Riven (50 page)

One day his lunch delivery was accompanied by a letter from his aunt Lois. Brady’s fingers trembled as he opened it, though it was clear it had already been read by the authorities.

Your uncle and I are praying for you, Brady. We know it was an accident and that you would never hurt a flea on purpose. We asked if we could come visit you but were told only one person was allowed at a time and not till after your first ninety days, and then only if you put us on some list. Do that, and one of us will come as soon as it’s cleared. Tell us about your appeals when you can.

The last thing Brady wanted was his aunt or uncle seeing this place. He wanted to answer, “It was on purpose, stop praying, and don’t come.” But he would not be issued pencil or paper until the ninety days were up, and he wasn’t allowed to send any mail until after that anyway.

And his appeals? He didn’t even want to know, let alone tell anyone else. What was to appeal? Any higher court judge or panel looking over his transcripts would see what everyone else saw. If anyone dared reverse his sentence, he would sue them. Whoever all these activists were, demonstrating and acting in his and other death row inmates’ interests, they were going to be sorely disappointed at his lack of cooperation. In fact, he would be working at cross-purposes to theirs.

At the eighty-day mark, Brady began to really get antsy about reaching normal status. Wasn’t that something? Whatever their motive for treating him like the animal he was, it had worked. He would still be a man condemned to death, living in a steel-and-concrete box, humiliated, deprived of almost everything, and relegated to public calls of nature, public showers, body cavity searches, and cuffing and uncuffing every time he left his house. And yet the TV and radio and writing materials and something to read began to actually sound like something, looming on the horizon like an oasis.

And he needed something to distract him. Because now that the craziness and the noise and the creatures and the smells had become a macabre amalgam of his daily existence, Brady’s sleeplessness and nausea finally reached him in that far corner he had struggled so frantically to avoid.

He had searched desperately every minute for anything to occupy his mind so he could shut out the ugly truth about himself. He was a criminal, a murderer, a monster. He had snuffed out a life and destroyed a family.

Brady had allowed himself to somehow cover the worst of this in his mind by freely admitting his guilt and demanding death. By some far-fetched rationalization, he felt that should have squared it. But when he was forced to face himself, he knew better. Nothing could make it right. In one ugly instant he had gone from a liar, a lowlife, and a no-account loser to the worst thing a man could be.

And now that he had settled in to where he belonged and found that a few crumbs of privileges due him for ninety days’ good behavior sounded like Christmas, he could shut out the despicable truth no longer.

Guilty, guilty, guilty
was all he could think. Was he going crazy? Would he try again to kill himself? And why was it Katie’s father and not Brady’s aunt Lois who had mentioned his burning in hell? Lois really believed that stuff, that there was a heaven and a hell and that good people went up and bad people went down.

I murdered someone, and I’m going to hell.

Brady realized that he could not kill himself. Even the supermax had to be better than hell. Killing himself would get him sent there only earlier. And now all of a sudden the three-year mark didn’t seem so far away either. Oh, he deserved it. He had never denied that. But what he feared would not come soon enough now seemed to be racing toward him.

Why hadn’t he listened to Jackie Kent and considered that the day might come when he would change his mind? Life in this place would be awful, but if there was a hell, he’d rather be here than there—regardless what he deserved.

He knew Carl and Lois were sincerely into this stuff, but he had always just endured their church and Sunday school and the stories and songs. It was all okay for them, sort of quaint. Lois was known as a bit of a religious wacko, even among her family and friends.

But could it be true? If it was, Brady was in deep, deep trouble, not just with the county and the state, but with the God of the universe Himself.

He dug through his induction packet again, though he had committed it to memory. That black-and-white picture of the plain, old-fashioned-looking, broad-faced older man, the Reverend Thomas Carey. He was the chaplain. And to arrange a visit with him, you had to fill out a form and submit it to the administrative offices. If the decision was positive and the inmate in good standing, the meeting would be scheduled. The first would be at your cell, and if the chaplain deemed it appropriate or necessary, subsequent meetings, each subject to the same permission request procedure, could be arranged in an isolation unit. There the inmate and the chaplain could sit on either side of a Plexiglas window and converse through an intercom.

