Ashes to Ashes (18 page)

Before the pair of detectives chose to
approach the sports bar, they stood for a couple minutes to discuss
something. Ashe watched them, still slightly frozen. He remembered
when he had been be the man who stood by Oscar, on their way to
question a lead. A twinge of what might have been jealousy
unexpectedly vibrated in Ashe’s gut. He turned away and looked back
at the bartender.

“What is wrong?” Regime asked.

“Look,” Ashe began. “Scott is in trouble and
a pair of police officers are about to walk in here to question
you. They believe that your best friend Scott shot and killed his
roommate Owen in cold blood. In fact, they are pretty certain of
it. Mainly because Scott is running and no one knows where is or
might be heading.”

“Wait. What? Bullshit.”

“No bullshit,” Ashe assured. “Truth. And the
police department wants me to stay out of the investigation, but I
won’t stop until I find Scott. If they catch me with you, it could
all end right now. Will you help me?”

“Yes. Of course. Hurry out the back.
Quickly.”

“I was never here,” Ashe blurted, before
departing from his seat seconds before Oscar waltzed through the
door. As he pushed across the distance and into the men’s bathroom,
he heard Oscar call for the bartender by name.

The bathroom was decent size, consisting of
two stalls, two urinals, two sinks, and one snug, medium sized
window. Ashe rushed over to the window and felt a little relief
when he saw that it slid upward to open and it didn’t have a
screen. But when he tried to force it upward, the glass jolted to a
stop as the wood frame jammed. He was left with only a gap of a few
inches.

Ashe breathed heavily through his nose.

Putting his fingers through the gap, he
shoved as hard as he could. The psychologist sweated and swore at
the stubborn sheet of glass, thankful that no one else was using
the bathroom. Inch by inch it began to move and slide until it was
finally open. Looking around the window, Ashe saw that he had no
leverage or anything solid to stand on. Knowing that he damned well
shouldn’t, he chose to climb head first out of the window. Luckily,
it wasn’t very high off of the ground. Halfway out, he used the
outside wall to push against. Once his legs were beyond the
threshold, the weight of Ashe’s body pulled him to the ground. A
burst of pain jolted through his right shoulder as it took the
blunt force of the short fall.

Swiftly, Ashe jumped to his feet and
immediately felt a discomfort in his right leg. No one had been
lingering outside the bar to see his embarrassing escape. Moving
quickly, he knew full well that he couldn’t go back to his car. It
was in full few of the side windows.

Damn it
, he wanted to cry out. He
should have parked somewhere and walked.
Damn
.

He regained his bearings. It was as he had
figured. The bathroom window had placed him at the front corner of
the building, where there were no windows, away from the line of
sight of the side windows and Oscar. Across the four-lane road
outside of the pub, the psychologist saw the golden arches of a
popular fast food place. He would have to use his sore body and
limp his way over to it, so that could wait there until Oscar and
Geiring left, hopefully without seeing his car.

The street’s bright yellow cross-walk was a
few from him. Ashe went to the curb and waited for the traffic
light to change in his favor. He then proceeded as swiftly as
possible toward the McDonald’s, the entire way planning out his
next move. He had the name of Scott’s girlfriend, but it was only a
nickname. That information would be useful, at least not yet. But
he had also been told that Owen Roberts had spent some time in
Marymount. He saw no harm in wading into the victim’s psychological
past.

It took nearly around thirty minutes for the
two detectives to get what they want from Regime Watkins. Ashe
wondered if Regime had given him up. As he watched his friend and
his nemesis driving away, he had a gut feeling that Regime kept his
word and never spoke of Ashe’s presence in the pub.

Once he was back the driver’s seat of his
car, the psychologist took a personal second. The Cleveland Mental
Health Hospital?
Shit
, he swore in his head as the sun of a
memory dawned on him. Grub. The psychologist found his phone and
the time. “Damn it! Damn it!” He quickly ignited the car’s engine
and swore a third time.

