There are more hoops than usual to jump through, more assurances to give. Not to mention the patient’s consent, which is given only grudgingly. After an hour and a half, after alternating expressions of impatience and inexorability-I will wait, but I will not be denied-I am escorted into the presence of Donald Fauk.
Seven years have passed since I last saw him face-to-face, and in that time he’s aged more than I would have expected. A wizened, almost emaciated man, distilled by time and trauma into a bitter essence. Eyes lit up with a malevolent gleam.
“You,” he says in a voice dry as parchment. Then to the corrections stiff: “Don’t leave me alone with him. He’ll try and kill me if you leave us alone.”
The guard shrugs, retreating to the corner, nodding me toward a chair placed some distance from Fauk’s bedside. According to the doctor, he’ll make a full and complete recovery. Anything else would be too much to hope for.
I unbutton my jacket and settle onto the chair, crossing my legs with studied nonchalance, getting comfortable for the show. Fauk seems amused by this. He licks his lips. The deep lines in his skin take me by surprise. He doesn’t look quite the way I remember him.
“It’s been a while,” I say. “I hardly recognize you.”
“If you’re here for another confession, you can pack it up right now. Unless you’ve brought your thumbscrews along. Have you brought them, March?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not here for a confession. And if I was, I wouldn’t beat it out of you. I wouldn’t have to. We both know that.”
He says nothing.
“I’ve been talking to a mutual friend of ours,” I say. “Your pen pal, Brad. I also had a run-in with one of your messenger boys, a con named Wayne Bourgeois.”
“So?”
“So I have a pretty good idea what’s been going on. I see your strategy, and I see where it’s gone off the rails.” He snorts. “Like I said, I’m not here to get a confession. The reason I came is to give you some advice. I’m in a position to help, Donald. I possess a certain expertise.”
“You’re gonna help me? What am I supposed to do, say thanks?”
“You don’t have to thank me. I owe you. You were decent to me when my daughter was killed. You didn’t have to be, but you were. And I think that was genuine. That was the real you. You didn’t have to, but you did the right thing. That told me something about you, Donald, something I wouldn’t have expected.”
He sneers. “And what was that?”
“You’re a lot like me. No, I’m serious. I haven’t done what you have, I’m not saying that. But you’re a father. You love your kid the way I loved mine. Now mine is gone and because of all this”-I wave my hand in the air, encompassing the room, the walls outside, the prison complex-“you can’t see yours. I got to thinking about that, Donald. I did some checking. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, since you’ve gotten a visit?”
He turns his head away, gazing toward the barred window.
“I know what it’s like, believe me. That’s one thing I can understand. The longing that can’t be satisfied. The sense that the cord between you, the cord binding you, is all but broken. We understand each other, don’t we? We always did. And that’s why I know that the man you’re protecting, the one who did this to you, he’s not like you.”
“I’m not protecting anyone.”
“Protection is exactly what it is,” I say. “What else would you call it? By my count he’s killed three women, but maybe it’s more than that. He’s smart, too. Smart enough that we never caught him, not for his real crimes.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“Maybe not. We can be slow on the uptake. I can be slow. Which is why I need your help again, and why I’m prepared to help you, too.”
He keeps his face bladed toward the window, saying nothing.
“You’re playing this all wrong, Donald. I spoke with your doctor, and he says you’ll be fit as a fiddle and ready to return to the general population. Maybe you’re thinking your money will be enough to buy some protection, but it didn’t help the first time around.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Here’s your problem: Brad Templeton has some documents in his possession-which means I have some documents in my possession-that tend to implicate you. If you looked guilty before you got shivved, believe me, you’re gonna look like a full-blown cooperator by the time you get back. I’m going to see to that personally.”
I pause to find out whether he’ll call my bluff. He doesn’t.
“Maybe you’re thinking your appeal is going to work. If so, you’re more naive than I gave you credit for. We’ve got it pretty much figured out at this point. The disappearing evidence, the alternate suspect, everything. The DA can’t wait for this to go to court, assuming it ever does. He’s looking forward to a reelection-quality performance.”
Again I pause and again he says nothing.
“What can I say, Donald? You’re in a tight spot.”
Nothing.
“Except for one thing. .” I wait.
And wait.
Finally he cranks his head around, looking at me with blank eyes. “Fine. I’ll bite. Except for what?”
“Except for this. You used it wrong, but you do have a card up your sleeve. And I’d be happy to help you play it. Let’s be realistic, though. You murdered your wife. You confessed to that fact, and the confession is good. The court’s already ruled it that way, and no appeals judge is going to overturn that-”
“My attorneys think otherwise-”
“They’re paid to think otherwise. I’m giving you the straight truth. On some level you know that. You’re letting hope get the better of you. Pursue this thing if you want and see where it gets you. At the end of the line, we’ll be sitting right here, and I’ll be saying I told you so. Assuming the next improvised knife doesn’t do more than collapse a lung, in which case I’ll be sure to put some flowers on your grave. You like them in a wreath or a vase? You seem like more of a wreath guy to me. Anyway, the flowers won’t make up for being dead.”
“I’m touched.”
“You will be, and not by me. What I’m suggesting is, there’s another way for this to end. No judge in Texas is going to set a murderer like you free. But you might get some time knocked off your sentence, and there are some considerations that can be made. You can be relocated, for example. You can get certain privileges.”
“In return for what? Being a rat?”
“In return for staying alive. And in addition to what the DA might do for you, I have my own incentive to kick in.”
He rubs a hand over his weathered chin. “Are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?”
“Your second wife. Your daughter. I’ll find them and I’ll do my best to get them here.”
“That’s it?” He laughs. “You think I can’t do that myself? You think I can’t send people of my own?”
“I’m sure you can, but it’s not the same. Coming from me, your wife might actually listen. Coming from me, you might see that daughter of yours again. If that’s not worth it to you, then I’ll go. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. But if I were in your shoes, with death on one side of the scale and life on the other, with a chance of seeing the people I love most in the world. . well, I know which way I’d go.”
I’ve made my pitch for better or worse. I rise to my feet. I turn to go.
“Wait,” he says.
I pause.
“What exactly would you want from me?”
“Not much,” I say. “Just a name. The rest we could manage ourselves. We’re not so bright all the time, but when we get our teeth into somebody we don’t let go. All I need to know from you is whose leg I should be biting.”
I look at the guard, nodding my head toward the door. He walks before me, reaching for the knob.
“Just a name?” Fauk says. “That’s all?”
I draw a pen from my pocket and turn. “You don’t even have to speak it out loud. Just write it down for me on a piece of paper and I’m out of here. Your name won’t come into it, the letters you sent to Templeton will stay in his file cabinet, and when it comes time for you to go in front of the parole board, I won’t be there to stand in the way.”