Brady understood exactly why he had this sudden interest in a meeting with the chaplain, though he wasn’t sure he would want to say it aloud where other cons could hear. The bottom line was, he had to know. Was there any hope for a murderer?

57

Adamsville

It had been years—
years
—since Gladys had called Thomas Carey at home.

“Wanted to catch you before you left,” she said now. “I still don’t know what you have against cell phones, Reverend. I could have waited a few minutes and talked to you while you were driving.”

“It’s called a budget,” Thomas said, hoping she could hear the smile in his voice. Plus, cell phones didn’t work in the supermax with all the steel and concrete. And he wasn’t going to invest in a phone and monthly charges so he could be reached anywhere else.

“How’s your sweetheart this morning?”

“Still in remission,” he said. “Believe me, we’re enjoying it while it lasts.”

“I’m praying it lasts forever.”

“Thank you, but you didn’t call to tell me that. I’m on my way out the door.”

“You must have a long cord on that phone, then.”

“Funny.”

“I just thought you’d like to know whose request to see you has been approved and who you can visit whenever you want.”

“I’ll bite. Who?”

“Guess.”

“A Muslim. A Wiccan. A Buddhist. Worse than that? A satanist? Surely not someone interested in what I’m selling.”

“You never know, but you’re wrong on all counts.”

“Another one of those who’s invented his own religion and wants me to get it cleared with the state so he can, what, worship girlie magazines or something?”

Gladys cackled. “I’ll never forget that guy. Nope, believe it or not, it’s the Heiress Murderer.”

Thomas held his breath. The very one he had been praying for. The one with the vacant look. “He’s been with us ninety days already?”

“Last week. Yanno just signed off on the request.”

“You know, Gladys, one of these days I’m going to tell the warden that you call him that.”

“You’d blackmail me?”

“If I could figure out a reason. But if I did, what would I get out of it?”

“My loud scarf collection. Any one of ’em would go well with your somber suits.”

“That’s just my uniform, Miz Fashion Plate.”

“And you wear ’em well. Now get your tail in here and do your job.”

“Can you do me a favor? See if you can get the man’s file for me?”

“You didn’t get enough of that story in the papers and on TV?”

“More than I wanted, actually, but there’s always stuff the press ignores that can be enlightening.”

Death Row

Brady got word late that morning that the chaplain would visit his cell at four in the afternoon.
Interesting timing,
he thought.
If he gets bored, he can leave at the end of his workday.

They would have an hour and a half before the dinner count and then the meal delivery. Brady couldn’t imagine it taking that long. He was curious was all. Just wanted to know where the local man of the cloth stood on this stuff. Brady had heard friends say over the years that when you’re dead you’re dead, but being a Christian or trying to live like one was good because it made you a better person in this world.

Well, he had certainly failed on that account, and long before he murdered Katie North.

Administration Wing

Thomas spent the day busy but distracted. Brady Wayne Darby was the highest-profile inmate the penitentiary had had in ages. While there had been no trial to make the thing the media circus it might have become, the murder had been center stage for weeks.

Andreason and LeRoy were adamant about no information being leaked out of the prison about Darby, though a couple of corrections officers reported that they had been offered money by the tabloids to sneak a cell phone photo or any tidbit of news to them. The truth was, one of them might have taken the offer had the inmate been the least bit interesting. Word was he was quiet and cooperative, though still considered a suicide risk. But he was talking with no one, so anything sold to the cheap newspapers about Brady Darby would have to be invented, like most everything else in those rags.

At 2:00 Gladys swept into Thomas’s office and plopped a three-inch file on his desk. “You owe me,” she said.

“I’m hopelessly in debt to you already.”

“And don’t you forget it. Someday you’ll pay, Padre.”

“How would I ever?”

