True Crime (31 page)

“How’s it going in there, Luther?” Shillerman said, a bit hoarsely. “Anything I can do? I’ve been, you know, visiting with the prisoners. Lending an ear to their concerns but, you know, if the condemned man needs me, or any of the men feel they could use a willing ear—I’m their man. Here I am.”

Shillerman spoke softly, but quickly, and there was the slightest tremor at the bottom of his voice.

Luther kept nodding, kept smiling. “Reverend,” he said, “I understand there was a report on television to the effect that the prisoner Beachum has confessed. I understand it came from a source in the governor’s office.”

The reverend lifted his chin. He shifted his weight onto his right foot, the left knee bending. He opened his mouth, gestured with his hand—and said nothing. Luther watched him, smiling, feeling the waves of anger coming out of his own center.

Shillerman finally cleared his throat. “Well, of course, you know, from time to time, the governor’s aides will, uh, phone to me on matters of concern to the governor himself.”

Which meant Sam Tandy, his brother-in-law, would call him for his spy reports. Luther nodded and smiled, his hands folded in front of him.

“And, of course,” Shillerman went on, “I consider that part of an important liaison role that I can play—for all parties—and, at a time like this, when the governor has many, um, many, many people coming to him appealing for mercy and whatnot, uh, any information that would affect that decision on the part of the governor personally might make a crucial difference.”

Luther nodded. Luther smiled. The waves of rage came off him. Shillerman licked his lips and went on.

“And then if, through my ministrations and my spiritual discussions with a prisoner, I can—without violating any confidences, of course—well, obviously, that goes without saying—but if I can add to the governor’s store of information, I feel that’s an important aspect of my, uh, ministry as a prison, urn …”

Luther’s head bobbed up and down. His smile remained in place, his eyes remained hard as blue diamonds, incredibly bright.

“Not that I approve of any leaks to the press!” said Stanley Shillerman quickly. “Not that I … and if I made a … If I misunderstood something the prisoner might have said to me, of course, in the course of spiritual counseling … but if he says to me, meaning the prisoner, says to me ‘I’m sorry,’ in those words, and it’s under these extreme conditions, then when the governor’s aide on behalf of the governor
himself
comes to me expecting that I’ve been—as is my job, as you yourself know—that I’ve been in spiritual ministration with this man and so am able to communicate with the governor what it’s necessary or even urgent for him to know at this point when people are coming to him, well, then …” Another, deeper flush passed over the reverend’s features. Luther could see the sweat glistening now in the folds of his face. “But, of course, if I misunderstood, well … And I could see where that would do harm,” Shillerman said. “I could see where that would, uh, be, uh, of a nature … And if
you
felt—” He made a large gesture across the desk toward Luther. “If
you
were to feel that—anything I had caused … Or if my sense of what I understood was somehow harmful …” Shillerman swallowed. His gesturing hand had begun to shake and he brought it down, pressed it hard against the leg of his jeans. “And I know that the governor would not be happy if you were to
 … but if you would understand that in the kind of spiritual communication that might go back and forth between me and a prisoner in extreme circumstances might be interpreted in many ways or if … Um, I wouldn’t want …” Shillerman tried to chuckle amiably and shook his head, sweating. Luther watched him, nodding, smiling his bland smile. “Well, not for a minute, that’s for darn sure,” Shillerman said. “And if you were to feel in any way because I, you know, seeing as how this job is important to me and to my family and I certainly have tried and tried to communicate, God knows—I mean,
God
knows, Luther, with the sort of element coming into this place because, of course, it’s a prison—as, of course, you’re aware—and I certainly wouldn’t want you to feel that my performance in
that
regard was such that you would say to anyone who might affect me that this was deleterious. And you know it certainly is something I ask for guidance for every day from God—and I know he’s your God too and that’s something between us that we can understand and, well, if I could approach you in
that
regard, then I would certainly hate to feel that you couldn’t say to, for instance, the press or the governor’s aides or the governor or indeed any future employer who might still be willing to consider my ministry of importance as you know it is to my wife and family and everyone who knows me and understands my position, I would certainly hope you would find it in yourself to say to these people in all charity and forgiveness, Luther, you know, that this is someone who, as you understand it, is a man and that is something that we can take into consideration in such a way that you could say finally with a clear conscience of course that, well, as I say, this is a man. Uh. This is just a man …”

