CHAPTER FIVE
Four years ago, Tyler Walsh asked his brother, a seven-year heroin addict recovering from his most recent bender, why he couldn’t just walk away from the drug.
“You know it’s making you unhappy. You know it’s going to kill you one day. The high can’t possibly be that good.”
Jared looked at him with his milky, Narcan-fogged eyes and replied, "It's not the highs, man. It's the lows."
Now, four years later and three years after Jared finally exceeded the limit of what his wasted body could handle and died face down in a storm drain, Tyler understood exactly what he meant. Addiction wasn’t about feeling good. It was about not feeling bad.
Tyler felt like shit right now. His job at the Northbridge Special Management Unit required him to interact with the worst people humanity had ever spit out. As for his home life…
He chuckled bitterly as he wrapped up the tour of the mental health ward and headed to the kitchen for the day’s most important meal.
His home life was nonexistent. His wife was leaving him.
She wanted for full custody of Elise, and she was going to get it.
Tyler had stayed away from the illegal drugs, but he was slowly but surely losing the battle against alcohol.
Judging by the way his other addiction was going, it would soon be the only thing keeping him from swallowing his gun.
Enter his addiction. Marcy. Marcy used to be the only part of his life that felt good. Now she was the only part of his life that didn’t feel shitty.
But that was enough. Enough that every evening after dinner, Tyler visited her in the showers in the women’s ward, assisted by the troglodyte of a woman’s ward head, appropriately named Bertha.
Provided Tyler finished watching prisoner numero uno eat his dinner in time to get to the showers before Marcy had to eat hers, Bertha would make sure they got time to themselves.
And Tyler made the most of that time. Marcy made the most of that time. She was skinny as a rail with flat breasts and more gum than tooth, but she used those gums enthusiastically and told him before and after how much she enjoyed it and how she couldn’t wait for next time.
That feeling, the feeling of being wanted… That was the only thing in between him and a bullet.
The cook—real name Kellen Ericson, preferred name, honest to God, Chef—frowned when he saw Tyler approach. “So, what does his royal highness want for dinner today?”
“Chicken pot pie and a blueberry muffin.”
Chef blinked. “He likes the pot pie?”
“He calls himself a priest and kills people for breaking the Ten Commandments,” Tyler said. “He’s not even close to sane.”
Chef chuckled at that.
Cox hadn’t asked for a specific meal since arriving at the facility. In fact, he’d spent his first few days here not eating anything. Hence Tyler’s enviable job of watching him eat his dinner through the observation screen so the prison wasn’t sued for mistreating their esteemed guests.
What Elijah Cox really wanted was “gifts.” The first gift was a cell phone. He’d used that to make one phone call. The next thing he wanted was a pen. He’d used that to write a letter.
The third thing he wanted was a lot harder and more dangerous for Tyler to get.
He wanted Tyler to mail that letter. Since every staff member, all the way from the janitors to the warden, was thoroughly searched before and after their shifts, getting out with a letter from a prisoner was about as likely as robbing the Federal Reserve.
But Tyler got it for him. He got it for him the same way that homeless drug addicts always found money for heroin.
He was addicted to Marcy, and he would do anything to protect his twenty minutes every worknight in the showers getting told that a woman actually enjoyed making him feel good and actually liked spending time with him.
Tonight, he didn’t want anything, but Tyler always pretended he did so the warden wouldn’t wonder why he chose certain meals.
As far as the warden knew, Tyler was just trying to make sure Cox didn’t go on another hunger strike.
Really, different meals were packaged differently, which allowed him to transport Cox’s requests without getting caught.
He’d come up with the pot pie tonight because he knew everyone else was getting pot pie, and he didn’t want Chef to have to work any harder and get even more pissed.
It wouldn’t do for someone to start grumbling and the warden to start wondering if maybe something else was going on between Tyler and the most important prisoner housed here.
“Here you go,” Chef said, handing him the meal. “I drew a smiley face on the package, just so His Highness knows we’re still treating him special.”
He laughed uproariously enough that Tyler chuckled politely along with him. “You’re the man.”
“Yeah, that’s what your wife said.”
Wouldn’t surprise me, Tyler thought. She said it to her boss behind my back for four years straight. Aloud, he said, “Yeah, thanks for keeping her off my back.”
That joke was even weaker than Chef’s, but Chef laughed even more uproariously.
Tyler left him laughing and headed to Special Population, Northbridge SMU’s euphemism for the prisoners that represented the greatest flight risk but weren’t considered insane enough for the drugs and straps of the mental health ward.
Cox was housed in Unit 409. Unit 409 was, according to the records, just another cell, but unofficially, it was almost a science-fiction-level box designed to house the single most dangerous man in the SMU, one who had broken out of prison once before, one who had murdered several people and more frighteningly inspired others to murder in his name.
Unit 409 was constructed of the same woven aramid fiber material as the rest of the cell, with the same layered borosilicate-polycarbonate bulletproof glass covering the cameras, lights, and sensors in the walls and ceiling, and the same standard-issue aramid fiber furniture flow-formed from the floor and walls.
What made this unit special was a proprietary ventilation system that had its own oxygen supply and its own power source.
At any time, it was deemed necessary, tranquilizers could be pumped into the room and put Mr. Cox to sleep for any length of time between thirty minutes and ten hours.
His steps quickened as he approached the cell, not because he was about to talk to Cox but because once he was finished enduring his contact with the demon priest, he would get to see Marcy and enjoy a half hour or so of not feeling worthless. One more day without shooting himself.
