Singularity (20 page)

“I think I need to speak with him, if you’ll let me go.” Sullivan managed a halfhearted smile, and was relieved when Amanda returned it.

“Just don’t go climbing any more fences, okay?” she said, turning from him as lightning slit the sky beyond the windows once again.

==

“Come in,” a tired voice behind the door said before the echo of Sullivan’s knocks faded from the lobby. He twisted the knob and stepped into Andrews’s office for the second time that day. The warden sat behind the desk, his hands splayed out before him on its top. The older man’s eyes were shadowed from beneath by the deepest bags Sullivan had ever seen. Andrews’s hair was also disarrayed, giving Sullivan the impression it had been only seconds since the warden had run his hands through it.

“Sullivan, come in. Sit down.”

Sullivan made his way to the chair and grimaced as he settled into it, the cuts and scratches on his legs and back making themselves heard over the soft glow of the fading sedative.

Andrews noticed his expression and sat forward. “Are you okay, son?”

Sullivan dipped his head once.
“A little worse for wear but still moving.”
Now that the painkillers were leaving his system, Sullivan felt the shock and fear of the morning return to him: the flight for his life through the forest, his desperate climb over the fence and back into the grounds he’d tried to escape.

Andrews appraised him for a moment, the older man’s eyes roaming over him in an inspection that went further than his physical state. “I’m told your injuries are a result of climbing the perimeter fence.”

Sullivan licked his lips, deciding what direction to take with the warden. He liked the man, but knew he could lie sufficiently enough to fool him. He was sure no one had seen him disappear into the woods or return from them a while later. “Yes, they are,” he said, deciding the truth wasn’t his only option but currently the best one. But he didn’t feel the need to tell the warden which way he was climbing when he sustained the injuries.

“And I suppose you thought you were going to slog your way out of here?” The older man’s eyebrows rose expectantly.

Sullivan nodded again. “Yeah, I thought I could make it out, try to get some help since the phones were down.”

“I’m not trying to sound admonishing, but that was dumber than dumb.”

Sullivan sighed and placed a hand to his forehead, blocking the older man out completely. “Sir, I don’t think I need to remind you that we have a murdered man, an injury to one of my forensic specialists, and my missing friend, and on top of that you’ve accused him of destroying our only contact with the outside world. Forgive me, but I thought at the time it was my only choice.”

Andrews remained motionless behind the desk, and Sullivan began to think he wasn’t going to respond when the warden exhaled and pursed his lips. “You’re right, son. I’m sorry. If I were in your shoes, I would’ve done the same damn thing. I just feel like a wheel spinning in mud, working hard but not going anywhere.”

“And Agent Stevens hasn’t been found?”

Andrews continued to frown. “No. As of now, we’ve swept the entire compound, along with
New Haven
. There’s been no sign of him.”

An internal war raged within Sullivan, but finally his judgment of the man on the other side of the desk won out over instincts. He scooted forward on the chair’s edge. “Sir, I have something disturbing to tell you, something I think you should be aware of, but first I need to ask you a question.”

Andrews nodded and motioned with his hand. “Go ahead, can’t get much worse than it is.”

“Who brought you Agent Stevens’s gun this morning?” Sullivan asked.

“Officer Bundy, why?”

A hovering puzzle piece sank into place within Sullivan’s mind. “Sir, I think one or more of your staff is responsible for Agent Stevens’s disappearance.”

The warden couldn’t have looked more surprised if Sullivan had suggested they simply carry the prison to higher ground. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because Agent Stevens carries a forty-five-caliber handgun.
The rounds that were shot through the hull of the boat were smaller. Not by much, but a little.”

The room fell silent except for the patter of rain upon the windows behind the warden’s desk. Andrews leaned back into his chair as if he’d been struck. Sullivan supposed, in some ways, he had.

“I’m guessing the holes were closer to the caliber my officers carry?”

