She had paused, expecting him to continue. When he didn't, she asked,
"What is the worst part of a place like this?"
"The smell," he said.
"The smell?"
"If you ever have a chance, smell it. Deeply. See if you can tell what it is. It will teach you something about what we keep in these cages.
And why."
He opened the door and cooler air rushed into the car.
Pegeen did not realize how warm it had become in there.
"Do you want me to come with you?"
He turned back, leaned in the open door.
"Do you remember what kills a werewolf?" he asked.
"A stake through the heart?"
"That's a vampire," Becker said, grinning. "We're talking werewolves here."
"I forgot," she said.
"That's okay," he said. "It doesn't come up that often-but when it does, it helps to know. You kill a werewolf with a silver bullet."
He continued to grin but Pegeen could find no humor in his eyes.
"So when I come out," he continued, "if you notice tufts of hair growing on my hands and face, go straight home and melt down the silverware your grandmother gave you."
He brushed her cheek very lightly with the tip of his finger as if removing a speck of dirt, then turned and walked into the prison. To Pegeen the spot where he touched her burned as if his finger were a match. She felt her ears. Like ovens, two fiery betrayers.
Pegeen remembered everything that had passed between them since Becker got off the airplane. She had registered it all without effort, without conscious thought, the way she did with any exchange, particularly with a man, and she drew it up again now and examined it, probing it for meaning, turning every word and every look in her mind to reveal facets that might hold the clues to what it really meant. It was easy enough to do, she recalled their conversations verbatim. After a moment she put her hand to her cheek once more, gently covering the spot where his finger had grazed her. Amazingly, she could still feel the fire. She held her hand against it to keep it there.
A guard led Becker to the room to be used for the inter view, then left him there while he went to fetch the prisoner. The room was not much bigger than a cell and had the same cinderblock walls, the same sickly green paint.
Instead of a bunk, there was a small table and two chairs, no window except a small opening at eye level in the door. The overhead light bulb was controlled by a switch on the outside of the room. Becker could only guess at the uses to which the room was put customarily. It was certainly not for ordinary interviews, which were conducted under strict, scrutiny with television security cameras, guards within earshot and bulletproof glass separating the prisoner and his visitor. Becker would be alone with his prisoner, free to do what he liked. Hatcher had seen to it, of course. It would have taken someone of his level to arrange this amount of privacy. Becker wondered what Hatcher thought he was going to do with the prisoner that would require this much seclusion. But he didn't spend much time on the idea, he didn't want to waste his energy on the way Hatcher's mind worked.
He stood behind the chair facing the door, trying at first to keep the awful claustrophobic dread of the prison from affecting him, then giving in to it as he would give himself to the surge of the ocean or the silence of the night. There was no point in fighting it, it was too vast, the trick was to survive it.
As always happened when he was in a prison, a spate of self-loathing overtook him. Never far from the surface, the prison smell brought out his guilt, the claustrophobia sucked it forth like a poultice. I belong here, he thought.
I should be in a cage like the rest of them, only the good fortune of my circumstances keeps me out. My impulses are the same, my needs the same as those I put in here.
It's only because I'm useful to them that they don't throw me in, too.
I've done things, been awarded citations for things that would put others on death row. Only my position as a Bureau agent has kept me out and free.
His remunerations were disturbed when the guard returned with a prisoner in tow. The guard withdrew, leaving Becker alone with the prisoner, who stood just inside the door, looking quickly at Becker, then at the room, as if seeking a means of escape.
"Hello," Becker said.
The man nodded uncertainly, continuing to look nervously around the room. Becker realized that the man half expected Becker to jump on him.
He was a small man, his long hair flowing to his shoulders like a woman's, his prison work shirt opened to his sternum. Some form of mascara and shadow had been applied to his eyes.
"Becker," Becker said. He indicated the other chair.
"I got your letter."
"You're Becker?" The man seemed genuinely surprised.
"I know, I don't look the part."
"No, no, it's… No, you're right, you're not what I expected."
"What were you hoping for, Dick Tracy?"
"He said you were… I thought you'd be… I don't know. Bigger."
"No, just life-size. Sorry."
"I didn't think you would come at all. I'm Swann."
"I know."
Swann started to offer his hand, then quickly withdrew it and sat in the chair opposite Becker. He looked up at Becker from under lowered brows.
It's meant to be either seductive or a parody of shyness, Becker thought.
"I really didn't think you would come."
"I would have said you were counting on it."
"I hoped… well, I mean, I hoped… I prayed. I prayed a great deal."
Becker smiled ruefully. "I'm not the answer to anyone's prayers, believe me."
Swann's face darkened. "I believe in prayer, Mr. Becker. I truly do believe in it. It's the only thing that's kept me sane."
"Why me?" Becker asked. "Why not just contact the FBI and tell them you have some information for them?"
"I couldn't just contact anybody. Our mail is censored, you must know that. And even if it wasn't, I couldn't risk having anybody find out what I was doing. Do you know what they do to stoolies in this place? … Even now, a meeting like this, what if they find out?",The guard thinks I'm an attorney reviewing your case for civil rights violations. I don't know what the warden has been told. If anyone finds out what we talk about, it's because you told them."
"Me? I would be killed."
"Why me, Swann? Why specifically me?"
"I heard about you."
"Heard what?"
"They talk about you in here. Lots of them seem to know you or to know about YOU. You have a rep."
"I'll bet."
"I hear you climb, you climb mountains. You're a rock climber, right?"
Becker said nothing. Swann smiled at him, knowing his information was correct.
"You'd be surprised how much they know about you."
"You a climber, Swann?"
"Well… not really. I worked with ropes a little bit, I know what's involved. That's scary work."
"Not so scary if you know the safe way. You ever try it?"
"I believe in gravity. if it tells me to go down, I go down. It was just interesting that they say that about you.
Someone who would do that, take that kind of risk for no reason. It's unusual. I don't really understand it."
"You're surrounded by risk takers in here."
Swann shivered. "I don't understand them, either.
Please don't lump me with them."
"The judge already did that. You pleaded to three counts of manslaughter and aggravated assault."
"My lawyer told me to do that. My landlady attacked me, she went crazy and just came at me, I was defending myself…