Chapter 19

Ashe paused as his eyes fell on Grub, who was
shackled wrists and ankles by metal shackles. Grub was standing by
an open doorway, which led to a back area of the prison, a place
from where inmates were transported to and from the correctional
institute. Even though his head was drooping, Grub managed to
glance back at the psychologist, a melancholy mask covering the
man’s face, his emotions low, lower than Ashe had ever seen. The
psychologist couldn’t believe how innocent and child-like Grub
appeared, like a kid who had just gotten his ball taken away
because of bad behavior. Grub didn’t resemble someone leaving a
dangerous prison for greener pastures, but a person who was in the
process of being moved from one hell to another. Was that how it
was for him? The psychologist wondered. From one prison to another?
Ashe had considered the transfer a small win, but he never took the
time to consider what the move would mean for Grub. How would the
man’s simple mind translate the situation?

“How are you holding up?” He asked the
hulking inmate.

“I am good,” the bulky man replied.

The two transportation guards were to the
side of Grub, wearing bulletproof vests, shotguns sternly in hand.
They were not taking any chances, Ashe figured, while escorting a
dangerous man out of a secured and solid stone building and into
the open world outside of it. Anything could happen during the
drive and any smart and experienced guard would be alert and ready
the entire trip. Also, they didn’t know Grub from Steven. To the
men, he was nothing but another possibility of violence, violence
that a shotgun blast to the head would abruptly put to an end.

Ashe took a step forward and extended his
hand to the men. “I’m Dr. Walters,” he introduced himself. “I am
this man’s psychologist.” The two men gave the psychologist a
minute to exchange handshakes, but were obviously ready to move
out. They wore their impatience on their sleeves, both of them.
Ashe didn’t let the guards simply turn and walk. Instead, he asked.
“Which one of you is in charge?”

One of the guards, a young man with pale,
pasty skin spoke up, his voice deep and confident in his role as
transportation leader. “I am. William…William Workman, sir.”

“Good to meet you, William,” the psychologist
greeted. “I know that you guys are in a hurry and I hate to slow
you down any, I swear. But I would like to ask permission to join
you guys on your ride. I’ve already cleared with the warden,” which
was a lie. With being distracted by Scott crisis, he had forgotten
to ask Warden Chase for permission to accompany Grub. He then
added, “And you do not have to find me a ride back…I have my
ways.”

William at once announced his disagreement,
“We can’t do that, sir. It is against regulations.” His voice
sounded like it came from the belly of a bullfrog. “Sorry.”

“I won’t interfere, I swear,” Ashe replied,
putting his palms out to show his docility. “You won’t even know
that I am here. I will be quieter than a fly on the wall, a crab in
your pubes.” He hoped the joke would lighten the mood. But he
failed miserably to even conjure a smirk or smile from the pair of
correctional officers.

William shook his head. The other guard then
took his turn to disagree with the psychologist. “Sorry, sir. Even
if we were allowed, there isn’t any more room in the front of the
van.”

“Your name?”

“Ben.”

“Well, Ben,” Ashe continued, “I would like to
ride in the back, anyway.”

“With the inmate?” Ben asked, caught off
guard. “No offense, sir. But are you fucking crazy?”

“Jury is still out,” the psychologist joked,
again, and failed, again. “Okay. Listen guys. Grub is still my
responsibility and I wish to ride with him and be with him until he
gets to where he is going. My presence will make the ride a little
smoother, if you know what I mean.” He glanced back forth from man
to man, keeping strong eye contact with both. He then took a second
to gather another thought. “Besides, Dr. Sheth is a close friend of
mine. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I tagged along. Why don’t you
give him a call and we can make some plans. Okay?”

“Dr. Walters,” William said, “you are making
us late. Dr. Sheth will be in charge of the inmate whenever we
arrive there, but he is not in charge of the transfer. The prison
system sets up and carries out the transfer…not him.”