With which, Shillerman fell silent. He licked his lips again and his mouth remained open, but nothing more came out. His face was scarlet now and damp, and sweat fell from
under his forelock to his shirtfront and to the floor. He shifted his weight to the other foot and back again and stared glassily across the desk at Luther. Luther could see that the man’s entire body was trembling, head to toe. And Luther was glad.

The warden sat nodding for a long time. He continued to smile blandly. Now he would have to call the governor’s office, he thought. Clear this thing up. Issue a correction to the press: There had been no confession. There was not going to be any confession. Luther only wished to God there would be a confession, but there would not. Part of him knew that that was why he was so angry: because there would be no confession. Not from Beachum. Not ever. The waves of rage came off him still.

First thing tomorrow, he thought, he was going to get rid of this son-of-a-bitch. Sam Tandy or no, he was going to make sure that the Reverend Stanley B. Shillerman was kicked the hell out of here. He was going to make sure that he never worked at another correctional facility anywhere between the San Andreas Fault and Jupiter.

He nodded. He smiled his bland smile.

“That’ll be all for now, Reverend,” he said.

I
drove home, the radio off, my mind empty. I was tired; sick of myself. But I was glad, all the same, that the race to save Frank Beachum’s life was over.

D
avy-Davy-Davy-Dave, Davy-Davy-Davy-Dave,” I sang to the tune of the “William Tell Overture.” “Davy-Davy-Davy-Dave. Dave. Y-Davy-Davy-Dave. Davy-Davy-Davy-Davy-Davy-Davy-Dave …” And so on, pretty much along the same lines. As I sang, I held my little boy up in front of me, held him by the waist, facing away, tilting him this way and that as I raced him through the living room, down the hall, once around our bedroom, out into the hall again and to his nursery, to his bed. He screamed and giggled as I gave him the ride.

“I am going to my bed!” he cried out happily.

And I hoisted him over the rail and dropped him on the soft mattress with a healthy bounce. Then I leaned in over him, pressing the mattress to make him bounce again and again. My heart was a stone, heavy as a stone.

“Sleep-city, me boy-o,” I said.

He grabbed my arm, squealing. I eased up, letting him settle. His laughter eased into a wordless murmur. He held on to me. He studied my forearm, smiling. He gripped it in his two little hands. He stroked the hair there thoughtfully. “Why are you here?” he said.

I grinned like an idiot.
Dear Christ
, I thought.
Dear Christ
. “Where else would I be, ya goon?” I said, forcing a laugh.

He considered that too, and then let my arm go. “I will
go to sleep now,” he said. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

“Wise move,” I told him. I nearly choked on the words.

At the door, I stood a moment and watched him lying there. He turned his head on the mattress and peeked at me. The fact that I was still there made him smile.

“Go to sleep, ya monster,” I said.

I switched off the lights.

In the corridor outside, I paused again. Stone-hearted, black-gutted, heavy-headed, beat. I stood with my head bowed. I massaged my temples with my hand. What had I done? What had I wrought? I could see it all so clearly now.

It was scary stuff: to have been so deluded all day. Not to be deluded anymore. Scary; empty; scary stuff. To have the Beachum story gone, resolved into a dew. The mission of the hour vaporized, the heroic effort a bagatelle, the grail a mirage—and the job
kaput
. The job and the marriage sure to be
kaput
. And nothing left but the glowing memory of chasing around all day trying to prove that a rack of potato chips made a guilty man innocent at the hour of his death. Ah, the human mind: what a kidder.

I took a breath and headed down the hall.

My wife was sitting at the dining room table, an oval table. She had cleared the dinner dishes, Davy’s and hers, and was sitting at the oval’s head, sitting over an empty cup of coffee, rubbing the fingers of her left hand with her right.