“Oh, trust me, I’ll think of something. And if I can’t, my hubby will. If nothing else, we ought to have a barbecue at your place while your darlin’ is up and about.”

“C’mon, Xavier wouldn’t want to cook on his day off. That’d be like me preaching on my day off.”

“I didn’t say he was gonna cook. You are!”

“Then I’ll
really
owe you.”

Thomas found investigative files fascinating and had taken to watching real-life mystery shows on television when he had the chance. He might have enjoyed a career as a detective. He certainly couldn’t have done worse than as a clergyman. Thomas had to smile at the memory of Grace’s scolding when he had mentioned that.

He read through the entire corpus of the Darby case, which included the young man’s whole criminal history. Everything was fairly straightforward. Like many other men at Adamsville State, he had been raised by a single parent, had suffered a loss in his immediate family, had a history of drugs and petty crimes before graduating to bigger ones, and had been in and out of all sorts of penal institutions from juvie to local lockups and even the notorious county jail.

Again, like many, he’d had the occasional bright spot—sort of like remission, Thomas thought. He had enjoyed stellar marks at his last halfway house and was on the verge of finishing, getting a certificate, and being recommended for job placement. Then came the murder, which had taken everyone by surprise.

Darby’s lengthy rap sheet showed the telltale signs of almost every other inmate Thomas had ever studied. He had progressed in his career from little stuff to big, eventually pulling armed robberies, grand theft auto, assault with deadly weapons, and finally murder. He’d also had his share of escape attempts and violence against other inmates and staff at previous institutions.

Lord,
Thomas said silently,
I still don’t know what to ask You in regard to this man, but You put him on my heart, so I hope his request is an answer to my prayers.

An officer met Thomas as he emerged from the last security envelope before death row. It still struck him that if one didn’t know, he would not have been able to tell this pod from any of the others. It was different, there was no question. These men were all living by the calendar and the clock. But no sign or look or noise or smell distinguished it from any of the other units.

Thomas caught sight of Darby from about twenty feet away. Usually the sound of anyone walking nearby captured everyone’s attention. They would at least look up, just for the change of scenery. But Darby was sitting on his cot, fiddling with his TV. He appeared thinner than Thomas remembered. Could he have lost that much weight in three months?

The officer rapped on Darby’s door and called out, “Your chaplain visit!”

The young man immediately turned off the TV and stood, but he seemed to carefully approach the front of his cell, as if he had learned not to appear threatening. Thomas kept his distance but tried to welcome the approach with a smile. Brady Darby looked wretched, wasted.

From all over the pod, other cons began to stand and yell and whistle.

“Chaplain visit!”

“Lover boy has a meeting!”

“Gonna get right with your Maker?”

Thomas leaned close and spoke directly. “Thomas Carey.”

“I’m Brady. You didn’t bring your Bible.”

As soon as they began, someone shushed everyone else. Thomas and Darby whispered, but Thomas was certain some could hear.

“Happy to bring it, anytime you’d like me to. Lucky for you, I have much of it memorized.”

“Seriously?”

Thomas nodded.

“I memorize too,” Brady said. “You want to hear what it says on the juice boxes and in the induction packet?”

“You know one of the things I can offer you is reading material. You can borrow anything in my library and keep it for as long as you’re here.”

“What’ve you got?”

Thomas pulled a folded list from his suit coat pocket, showed it to the officer—who checked it for staples or paper clips and nodded—then rolled it and passed it through one of the openings.

Brady tossed it on his cot. “So you believe in Jesus and all that?”

“I do,” Thomas said. “Helps in this job.”

Brady nodded, either not catching or not appreciating the humor. “Heaven and hell? The devil? Satan?”

“Everything in the Bible,” Thomas said. “Yes, I believe it.”

“Sinners go to hell, good people go to heaven?”

“No, I don’t believe that.”

The con looked genuinely surprised, just as Thomas had hoped he would. “What then? Heaven and hell aren’t real? They just stand for something else?”