Angel of Darkness (7 page)

The psychiatrist had seen the same photos, and whether or not he believed that Parker was innocent, he looked old enough to have been around the block a few times. Surely, he still had doubts, even if Parker had been spending months, maybe even years, trying to convince him otherwise?

‘Let's talk about those groupies,' the psychiatrist said, reaching for his notebook again. ‘How do they make you feel?'

‘What do you mean?' Parker asked, leaning back and stretching his legs out so that his pants stretched tight against his groin.

Of the two of them, only one was good at reading people – and it sure as hell wasn't the shrink.

‘How does the thought of being close to another person make you feel?' the psychiatrist asked primly. ‘How do you feel when you think about being close to them, emotionally or physically?'

‘How do I feel?' Parker repeated, his trademark grin returning. ‘I feel like slowly unbuttoning their blouses and ripping off their bras and running my hands up and down that firm sweet flesh above their ribs until I reach their breasts and then . . .' He began to recite a pornographic list of things he would happily do to the women who wrote to him if he ever had the chance.

His lust sounded real, but I was more inclined to believe the guard who had said Otis Parker didn't care about the women who sent him money, or what they could do for him physically. He just took their money and asked for more.

The psychiatrist listened carefully and made frequent notations, as if Parker's monologue was fascinating. But I thought it sounded like a late-night Cinemax re-run and I could see no value in this line of questioning other than to titillate them both.

The truth was that the shrink was no safer in Parker's presence than any of his prior victims had been. He was a fool to believe a word out of Parker's mouth.

ELEVEN

H
ow Holloway feels often depends on the time of day. It can be a frightening place at night when the air is heavy with restless dreams and private realizations that life's opportunities have been squandered. In the mornings, there is a palpable air of release that the darkness is gone, tinged with the skepticism that the day ahead will bring anything but the same. By mid-morning, the mood has often changed again. Especially in the spring time, when many of the residents cannot help but notice that the sun is high in the sky and the air is fresh and the birds bounce along the brick walkways and perch on the statues that decorate the courtyard with resolute devotion. This benign mood can often last until dinner time, when the encroaching evening casts a pall over everyone's optimism. That's when this sort of jittery, wait-and-see attitude comes over everyone, patients and staff alike.

I prefer the daylight hours, when it is still possible to believe that not everyone who enters Holloway is doomed to remain inside its walls.

Especially when it comes to Olivia. I found her that afternoon in her usual spot, watching the fountain. She seemed unable to take her eyes away from the water and did not notice me. The little girl, Lily, had discovered an anthill on the great lawn. Under the watchful eye of a nurse's aide, who knew all too well that Lily's smaller stature in no way rendered her harmless, she was busy poking a stick down into the anthill and watching the tiny creatures scurry away in panic. Harold had more ambitious plans for the day. He was once again wearing his newsboy cap and had trundled over to the double fence marking the maximum security and was sending a steady stream of babbling nonsense toward the inmates playing basketball on the courts inside. His words gushed out in staccato bursts, making sense only to him. It seemed to be a mix between childhood memories and the plot of an insipid sitcom I had seen him watching a few nights before. As often happens with Harold's monologues, it started out interesting but soon descended into the mundane: ‘Harold Babbitt sees the court of the Mountain King. It is filled with jesters who dance and sing. I see a killer, a baker, a candlestick maker, a jump-start faker and an innocence-taker.'

It was OK to accuse them of murder, but the inmates on the other side of the fence lacked any appreciation for Harold once he started attacking their athletic talents. One of them picked up the basketball and rocketed it toward the fence with ferocious strength. The ball slammed into the fence right in front of Harold's face with a terrifying clank, causing Harold to scream and jump surprisingly high for such a round little guy. He landed unsteadily and fell backwards over a bush before sprawling on the lawn like someone trying to make snow angels without the snow. The basketball players roared with laughter – but I noticed that only one was not paying attention, as his gaze was distracted by someone walking by. Otis Parker had found someone far more interesting than Harold to occupy his attention.