Sullivan breathed in. “Yes, sir. And may I ask why everyone here is armed? I was under the impression that most prisons were basically weapon free.”

“It’s one of the reasons we don’t have as many problems here. I mandated that all of my officers must be armed at all times. It’s been implemental in keeping order and respect,” Andrews said waving away the question. His eyes darkened again as he studied Sullivan. “You’re sure of the caliber? You do recall that you told me you’d shot a man this morning who was pronounced dead last night?”

Sullivan’s gaze hardened. “Did you actually see
Fairbend’s
body, sir?”

Andrews blinked. “Well, no, but Amanda—”

“Is Amanda someone you truly trust?” Sullivan said, cutting the older man off.

“Yes, she is. If she told me that
Fairbend
was dead, it was because she believed it. Really, the more rational explanation would be that you
hallucinated
seeing Henry at all.”

“I did not hallucinate shooting that man!” Sullivan said, finally losing control of his voice. His breath was hot and he longed to stand, to move and release the anger he felt rolling off him in waves.

Andrews watched him for a moment and then nodded. “I believe you, son. It’s just everything that’s happened. I’m at a loss.”

Sullivan felt his jaw unclench. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of the other man’s apology.

Andrews stood and walked to a cabinet above the coffeemaker, near the door. He pulled a bottle of amber liquid from within, along with two glasses, as he glanced over his shoulder at Sullivan. “Like a drink, Sullivan?”

“I think I would.”

Andrews poured the glasses almost full, and then handed one to Sullivan on his way back to the desk. Before he sat, he gestured at the far wall. “You see that man there, the first picture on the left?”

Sullivan turned his attention to the wall and squinted at the black-and-white eight-by-ten that hung beside several others containing color, which gradually got clearer and more defined as the row went on. The picture the warden indicated was of a handsome man in his mid-forties. The man’s nose was knife-like and the eyes above it were equally sharp. They stared out of the photograph like the man had been studying the inner workings of the camera at the time of the picture.

“His name was Oliver
Godring
. He was the founder and first warden of this prison. He was a visionary. He drew up the plans for Singleton and
New Haven
in narrow times. He came up with the idea of establishing a penitentiary and a mental facility in proximity to one another to save funds. The state was tight back then, tighter than it is now, if you can believe it. They needed more space for inmates and psychiatric patients at the time, but didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.
Godring
came up with the solution by using the natural landscape as a barrier, keeping the facilities close enough to share resources.
Brilliant man.”

Andrews sat at his desk and sipped almost half the glass of whiskey down in a gulp. Sullivan tried his own drink and felt the liquor trace a burning path down his throat into his stomach. It tasted like bright honey.

“I guess I don’t follow you, sir,” Sullivan said after a minute of silence. Andrews looked up and seemed to notice Sullivan again.

“Each man is a measurement of what he does. I try to run this facility as well as I can, treat the inmates with dignity, befriend my officers, and what do I get?
Betrayal and fucking rain.”
The warden motioned toward the high windows. “I’ve failed this place and the people within, is what I’m saying, Sullivan.”

“Sir, the circumstances aren’t exactly normal here. So—” Sullivan paused, watching a grimace of pain arc across the other man’s features. Andrews leaned forward and set his glass down. Some of the whiskey slopped onto the desktop and pooled in puddles. “Are you okay?” Sullivan asked, beginning to rise to his feet.

The warden put up a hand, shook his head, and gradually opened his eyes. “Sorry, I’m …” The older man’s hands fumbled in a drawer. Soon, they reappeared holding several pill bottles, which he dropped onto the desk. One bottle rolled through the spilt whiskey.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sullivan asked again. The warden’s posture was stiff and his hands clawed at the bottles with urgency.