He reached the windowless cell and looked at the screen.
He scoffed and shook his head. Sitting cross-legged on his bunk, hands on his knees, eyes staring straight ahead.
As usual. Tyler was about seventy percent sure that the moment Cox heard the door to the ward open, he ran to the bed and positioned himself like that just to fuck with him.
Apparently, the guy actually thought being a creepy villain from a movie was scary.
He pressed the intercom button. “Dinner time, Cox. Assume the position.”
Cox slowly got to his feet. He carefully brushed the front of his orange shirt and pants and moved to the back. He took a deep breath, then lifted one hand at a time and placed them against the wall before slowly shuffling his feet apart.
Tyler rolled his eyes. That was another thing he liked to do. Move slowly. Like Elise every time she had to go see the doctor.
Well, at least he ate fast now. Tyler pressed another button, and the dinner table whirred out of its housing.
He placed the tray on the table then pressed the button again.
Halfway in, he cursed, pressed it another time, then waited.
He fished yesterday's newspaper out of the left leg of his pants, set it next to the tray, and pressed the button again.
The tray entered the cell. When it finished its journey, Cox turned around, brushed his uniform again, and proceeded slowly to the table. As always, he carefully examined the paper to ensure no pages were missing. Tyler rolled his eyes again and waited.
When Cox was satisfied, he nodded and set the paper next to his chair, then sat and began to eat. He didn’t scarf the meal down, but he didn’t drag it out the way he did up until trading Tyler a normal person’s eating speed for the daily newspaper.
Tyler's thoughts drifted to Marcy. His mouth watered as he pictured her smile and the coy little look in her eyes.
Just like a junkie looking at a needle, seeing that smile and knowing what was going to follow drove all logic from his mind.
He just needed her. Needed that validation.
Needed to know there was something, one thing worth getting through the day.
Cox nearly finished but stopped with half of his muffin unconsumed. He tilted his head, and Tyler sighed. “Jesus Christ, not again.”
Cox’s head snapped level. In a deep, resonant voice with a trace of a Southern accent, he thundered, “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!”
Tyler was grateful that Cox could only hear and not see him, so he didn’t see Tyler jump. “What do you—” He bit his lip, leaned closer to the intercom, and said in a lowered voice, “What do you want, Cox?”
“I’d like a candle.”
Tyler laughed. “Not a chance. No way I can get you something that can start a fire.”
“I hardly think a candle is a threat to a facility this secure.”
“Well, it’s a threat to you, and until the world finally realizes it’s easier to just shoot people like you outside the courtroom, we have to keep you alive.”
“Unscented, if you would. I prefer tallow, but I understand that can be difficult to come by. Beeswax is an acceptable substitute.”
Tyler laughed again. “Cox. I can’t get you a fucking candle. The pen was bad enough. You could have stabbed yourself in the eye, and then I’d be out on my ass.”
“Hmm.”
Cox leaned back and looked at his muffin, examining it, contemplating it, not eating it.
Tyler’s lips thinned. “Cox, I can’t do it. I can get you any… well, almost anything else. You want a book? A Bible, maybe? I can get you a Bible.”
Cox said nothing. Ate nothing.
Cold seeped up Tyler’s spine. “Damn it, Cox…” He pressed his lips together, screwed up his courage, then said, “You know what? Fuck you. It’s not worth it.”
He knew he’d feel differently an hour from now when he missed his meeting with Marcy, but there had to be a limit. He couldn’t let a serial killer manipulate him like this. He needed to preserve some shred of dignity.
He settled in to wait. “If you don’t eat that, Cox, I’m going to call for help, and we’re going to shove it down your throat. Or take you to the mental health ward and hook you up to an IV. I just came from there. Trust me, that’s not where you want to be.”
“Will you wish Elise a happy birthday for me?”
The world rippled and swelled underneath Tyler. He swayed on his feet, frightened so badly he nearly lost his balance.
He caught it by leaning forward, hands on either side of the intercom, and bending low until his lips brushed against the speaker as he rasped, “What did you say?”
“She’s turning four, yes? A wonderful age. She’ll be staring preschool next year. Won’t that be lovely.”
Tyler slammed his hands against the door. “You stay away from her, motherfucker. You hear me? You or any of your asshole minions hurt her, and I’ll go in there myself and rip you apart with my bare hands!”
“A candle, Tyler. Tallow, if possible, but beeswax is acceptable.”
Tyler’s whole body shook. How did he know about Elise? Did he still have people on the inside? How were they talking to him? Was that what the papers were for? Were they sending messages through the want ads or something?
Fear seeped through his anger, crawling up his spine, hooking his nostrils, spilling out through his parted lips. “You evil bastard.”
“Not evil, Tyler. I am here to stop evil.”
“Fuck.” Tyler rubbed his eyes.
“A candle, Ty—”
“I’ll get your fucking candle,” Tyler snapped. “Now eat your fucking muffin.”
“There’s no need for vulgarity,” Cox said mildly.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Tyler rubbed his face while Cox resumed eating the muffin. When he was finished, Tyler took the tray back and practically ran from the room.
Cox’s laughter echoed from behind him as he headed for the kitchen then to the women’s ward. That night, Tyler shook too badly to finish. He faked it after five minutes, then cut his date with Marcy short and left to clock out.
On his drive home, a single thought echoed in his head on repeat. He knows I have a daughter.