Jamie dropped her cigarette as she got to her feet, almost tripping over the lawn chair.
‘M-M-Michael, come… ah… here.’
He waltzed across the lawn in his bare feet. Carter went back to practising his lightsaber skills.
Michael stood in front of her, arms crossed over his chest. ‘What did I do wrong now?’
‘How… you… ah… feel… ah… ah… moving?’
‘You mean move out of the house?’
She nodded.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Where would… you… like… ah… go?’
Something lit up inside him. She could see it in his eyes, the way his body relaxed.
Michael sat on the end of the lawn chair and looked at her, startled, as if he couldn’t believe his opinions and needs were actually being considered for once.
‘Are you serious?’
She nodded.
‘I’ve always wanted to live someplace warm,’ Michael said after a moment. ‘Dad told me once that you guys spent some time in San Diego.’
She smiled at the memory – a two-week holiday they’d taken in their early twenties. Boozy afternoons spent in Solana Beach and long walks through Del Mar and Coronado. Sunshine and beaches and making love in the hotel rooms, their bodies brown and warm and smelling of suntan oil.
‘Dad said you came close to living there.’
She nodded again. They had talked about it, but their hearts lay in New England.
‘Let’s… ah… ah… pack… up. Go.’
‘When?’
‘To… ah… today.’
Surprise bloomed on his face – and some apprehension too. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘No… ah… rush. Been thinking about… about… ah… you said. Unhappy here. No need to… ah… ah… stay any more.’
‘What about the house?’
‘Real estate agent,’ she said. It might take a while until the house was sold, especially in this shitty economic climate, but they could make do on the savings until she got a job.
She leaned forward in her chair, smiling, and took his hand into her own. ‘Fresh… start. Deserve it. You.’
‘Do you think Carter would like it?’
‘I… ah…think he… ah… be happy… ah… any place with… ah… you.’
‘Okay.’
‘You… You… ah… happy?’
‘I am. It’s just so, you know, sudden. And what’s with the smoking?’
‘Bad… ah… habit.’
‘You shouldn’t do it. There’s a reason why they’re called cancer sticks.’
‘Can… ah… you… help… ah… pack?’
‘Sure. Sure, I can. What’s with the ultra-short haircut? You look like a guy.’
‘It’s… ah… so… ah… hot I… I… wanted… ah… shorter.’
‘You can see your scars.’
‘We… ah… need… ah… get… boxes.’
‘You’re going in for another operation, aren’t you? That’s why you practically shaved your head.’ He looked so scared, vulnerable.
She cupped his face in her hands. ‘No… ah… operation.’
‘You’re not lying to me?’
‘No.’ She kissed him on the top of his head. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
Walking back inside the house, Jamie imagined Kevin Reynolds somewhere close by, watching, and ran for her car keys.
46
Walpole’s MCI-Cedar Junction, one of the state’s two ‘supermax’ high-security prisons for adult male offenders, had a strict dress code for female visitors. No tank, halter or tube tops. No sleeveless shirts. No jogging suits or gym clothing. No clothing made of Spandex. No sheer or see-through material. Trousers had to be free of holes and rips and couldn’t contain any open pockets like those found on cargo trousers. Skirts and shorts measuring less than four inches from the kneecap were deemed too revealing and not allowed – no clothing of any type that exposed a woman’s midriff or back was allowed, no exceptions.
Darby placed her tactical belt, keys, wallet, badge and phone in a small plastic dish. After checking her sidearm, she raised her hands. A female guard, a heavy-set black woman, waved a metal-detecting wand over her body.
A young male guard somewhere in his late twenties, Darby guessed, wearing a short-sleeved shirt stood next to a metal door. He stared at the raw cuts and crisscrossed rows of stitches on the right side of her swollen face. Lieutenant Warner had driven her to her condo and stayed in the car while she went upstairs to shower. She dressed quickly, grabbing things from her closet. She realized she had forgotten a belt and pulled the canvas tactical belt from her chest-of-drawers. Not wanting to waste any more time, she had decided to forgo the lengthy process of trying to bandage her face.
‘You wearing an underwired bra?’ the female guard asked.
‘No,’ Darby said. ‘And you’ll be happy to know I remembered not to wear my crotchless underwear this morning.’
The woman let loose a dry chuckle. The male guard didn’t crack a smile, too busy working hard on his mess with me and you will pay expression. The way his biceps bulged like rocks underneath his tanned skin made her think of Coop. She had tried calling him from the road, calling his mobile and his direct number at the lab, but kept getting his voicemail.
‘Well,’ the woman said, placing the wand on the table, ‘I’m glad to see you took the time to read the dress code. Most people don’t even bother. The women visitors, they are the worst. They strut on in here wearing short-shorts or some low-cut skirt without any panties, then get all belligerent when we tell ’em, ah, sorry, ma’am, but you can’t come in here with your junk all exposed. Need to put on something just a little bit more formal.’
The woman slapped on a pair of latex gloves and said, ‘Please raise your hands again for me, Dr McCormick, I’ve got to search your pockets.’
Darby wanted to keep the conversation going, needing some distance from the thoughts scrabbling through her pounding head (Christ, did it hurt). ‘My personal favourite was the one about no bathing suits.’
‘We had to add that one, oh, I’d say about three years ago. This woman who worked at a strip club? She decided to visit her boyfriend right after her shift, came waltzing in here in five-inch stilettos and her ta-tas practically hanging out of her bikini top. The stories I could tell you.
‘You all set, Dr McCormick. Your sidearm and your wallet will be waiting for you with me behind this desk when you come out.’
‘Thank you.’ Darby picked up the scuffed leather pad sitting on top of the X-ray machine. ‘Can I take this in with me? I may need to take notes.’
‘Let me see it.’
The woman searched through the computer-printed sheets the superintendant had given her on John Ezekiel. Then she examined the leather compartments and folds. She uncapped Darby’s pen, a black plastic Pilot roller-ball with a metal tip.
‘You got any other pens on you?’
‘Just that one,’ Darby said.
‘Okay, you can take it in. But make sure you come back with it. I don’t want to have to do a strip search on that man in there. Don’t want to end my day on that note, you hear?’
Darby nodded, glancing at a colour video screen showing a private conference room of bright white tiles. In the centre, a gun-metal grey table and chair bolted to the floor. The other chair was not.
‘We’ll be looking in and watching, but we can’t hear a thing,’ the woman said. ‘When they bring Mr Ezekiel in, they’ll shackle him to the chair bolted to the floor, so you don’t have to worry about any surprises – unless he suddenly turns into the Incredible Hulk.’ She laughed at her joke. ‘When you done speaking to him, just turn to the camera and wave. Or you can come up to the door and give it a good, hard knock. Billy Biceps over there will let you in and out.’