13. Visiting Hours
13
Visiting Hours
Twenty-four hours in, I had slept—albeit fitfully—and eaten. Clyde finished four new drawings, each more detailed than the last. It must have been paying off to have a captive subject in the room.
I’d also gotten a lay of the land. Stemming from the circular tower of the cell block, Thorngate boasted a cafeteria, a few rec rooms, a commissary, and a library with computers that ran on dial-up. The yard area was small and fenced on all sides; chain link even obstructed our view of the sky. No great loss since it had rained for the one hour we’d been allowed out. I spent the whole time sitting under Clyde’s hulking form like he was a human umbrella.
The big fella tailed me everywhere. He didn’t say much, so I found myself filling the silence while he doodled in his notebook. But he couldn’t follow me this time because I’d been called to the visitation area.
Relief came with nervous jitters as a guard led me by the elbow down an unfamiliar hallway. I did my best to step carefully with the chain clattering between my ankles. Guards in this place didn’t slow down for much, so I didn’t dare trip for fear of being dragged the rest of the way .
We stopped in front of a door long enough for the lock to disengage. The guard pushed into a very beige room, tugging me along behind. Once inside, I glanced around. Three chairs were positioned between partitions, all of them facing a single, long table and a wall of Plexiglas. Corded phones were mounted beside each seat.
Non-contact visitation left much to be desired. Mostly, the human element. I felt like a zoo animal on display as the guard marched me to an open seat and shoved me down into it. The other side of the glass showed a mirror image of the prisoner side. It had the same phone, bare metal chairs, and entry door with a wired glass window.
I pinched a fold of fabric on one pant leg and swished it between my thumb and forefinger. Nicotine withdrawals were putting me through the wringer. Between bouncing my legs, chewing on straws I snuck out of the cafeteria, and picking at every imperfection in my coveralls, I couldn’t find enough ways to keep my hands and mouth occupied. Cigarettes could be purchased from the commissary, but only if you had funds.
Two more inmates entered and were shown to their seats. I watched over my shoulder while they were both tucked behind partitions, and the guards who’d brought us assumed watchful positions at the back of the room.
Who would come? Grimm was busy playing second fiddle to Maximus Lyle, and Vinton and Avery shared my “looks like a duck” dilemma. I half-expected Avery to prance in anyway, wearing Groucho Marx glasses, until the visitor’s door opened at last.
When Donovan entered, my heart leaped into my throat. I fanned my fingers in a weak wave.
He rushed forward, grinning while grabbing the phone. I followed suit and cupped the receiver to my ear in time to hear him exclaim, “You have no idea how glad I am to see you!”
Tears stung my eyes. My nerves must have been more shot than I’d realized, or I was just relieved to see my brother in one piece after the evacuation of Jacoby Thatcher’s house. No, I had more faith in Nash’s concoctions than that. Donovan’s smile was a stark contrast to his sleepless eyes and mussed hair. He looked like me after a bender, and the whole thing made me damn near giddy.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, frowning.
I propped both elbows on the tabletop and tipped my head against the phone. “You didn’t waste any time. I barely got here.”
“Are you kidding?” he asked. “It’s been two days. Felt like forever.”
“Thought I was a goner?”
“Well…” His mouth twisted. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t too late for that if the Capitol’s prosecution team got their way. But I wouldn’t be here then. Criminal trials were problems for less connected individuals. I had people on the outside.
“Grimm said you surrendered,” Donovan said.
At the sound of our gang leader’s name, I startled in my seat. My ankle chain rattled.
“Shh! Ears in the room.” I angled my eyes toward the female guard manning the wall on his side. She appeared disinterested but, if I had the job of babysitting visiting hours with felons, eavesdropping would be my favorite pastime.
“Right, right,” Donovan replied in a lower voice. “Sorry.”
He fidgeted with the phone cord, looking down with a sadness that made me feel the need to explain .
“There were twenty of them and one of me,” I said. “I’m good, Donnie, but not that good.”
His dark brows furrowed. “They could’ve killed you.”
“Still might.”
“Don’t say that.”
I needed to ask about the gang’s plans. Hopefully Grimm had more to say about my arrest than that I went peacefully. But how could I get those answers with prison staff perched like flies on the walls?