I followed his gaze. He was watching Olivia. A rage filled me with such intensity I was taken aback by how very human it made me feel. How dare Parker look at her that way? I felt an overwhelming need to protect her. It was a new sensation. I had always been the weak one in life. I had never been able to protect her. But now that I felt the impulse, there was little I could do. I was helpless to stop him as he made loud smacking sounds and called out ‘Hey, mama!' He grabbed his crotch but Olivia ignored him, lost in her own world.

My wife Connie had seen the exchange. She wasn't used to people like Otis Parker, but with one look at his face, she got the message. She hurried away, determined to put as much distance between her and the maximum security unit as possible. I followed her to the juvenile wing where she asked after Michael and was told that he was in therapy and she would have to wait if she wanted to see him. The nurse added that he had a visitor waiting already and gestured toward the boy I had seen with Michael the day before. This time, he was slumped in an orange plastic chair in the common room where the teenagers gathered for television and group therapy. He looked just like the other patients there for treatment: ill at ease and unhappy. Connie joined the boy and seemed to know him well. He smiled when she approached and it transformed his face. He was not a bad-looking kid. He just held a lot inside and it showed on the outside. I knew how that felt.

‘How's it going, Adam?' Connie asked him. She took a seat beside him and placed her pocketbook on her lap. Her legs were pressed tightly together and she was balancing on the tips of her toes, telling me that she had not come to grips with the fact that her son was living in such a place, however temporarily.

‘I'm OK,' he mumbled. ‘Mr Phillips let me leave a few minutes early so I could stop by and see Michael before I study. I have a big test tomorrow.'

‘In that case, I'll wait while you see him. I have the afternoon off, so it's no big deal.'

Adam looked startled at this show of concern for his needs, and I wondered if the kid had anyone in his life who ever gave a damn about him. More likely, his life had always been about putting fresh diapers on his grandmother while avoiding the drunk in his underwear who liked to bellow instead of conversing with his son. I'd been there myself and knew what it was like. The kid had a lot to get past each morning, just to get out of bed. Worse, he knew it. To have a friend in the mental hospital was just another step forward into the life of disappointment he was destined for.

They waited in silence after that, and I wondered if there was something even bigger weighing on the kid. He seemed distracted and lost in thought. Or maybe waiting to see a friend in a mental hospital was just too much to ask of a kid his age.

Connie noticed his mood, too. ‘Are you OK?' she asked him.

Adam did not respond for a moment and I knew he was hiding something from her. ‘Sure, Mrs F. I'm just worried about some school stuff.'

He was lying to Connie. I was sure of it.

‘If you ever need anything, you know I'm here, right? You're always welcome at our house, or you can call me any time if you just need someone to talk to. It would just be between us. Not even Michael has to know.'

I thought for a moment Adam might start to cry at Connie's unexpected offer of help, but his exceptional self-control won out. He managed to say, ‘I know. Thanks.'

I left them to their waiting and went to check on Michael. He was sitting with his therapist, Miranda, in a sunny corner room. Michael was sitting a few feet away from Miranda and staring at his feet. His self-consciousness was painful to watch. I knew it was wrong to eavesdrop on my son, and another part of me knew that if I listened long enough, I would only hear something else I didn't want to hear. But I had to know that my son was going to be OK. I had to know that he realized how many people loved him, and that he was there at Holloway because they loved him.

‘He's, like, the only guy at school who bothers to listen when I talk,' Michael was telling Miranda. ‘Most days, I go all day with him being the only one I talk to. Or, at least, the only one I talk to who actually hears what I'm saying. And I can tell the other kids are talking behind my back sometimes, but not Adam. I've seen him stick up for me and once he took a swing at this jerk for saying something bad about my father.'

‘So he's your friend?' Miranda asked. ‘He sounds like he's your friend to me.'

Michael shifted uneasily. ‘Yeah, I guess. Don't you think it's kind of gay and all to be so close to another guy?'

