Must be a damned good block, she decided.
The interview room was beige all over. It held one table, two chairs, two guards, and a man in an orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, and no shoes.
Lily knew from the file that Roy Don Meacham was five-six, one seventy, Caucasian, brown and brown, and had turned thirty-nine last December. The brown hair was thinning, the brown irises were surrounded by pink whites, and the 170 pounds was mostly muscle and mostly in the upper half of his body. His shoulders were disproportionately wide, his torso long and husky, his hips skinny, and his legs short.
He looked like a balding gorilla with really bad allergies.
The DA hadn’t come in with them, electing to watch from behind the one-way mirror on the wall to the right of the door. Deacon had. He claimed that Meacham was unstable, subject to fits of violence, and he wasn’t taking any chances. With two young, brawny guards—one Hispanic, the other as dark an African American as Lily had ever seen—the sheriff’s caution seemed overdone, but understandable. It would be embarrassing as hell if a prisoner in his charge hurt a fed.
Kessenblaum amazed Lily by speaking gently. “Hey, Roy Don. They treating you okay?”
“Hey.” Meacham’s gaze jumped around before settling on Kessenblaum. He had a deep voice, appropriate for the barrel-shaped chest. It reminded her of Rule’s father, Isen. “What the hell is it now? You finally convince these assholes to let me go home? I hope you brought me some cigarettes this time. A man needs a goddamned smoke in this place.”
What he said was normal. The way he said it wasn’t. The words skittered into each other abruptly or dragged in odd places, as if he’d forgotten the normal rhythms of human speech.
Kessenblaum shook her head. “Not getting out today, I’m afraid. This is Agent Yu of the FBI. She wants to talk to you.”
The pink-and-brown eyes lighted on Lily, blinking fast, as if sending secret semaphores of distress. “FBI. Crap. I don’t want to talk to no FBI . . . Why you here? You’re too damned little. Don’t look like no FBI agent.”
Lily moved forward. “Are your eyes bothering you, Mr. Meacham?”
“My eyes?” He seemed puzzled. “You oughta arrest these assholes for locking me up. Got no reason. I need to go home. Becky’s bound to be worried about me, gone so long.” He frowned, still blinking. “How long I been gone, anyway?”
“Four days.” Lily pulled out the only other chair in the room and sat across the table from Meacham. He’d been hand-cuffed with his hands in front, as she’d asked. Those hands rested on the table, the fingers restlessly twining and untwining. “Seems longer, I bet.”
“Longer. Yeah.” Blink, blink, blink. “Becky’s good with the kids, but they need a man around. Got to get home, take care of them.”
He’d been told. More than once, he’d been told that his wife and children were dead, that he was under arrest for killing them. Lily didn’t think he was acting, though. People talk about the power of belief, but disbelief has power, too. Meacham wasn’t the first killer she’d seen wrecked by what he’d done, clinging to denial like a drowning man clings to a flimsy branch.
“Guess you’d like to have those taken off, huh?” She nodded at his hands, still busily wrapping and unwrapping themselves.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” He didn’t look down.
“Your handcuffs.”
He stopped blinking. “Those ain’t mine.”
“I guess they belong to the sheriff’s department, but they’re on your hands.” She tried a smile as she reached for one busy, busy hand. Her fingertips brushed one knuckle. “Mr. Meacham—”
“Not my hands!” he bellowed. And with that, he exploded.
The table shot up, propelled by Meacham’s joined hands slamming it from underneath. He was roaring, on his feet, his face red and the cords in his neck standing out. Lily dived out of her chair, but wasn’t quite quick enough. The table clipped her hip as she went down. Kessenblaum was screaming, a high, staccato counterpoint to Meacham’s bass roar.
Lily scrambled to her feet. Both guards had jumped on Meacham, who bent, sending the Hispanic guard flying over his head to collide with the upturned table. The table blocked Lily, so she skidded around it and missed seeing the blow that crumpled the second guard, his hands clutching his crotch.
Deacon shot past her—going low, she realized, adjusting her own target.
The sheriff hit his prisoner at the knees, taking him down. Lily landed on Meacham’s chest just as the man hit the floor. She leaned one forearm across his throat, ready to choke him as needed.
As abruptly as it had begun, the fight was over.
In the renewed quiet, Lily heard Kessenblaum panting, whispery little moans interspersed with the occasional “oh-mygod.” The guard who’d been kicked in the nuts was cursing steadily, but without much breath.
Deacon shifted to sit on Meacham’s thighs while gripping the man’s wrists. He spoke calmly enough. “Anyone need a doctor?” When no one spoke, he said, “In that case, Corporal Sanchez, get your ass over here and take control of your prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.” Sanchez finished untangling himself from the table’s legs just as the door swung open and two more guards entered, weapons drawn. “Holster ’em, boys,” Deacon said without looking over. “Matheson, stand by. Hemmings, you and Sanchez secure the prisoner for return to his cell.”
Sanchez limped over to them. “Miss—uh, I mean Agent Yu, I’ll take him now.”
“In a minute.” She knew the man was deeply embarrassed. Bad enough to have a fed immobilizing his prisoner when he’d failed to control the man. Worse when that fed was female, five-two, and slim.
Tough. She looked down at the contorted face of the man who’d tried to take the room apart a moment ago. Meacham’s cheeks were wet, his red eyes streaming. “You injured, Mr. Meacham?”
He looked up at her, blinking madly. “Got no hands,” he whispered. “Not mine. They aren’t mine.”
She shifted so she could lay one hand along his wet, stubbled cheek without losing the ability to choke him if she needed to. She had to be sure . . . Oh, yes. Her touch confirmed the fleeting impression she’d received in the second between touching his hand and his going berserk.
Death magic, very faint, but unmistakable in its ground-glass foulness . . . and nothing else. Roy Don Meacham had not a shred of personal magic. Nothing he could have used to call up the death magic that still clung to his skin.
“That’s right, Mr. Meacham,” she agreed, hoarse and quiet. “Not your hands. It wasn’t your hands that did it.”
NINE
TOBY woke all at once, blinking at the buttery daylight on his ceiling and wondering why his stomach felt so excited. Then he remembered.
Dad was here. Right here in the house. He’d stayed here last night, which he never did because of not wanting reporters to come sniffing around. And when Dad left in about a week, Toby would be going with him.
Excitement bubbled up so fast it was a wonder he didn’t just barf. Toby scrambled out of bed and into the hall. He peeked in the bedroom where Dad and Lily should have been, but the bed was empty. It wasn’t made up and the suitcase was just sitting out on the floor, which surprised him because Lily was real neat, like Grammy. She even cleaned the top of the toothpaste tube. He knew that because he’d seen her doing it once when he was visiting Dad and her in Washington, and he’d asked why.
“So the cap will close properly,” she’d said, “which is amazingly unimportant to many people.”