I clumped to the table and sat down opposite her. I drummed my fingers on the wood. Badump-badump-badump.
Sorry about the zoo?
I thought.
Sorry about the day? Sorry about our life together, such as it was?
Badump-badump-badump went my fingertips on the oakwood.
Sorry, sorry, sorry
. Badump-badump-badump.

Barbara didn’t look at me. Her stately features were set and sad. She twisted her left hand back and forth on the
fingers of her right. Slowly, that way, she worked her wedding ring over her knuckle and took it off.

She set the gold band on the tabletop—reached out to place it as far from her as she could, as close to me. Then she sat back. She raised the empty cup to her mouth so I wouldn’t see her lips trembling. Then she set it down unsteadily, making the saucer chatter.

She nodded at the ring. “If that were a bullet, you’d be dead,” she said. I believe it was the only spontaneous joke I ever heard her make.

I sat awhile, without a word, my eyes stinging. Watching the golden band go in and out of focus, watching the reflected light extend from it in rays and then subside. Is that all? I thought, my drumming fingers falling still. Is that what I was so afraid of all this livelong day? Merely losing her. Whom I didn’t love. And moving away from Davy, whom I rarely saw. Was that the whole impetus behind the Beachum fantasy? That long hallucinatory delaying tactic: had it all been in the service of avoiding merely this?

We both stared at the ring awhile, Barbara too. When I shifted my gaze to her, she was still staring at it. Her back straight, her head rearing, her features set in their haughtiest, most aristocratic expression. It was something she took very seriously, that ring, taking off that ring. But then, she took just about everything seriously. She always had.

“Right,” I said finally. My hand lay motionless on the edge of the table. “So I guess—what?—Bob called you?”

She snorted softly. “What’s the difference who called me?”

I shook my head.

“She called me, if you really want to know. Your Patricia.”

“Right,” I said. “Right, right, right.” Like Beachum’s confession, this made sense to me on the instant. It would be Patricia who called. She had wanted me to make her suffer,
and now she was paying me back for doing what she asked. And I deserved it too, which was probably the strangest thing of all.

“She tried to reach your beeper,” Barbara said.

“Mm,” I said. I had forgotten to take it out of the glove compartment after I left the prison.

“She was crying. She wanted you to know that it was over. And that she was sorry Bob was going to force you out.”

I laughed. “Good of her to leave a message.”

She looked down on me from her moral height. “Did you really think I didn’t know?”

Well, yeah, actually, I’d thought I had her fooled completely. But I decided not to say so. “That crazy Patricia,” I murmured.

“I told her not to worry about it,” Barbara said then. “I told her this is just what you do. It’s just the thing you do.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Though, for the life of me, you don’t seem to get much pleasure out of it.”

I lifted one shoulder. Pleasure was a serious business to Barbara too.

After another moment of silence, I reached across the table and took up the ring. I held it between finger and thumb, turned it this way and that, watching the light from the small chandelier above us glint on it. There was an inscription on the inner curve. Just her name:
Barbara Everett
. It had been her new name at the time and seemed very romantic.

I closed my fist around the ring. “…  hard on the kid,” I said. I cleared my throat. “Won’t this be kind of hard on the kid?”

Her eyebrows arched. “Good time to think of it, Ev.” I tried to answer her, but that stone, my heart—some laborer in the inner hell kept rolling it up into my throat and
letting it sink down, bang, into my chest again. Poor Davy, I thought miserably. Poor little guy. With Barbara over him every moment, loving, grim and good. Who was going to teach him how to fool around? How to disobey? How to fart in silence and get everyone to blame the kid sitting next to him? Who would tell him that the best way to deal with a bully was to understand his insecurities and then bring your elbow real fast across the bridge of his ugly nose? Or how to nod at women when they told you what was right so you could get in their pants without too much palaver? How would he learn to shrug off the underdog sometimes and when to laugh up his sleeve at human suffering? The poor little nubbin. Barbara, with her great instincts for compassion and morality, with her big soul—Christ, without me, she would bury him in there.