All the usual platitudes washed over his head in the warden's soft, reassuring voice, the calm, measured tones designed for talking at people of subpar intellect. The warden suddenly stopped talking and leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his desk, palms pressed together, like he was about to pray but his arthritic knees wouldn't let him kneel. Jackson, aware of the sudden silence in the room and not sure if he'd been asked a question, looked up into his earnest face. It was the sort of face you wanted to punch, see if you could get rid of that patronizing smugness that said I get to go home every night. Yeah, right, but having seen a photo of the warden and his wife at a charity ball, Jackson thought he'd take his chances in the shower block. Besides, today he was the one who got to go home. Wherever that was.
'Look LaBarre, I'm not stupid,' the warden said. 'I realize you're not the usual, run of the mill prisoner we get in here.'
Jackson acknowledged the statement with a small shrug. Did the guy really think he was about to explain everything now, five minutes before he walked out the door forever?
'The other prisoners knew it too,' the warden said. Jackson sure as hell couldn't deny that. 'What you went through in here . . .' The warden trailed off and shook his head sadly. 'I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.'
Jackson nodded in agreement but didn't really see what he could add. Maybe something like what doesn't kill you makes you stronger seeing as platitudes seemed to be the order of the day, or maybe something a little more pithy, but he couldn't think what.
'I don't know what really went on here—obviously access to that information is above my pay grade.' He gave Jackson a conspiratorial smile. A we're all running around in the dark together sort of smile. What a crock. The guy was just pissed because he didn't know what was going on in his prison.
'I'm not sure I understand what you mean, warden,' Jackson said.
The warden sighed heavily. Jackson could see from his expression that he knew he wasn't going to get anywhere, but he wanted to say his piece anyway. Jackson knew he was basically a decent guy and probably genuinely had the prisoners' interests at heart. A regular churchgoer, most likely. Perhaps he'd loaned the motivational poster to one of the inmates to put up in his cell. A coochy-coo picture and some cute words always made you feel better as you nursed your sore ass and contemplated another next ten years of the same.
'I know you had it hard in here,' he said. 'You didn't go looking for trouble—you didn't need to—but you didn't back down either.' He paused and looked away. Jackson followed his gaze, through the window and to the world outside. The free world which is where he'd be in a few short minutes. He looked back at the warden and half expected to see him wringing his hands together.
'I suppose what I'm trying to say is . . . I just hope it was worth it.'
Jackson let out a sharp laugh, almost like a bark, not quite deranged in its intensity. He couldn't help himself. Even if he wanted to confide in this man, he wouldn't know where to start.
'Are we done here?'
He put his hands on the desk to push himself up out of the chair. The warden looked at his hands resting on the edge of the desk and Jackson saw a quick flash of disgust—or maybe it was just disappointment—cross his face.
'Whatever happened in here, it's a pity you had to do something stupid like that,' he said, pointing at the tattoo on Jackson's hand between his thumb and forefinger. 'Why in God's name did you want to get a permanent reminder of all this . . .' He waved his arm, taking in the whole of his office and everything beyond it and Jackson was sure he nearly forgot himself and said all this shit, but the warden didn't use bad language.
'Why remind yourself,' the warden continued, 'of what I hope, for your sake, turns out to be the two worst years of your life?' There was something close to despair in his voice that Jackson could relate to. He could imagine the guy getting up for work each day, sitting in a bright, sunny breakfast nook with his (ugly) wife, eating a big bowl of cheerios drenched with ice cold milk and feeling his heart sink as he contemplated the impenetrable brick wall that he had to spend another eight hours banging his head against, dealing with all the recidivists and perverts and baby-rapers and the occasional garden variety murderer.
Jackson pushed himself to his feet and smiled. 'Don't worry, I didn't get that in here, I've had it years.'
'I suppose that makes it not quite so bad,' the warden said grudgingly, twisting his head to take a closer look. 'What is it? It looks like the number 29.'
Jackson shrugged and looked at it himself. He didn't really see it these days. 'Let's just say it's a private joke.'
The warden stood and fired his hand into Jackson's, a little too eager perhaps and held longer than was strictly necessary, but a firm grip nonetheless that surprised him. He wondered idly if he'd open up the paper one day and read how the warden had reached the end of his tether and used those strong, callused hands to strangle his (ugly) wife as she prattled on incessantly in her whiney voice in the bright, sunny breakfast nook, the fat that hung down from her arms like pregnant bellies quivering as he squeezed the life from her and then buried her in the garden before driving to work like normal.
He'd always had an active imagination and prison seemed to have made it ten times worse.
Chapter 18
The reception desk at Ellie's hotel was empty when Evan got there so he headed straight up to her room. He was fifteen minutes early but he knocked on the door anyway and wasn't surprised when he didn't get an answer. He didn't fancy going back down and sitting in the depressing lobby if he could avoid it so he sat down and leaned against the wall to wait. Half an hour passed and she still hadn't turned up. He thought about asking if they'd seen her at reception, but, after the trouble at the bar, he was getting a bad feeling about the whole situation. The less people who saw him here, the better. He got up and paced up and down, then tried the door handle and the feeling of unease intensified a notch as the door swung open. He let himself in and closed the door behind him.
The room smelled of stale bodies and unwashed sheets, and it was empty. The bed took up most of the floor space. He took a step towards the bathroom and felt something sticky under his foot. He pulled off his shoe and ran a finger through the tacky liquid but he had no idea if it was blood or not. He took a couple of tentative paces towards the bathroom, as if a dead body in the shower stall was something you had to creep up on, and pushed the door open. She wasn't in there either. He let out a long breath. At least she wasn't lying naked in the tub, her eyes gouged from their sockets, legs bent at impossible angles.
It was obvious the room had been searched—there hadn't been much in the way of clothes in either the closet or the dresser, but what there was had been strewn across the floor. The mattress had been pulled off the bed and was leaning up against the wall. There was a small suitcase lying open on the bed frame and a couple of pairs of shoes kicked into the corner. It didn't look as if she planned on staying in town for long.