it. I’m saying this because if you’re cleared by Miss Peterson for what happened here, I want you two to talk about you becoming our institutional inspector.”

  Without another word, he stood and left, the door banging loudly behind him as he did.

  “I understand my predecessor was your father-in-law.”

  I nodded.

  “And that you’re the reason he’s my predecessor instead o
f still in this position.”

  I shrugged.

  “Are you interested in being the institutional inspector here?”

  I shook my head.

  “Anywhere?”

  I shook my head again.

  “You gonna cooperate with my investigation?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you going to attempt to do so without uttering a single word?”

  I smiled. “No,” I said. “I’ll be downright chatty if you like.”

  “Because you did nothing wrong? Have nothing to hide?”

  “That’s for you to say.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I did plenty wrong,” I said, “but not in the sense you mean. Nothing illegal. Just meant mistakes. And I have nothing to hide.”

  “Everybody has something to hide,” she said.

  “Even the first female Inspector General of the Florida Department of Corrections?”

  She smiled.

  She had a dark complexion and bright white teeth, and her eyes and teeth shined brilliantly when she smiled.

  “Even her.”

  We were quiet a moment.

  “I’m happy to answer all your questions,” I said, “but do you mind if I finish with Kevin first?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ll come back right after lunch. How’s that?”

  “Thank you.”

  “All my questions really come down to the same thing,” she said. “You can be thinking about it until we meet.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did your actions lead to the death of your coworker? Are you responsible for Hahn Ling’s death?”

  Chapter Nine

  After I finished with Kevin, I got an outside line from the control room and punched in the old number I had for Tom Daniels.

  To my surprise he answered.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said. “You know, don’t you? I knew it. I told them you––”

  “Know what?”

  “What’d you call for?” he asked, the tone of his voice changing.

  I wondered what he meant, but knew with someone like him it could be anything.

  Of all the cases I had worked over the years, only a handful still haunted me. Chief among them was the Atlanta Child Murders, but way up on the list was the case that involved Tom Daniels.