Miranda's answer was immediate. ‘No, I don't think it's kind of gay and all. I talk to a lot of people as part of my job and I find that the happiest of them have friends like the kind of friend you have in Adam.' She looked at him in silence for a moment. ‘Michael, no one should go through life alone.'

‘My father did,' he said.

‘But your father did not go through life alone by choice,' Miranda explained. ‘He just lost his way. When that happened, he left the ones who loved him behind. I don't think that he meant to, though.'

I was grateful to her, both for comforting my son and for putting into words a regret I had not been able to express. She was right. I had been lost and wandering for so much longer than the past year.

‘Our time is up,' she told Michael. ‘Do you want to stay longer today? I have the time.'

He shook his head. ‘Adam is coming by to see me and my mom took the afternoon off to bug me.'

He and Miranda laughed.

‘Tomorrow, then,' she told him. ‘I'll be here for you.'

Michael nodded his thanks. When he left the room, he looked visibly lighter and his step seemed more confident. I guess sometimes all people need is for someone to listen.

Michael greeted Connie and his friend with some embarrassment, aware he had more visitors than most of the other kids in the unit. Michael had never been the kind of kid who wanted to be different.

Adam felt his discomfort. ‘Come on, man,' he said. ‘Let's get some fresh air.'

Michael cast an anxious glance at his mother.

‘I'll be fine,' she assured him, waving them away. ‘Cal's going to stop by. I'll spend some time with him.'

The two boys left the oppressive atmosphere of the unit behind. I could feel his friend Adam's anxiousness radiating off him. He had come bearing bad news.

‘What is it?' Michael asked as they hurried down the steps.

‘Wait until we get outside,' Adam mumbled. Whatever it was, he was trying to put it off.

Michael's anxiousness grew as they walked over the lawn that linked Holloway's units and created the illusion, if you could ignore the security fences penning in the criminally insane, that Holloway was nothing more than an expensive resort.

Finally, Michael could take it no longer. He pulled up short in the middle of the lawn and turned to his friend. ‘Just tell me,' he said.

‘You know the girl they found by the river?'

I could feel the fear starting to bubble up in Michael. ‘Yeah. Everyone has heard by now. Everyone on the unit is saying it's someone who was let out of Holloway too early, that she killed herself.'

Adam shook his head. ‘No, man. It wasn't anyone from Holloway.' He hesitated. ‘It was Darcy.'

‘Darcy?' It was a single word, but in those two short syl-lables, Michael managed to convey disbelief, instant devastation and something akin to panic. I could feel the bottom drop out of his world. I could feel him spiraling down into the darkness. The girl had meant a lot to him. He swayed, as if he were dizzy.

His friend reached out to catch him. ‘Michael?' Adam's voice rose. ‘Are you OK? Can you hear me?' He looked panicked, as if Michael's distress was too much for him to deal with.

‘I have to go back inside,' Michael mumbled, waving his friend away. ‘I need to be alone. I need to talk to someone.' He hurried off before Adam could follow him. He left behind a sense of words unsaid that was palpable in the air.

He was hiding something from Adam. I knew it – and I think that Adam knew it, too. Adam stood, alone on the vast, green lawn, and stared after my son, emotions racing through him with such intensity that I could not pinpoint any one. I felt confusion and jealousy and fear move through him as he struggled with his thoughts, but his thoughts were interrupted when a familiar voice bellowed at him from across the lawn.

‘Light a fire under it!' a gruff voice bellowed out. ‘Move it now or you're walking.'

Adam's father stood at the main entrance to Holloway. Behind him, through the gate, I saw a red pickup truck idling at the curb.

Adam pulled his emotions back under control, something he did so well it was starting to frighten me. What would happen the day they all came out again? He turned his back on Michael and trudged resolutely toward his father.

I followed. I had found a connection between Darcy Swan and Holloway – and maybe even Otis Parker. I needed to know more about this boy. He was closer to my son than anyone else in the world. And I knew enough about kids to know that, where Adam went, so too would go my son.