“I knew that,” Ashe replied, kicking himself
in the ass. He then hastily got out his cell phone and called
Warden Chase’s office. It rang once and then he heard her loud
feminine voice at the other end. “Warden Chase? Ashe. I know. I
know. I know. I
am
dealing with my issues but I have
something else come up that brought me back to Wilson temporarily.
Grub. Yes. Grub. I promised him that I would go with him during his
transfer, remember? You gave me the green light?” He took a chance
that the warden, being always piled onto with work and things to
remember, might actually believe that she had forgotten Ashe’s
request, a request that she had never in fact received. And it
worked. “I did. I know. You will have to okay it with these
thorough guards, here. A good pair of men, I tell ya. Yes. Yes.
Thank you.” He turned and handed the cell over to William. He
listened for nearly a minute before handing the phone back.

“That takes care of
that
,” William
told Ashe. “Are you sure about this?”

Ashe nodded. He was sure.

“Let’s get this done, then,” the guard
replied. “Ben. Let us get the criminal in the van, please.”

The psychologist followed closely behind the
guards as they led the inmate to the nearby steel door. William
pulled on a laminated badge that hung around his neck by thin
string and swiped it across a scanner. A red light turned green and
the door locks released. William then moved to the front of the
pack and pushed the thick door open. His attention never fully left
the inmate and the other men behind him.

Sunlight swiftly flooded into the dark, dank
prison causing Grub to become startled, stumbling backward. It was
as if he had forgotten the brilliance and intensity of the sun.
When was the last time he had been outside? Ashe wondered.

Just beyond the doorway, at the bottom of a
set of metal stairs, the guards had parked their armored van. In
spite of what people think, a prison inmate was never transferred
in a vehicle that would stand out to onlookers. It was important to
avoid unwanted attention. There wasn’t any logo spray painted
across the side. Even though the sides were made from dense metal,
damn near impenetrable, they appeared to be just as flimsy as the
frame of any other business vehicle. There weren’t any bars
installed into the windows of the van’s back doors, because the
glass itself was nearly unbreakable. The front windows were just as
sturdy. And the van was not dark or black in color. It was a
simple, normal, unimportant white. The van could easily be that of
any plumber or any HVAC worker. It was like every other business
van that could be found driving up and down the streets of
Youngstown or Cleveland or the suburbs in between.

William pulled open the van’s back doors to
reveal an empty space. Short, narrow benches lined the van’s walls.
The guard turned back to Grub. “Get in,” he ordered the criminal,
point the direction with the barrel of his shotgun.

“Let me,” Ashe interrupted, before hoisting
himself up into the vehicle. He grabbed a swift glance at where he
would be spending the next hour. Nice. Snug. Cold and barren. But
the ride wasn’t entirely about his own person comforts and needs.
It was also about getting Grub safely to his new home. And it was
also about peace of mind for the psychologist, no matter how
selfish that was. He needed a few breaths without thinking about
where his son was and what he was doing.

The psychologist didn’t fully enter the van
but remained in the open back entrance. Taking Grub into
consideration, he reached out and offered the big man some help,
because he knew that the inmate was often awkward in his movements,
sometimes seemingly stumbling over thin air. Gripping the criminal
by the shackled right forearm, Ashe pulled and pulled, managing to
give the man a little needed leverage for him to make it up and
into the armored vehicle.

Behind Grub, the psychologist managed to
catch sight of the guards and their facial responses to his
compassion for the convicted criminal. They had not expected it.
And they didn’t appear to know what to think of it. But Ashe didn’t
give a shit how a pair of jaded, cynical prison workers viewed his
acts of mercy and humility. They were his acts to perform, whether
they were to be judged or not. He knew Grub. He knew the killer.
But he also
knew
the man behind the crimes.
They
did
not. And that was all that he needed to comprehend about the
situation.

Grub chose the bench to the left, leaving the
psychologist with the one on the right. Sitting silently, he
watched the guards attach the inmate’s wrist and ankle shackles to
an iron bar that ran underneath his seat. Grub didn’t move a muscle
while the men did their work and remained absolutely quiet until
they left. Once the men were gone and the van door was closed, he
finally spoke more freely to Ashe.

“Long ride?” he asked the psychologist as the
van’s powerful engine roared to life. The machine was then shifted
into gear and began to bounce its way out of the prison grounds and
toward the big city of Cleveland.