“I’m sorry,” Donovan said, drawing me from thought.
“ You’re sorry? For what?”
“I shouldn’t have called the stupid cab.” He sighed. “I was just so pissed off. I was gonna show up at Thatcher’s house and fight you.”
I huffed a laugh. “You don’t need me to kick your ass, Donnie. Any of the guys can do that.”
He rubbed his arm, and I remembered the new tattoo he was sporting.
“Shit, Donnie, your hand. Did you—?”
He turned it toward me. No sign of ink. He smiled and winked. Must have used makeup to cover the Hex mark, which merited more credit than I gave him.
I settled in my seat and watched him through the scuffed Plexiglas. It seemed he’d forgiven me for dumping him at the edge of town, and I hoped he’d kept the details of that encounter to himself. I needed Grimm to believe I was worth rescuing, not a loose cannon or worse, a traitor. I turned down Holland Lyle’s “lucrative” offer for the sake of my loyalty. It was admirable. She even said so.
“That’s all on hold now,” Donovan said, staying on topic while my mind drifted. He stared down at his hand, all signs of cheer rapidly fading. “Grimm—” He caught himself and turned the name into an awkward cough. “ He says I have to wait for ‘less tumultuous times’ to make things official.”
I bit back a smile. “Sounds reasonable.”
At least this wasn’t all for nothing. Grimm was proving as savvy as I knew him to be. The gang was one member down with me out of the picture. It was not a good time to let Donovan rush the gang like a wannabe frat boy.
“Did you hear the news?” I asked, ready to change the subject. “About the trial?”
Donovan’s face washed pale. “Yeah. Gr—uh, he says they don’t have the evidence to convict you, though.”
I nearly choked on my next breath. “That’s the plan? Hope the Capitol has shitty lawyers? I promise they don’t.”
He squirmed in his seat. “I mean, he’s right, though. You don’t…” He searched the air for words. “The people killed themselves, right? Like Warren Reeves?”
My free hand hit the tabletop with a thud. “Can you not with the names and shit?”
“Sorry,” he muttered, dodging my gaze.
“Five minutes, gentlemen,” one of the guard chaperones rumbled.
Sweat prickled on the back of my neck. I leaned in, cupping a hand over my mouth and the phone receiver.
“Tell me they have something else in mind,” I whispered. “I know it won’t be easy, but it’s doable, right? If they really try?” It was harder and harder to keep things vague while my anxiety mounted.
My brother’s blank expression was the furthest thing from comforting. I tried again. “Did he know you were coming here? Were you supposed to tell me something? ”
Cognition flashed in Donovan’s eyes. “Oh, yeah!”
I nodded. “Thank God. What is it?”
“He wants you to talk to a guy named Ripley Vaughn.”
My fingers fell away from my lips, and I slumped in my seat. “You’re kidding.”
Donovan frowned. “Do you know him?”
A breath escaped through clenched teeth. “No, I don’t know him, and I don’t want to, either. I want…” I paused, rephrasing in my mind before concluding, “I want to talk about the trial. Or, you know, the eight days I have left until the trial.”
“Maybe this Ripley guy is supposed to help?” Donovan said hopefully.
My jaw tightened. “Sure, sure. So, I talk to him. Then what?”
“You’re supposed to tell him he’s welcome back.”
“Back where?” As soon as I asked, I went cold. “They’re replacing me?”
“No!” Donovan shook his head, unsettling his mussed brown hair. “No, I don’t think so.”
My shove back from the table stretched the phone cord to its limit. “They’re fucking replacing me. And they want me to tell this bitch he’s in? Fuck that.”
“Settle down, inmate.” One of the guards closed in from behind, pulling a baton from his duty belt.
Donovan glanced from the approaching threat to me with fear in his eyes. “Fitch, that’s not it. It can’t be.”
“Tell him —” I snarled the word with the same vehemence I wished I could say Grimm’s name, “I’m not doing any favors until I get a goddamned guarantee I won’t be in a courtroom next Friday. Lack of evidence, my ass. I’m not going.”
There were no goodbyes, which I regretted before I even made it out of the visitation room. I tried to look back at Donovan, but he’d been whisked away. By the time the guard and I arrived at my cell, my stomach was roiling with a mix of anger and unease. The withdrawals weren’t helping, either.