“Yes, I’m fine. Shit, I didn’t want to do this in front of anyone,” Andrews finally said. His fingers found purchase on one of the lids and he poured out two white pills from inside the bottle. Without bothering to screw the top back on, he did the same with the other three containers. Sullivan watched as the older man cupped the handful of tablets and tossed them back into his mouth. A shaking hand brought the whiskey close, and after a quick swallow, Andrews sat back in the chair, his thin chest expanding and contracting.

“I’m sorry.” The warden’s voice was weak, but Sullivan could still hear him over the whisper of the rain. “Don’t be alarmed, I take them with booze sometimes. I think it makes ’
em
work faster.”

“What’s wrong, sir?” Sullivan asked. He still felt as if he should call for help, but the older man looked to be calming.
No shit,
Sullivan thought.
He just washed down half a dozen pills with some Jameson. He should be calm
.

Andrews rubbed his face and finally opened his eyes.
“Bone cancer.
I have maybe five months left. The pills are experimental, but they’re not doing shit. I can feel it.”

Sullivan felt his stomach drop. “God, I’m sorry.”

The warden nodded.
“Me too.
Didn’t want to believe it when they told me last year.
‘You’ve got fourteen, maybe fifteen months.’ the doctor said. It’s only been ten and I feel like dying. I can take the weakness and the nausea that comes and goes. It’s the pain that kicks my feet out from under me. It shoots up out of nowhere and only one of these”—he motioned to the white bottles before him—“is an actual painkiller.”

Sullivan swallowed a mouthful from the glass and felt warmth spread outward from his stomach, mellowing the pain in his shoulder and legs. “I don’t blame you,” Sullivan said. He watched the warden’s eyes level with his and then blink, registering him again.

“For what?”
Andrews asked.

“For mixing the booze in with them.
My mother died of cancer and I think she would have liked a drink at the end.”

Andrews nodded and stared down at the pills. Sullivan sipped from the glass again and relished the numbing sensation that made his vision fuzzy at the edges.
Strong stuff,
he thought as he watched Andrews fasten the caps back onto their respective bottles.

“Sometimes I feel like just chucking them in the garbage. I just want to be done with it. Let it take me and go down the road since my ride seems to be here. Sometimes I think all this”—Andrews motioned to the bottles again as he tossed them into the desk drawer—“is just spitting in the face of whatever awaits us.”

Andrews turned and studied the rain that speckled the windows and ran down out of sight as more fell to take its place. “You married, Sullivan?”

Sullivan felt his gut clench and the room swim in vertigo.
Like falling,
his mind said, and he felt the press of nausea within his stomach. “No,” he heard himself say. He set the empty glass down and rubbed his hand across the bleariness of his vision in an attempt to clear it. “I was, but not anymore.”

Andrews studied him from the confines of his chair and took the last of his drink in one hand. He watched the whiskey glow in the light before finishing it off with a practiced toss of his head. He hissed and set the glass down on the desk.
“Me too.
I’m not anymore either.
Maddy
was the most careful driver I ever met, and she was killed in a car crash. Ironic, isn’t it?
Wasn’t even her fault.
She was sitting at a stop sign, waiting her turn, and a kid who was
texting
, of all things, never touched his brakes. The teenager was fine, but he took my
Maddy
from me that afternoon. Almost seven years ago
this fall
.”

Andrews’s watery eyes found Sullivan’s and held them. “That’s why sometimes I feel like this is all for naught. Everything I’ve done and accomplished has been wasted. Everything I’ve worked for is falling down around me. I’m alone, Sullivan.
Alone and forgotten.”

“Sir, we need to focus on what’s happening now,” Sullivan said, sitting up and trying to clear his vision of the whiskey. “I’m very sorry about everything, but my friend is missing, and he needs our help.”

Andrews’s head dropped lower and lower until his chin rested on his breastbone. He stayed that way for some time, and then looked up at Sullivan and nodded. “You’re right, son. I didn’t mean to
lay
anything on you. I apologize. I’m not sure what card to play next. If what you say is accurate, then one of my own is responsible.”