“Hold it, inmate.” The guard stopped me with a gruff command.
I tried and failed to clear the agitation from my face before turning toward the other man.
“I have something for you,” he added in a low voice, leaning in.
Was it contraband? Cigarettes? Booze? I hoped for too much, which made the black ribbon and pendant he produced a bitter disappointment.
“Take it!” He shoved it into my chest.
Catching the jewelry in my palm, I looked down to inspect it. A cameo necklace, blue and white set in silver. It was vintage and strung on a piece of satin that bore creases from frequent wear. It ranked among the strangest presents I’d ever received, right up there with the toupee Avery stole from that human ambassador last year.
The guard lingered, whispering. “Came from your visitor. He said you might need it. For a welcome gift.”
It took every ounce of my self-control not to drop the necklace on the ground and stomp it.
“Thanks,” I told the guard through gritted teeth.
He nodded then walked away, apparently eager to leave me in his dust.
With the ankle chain gone, I could move more freely as I entered the cell. I had the space to myself for the first time since my arrival and took advantage by walking the length of it. But, with that length being only about ten steps, I was forced to make turns so frequently it felt more like I was wandering in circles.
“Tell him he’s welcome back.”
Did it mean what I’d assumed?
I stopped and shook the necklace out from where it had been clenched in my palm.
Grimm was replacing me, and with another convict, no less. Had this new guy already served his time, or was the gang going to spring him and leave me behind?
My stomach lurched again, and I staggered over to the wall-mounted toilet. Bile and half-digested chunks of food forced their way up my throat and into the piss-splattered bowl. Acid soured my mouth and watered my eyes, leaving me weak by the time the purge was complete.
I coughed and spat into the toilet, then wiped my arm across my mouth. The bitter taste lingered. I felt no better; too consumed with memories of the radio DJ’s gloating and the look I last saw on my brother’s face.
It might have been a good thing I couldn’t think magic because I would have trashed the tiny cell. My room at the motel had fallen victim to more than one telekinetic temper fit, leaving me with substantial repair bills. Prison, I imagined, would come up with steeper consequences than fines for damages.
Turning, I sat on the cement floor. I needed a stiff drink. And a smoke. I could quit whenever I wanted to, but I didn’t want to quit now.
A mountainous form crowded the cell doorway. Clyde lumbered in with his notebook tucked under his arm.
He made his way to the desk chair and sat without a word or glance at me.
Quiet ensued for only a moment before I cleared my throat. “How was your afternoon?” I asked.
“Uploaded pictures,” he said. “Fifty new followers since last week.”
Code for: fifty people searched the dark web for puppeteer porn and found a dumping ground of crude sketches of me spooning or being spooned by every member of the Bloody Hex. Avery, I could understand. He managed to make his way into my bed whenever it suited him and whether I liked it or not. But the ones with Vinton and Grimm were the stuff of nightmares.
“Well, hell.” I coughed again, stirring the burn in the back of my throat. “That’s really something.”
Clyde shifted, trying to balance his mass on the small square of his seat. He was a gentle giant, I’d decided, though the potential for Hulk-like rage remained. I didn’t know what he was in for, but I was pretty sure it was poor prison etiquette to ask.
I reached up and flushed the toilet but stayed on the floor. Kicking one leg over the other, I let my head rock back against the wall. Part of me wanted to tell Clyde about the conversation with Donovan, more to air my thoughts than to get his opinion. My certainty of rescue was draining away as fast as the water in the bowl beside me.
“Marionette is trending,” Clyde said.
I nibbled on a hangnail. “I’m trending? Oh, because of the arrest.”
The big man turned to his desk, selecting a pen from a mesh metal cup and putting it to paper.
“Hey, you want me to sign some of those?” I gestured toward Clyde’s wall gallery. “If I die, they might be worth money.”
A morbid thought, but one I couldn’t ignore.
Clyde responded with a succinct, “No.”
I laid flat on the rough floor. A long breath escaped me, and I rubbed my face, ending with my arm thrown across my eyes. I didn’t want to see here. Didn’t want to be here.
At least there was one upside to a looming death sentence: it would get me out of this place.