Henry leaned forward and lowered his voice, so Archie had to strain to hear him above the girls’ giggling. “She’s in the infirmary. She was assaulted. It’s bad, Archie. We’ve got a real situation.”
Archie was suddenly aware then of Debbie standing beside them. She was perfectly still for a long moment and then, slowly, she reached her hand out and touched Henry’s arm. “Don’t,” she said to Henry. “Don’t do this. Not today.”
Henry sighed and shook his head. “It was a guard,” he explained. “We need her to tell us which one. She’ll only talk to Archie.”
“No,” Debbie said. She turned to Archie. “It’s your daughter’s birthday party. Henry can handle it.”
Archie took her hands in his and looked her in the eyes, the mother of his children, and he tried to explain: “She’s my responsibility.”
Debbie closed her eyes. And then let her hands fall away from his and turned to the girls. She clapped her hands.
“Who wants cake?” she asked.
The Oregon State Pen was a compound of fat-colored buildings sequestered behind a stucco-coated brick wall topped with razor wire. The prison was an hour south of Portland, in Salem, surrounded by twenty-two acres of green fields just off the highway. It housed both male and female inmates and was the state’s only maximum-security prison. Archie and Henry had spent so much time there since Gretchen’s capture that they knew every hallway, every guard.
The infirmary, a long, windowless room about forty feet by thirty, was in the center of the main building. The concrete walls were painted gray and the floor was a splatter-patterned linoleum. It was bare-bones. There were no pictures on the walls to make you feel better. The room had four beds, each with its own privacy curtain. The faint odor of sweat and blood and defecation permeated everything.
A prison nurse, dressed in scrubs, sat behind the nose-high desk near the door. He glanced up, saw their prison-issue ID badges, and glanced back down at the chart he was reading. Archie walked past to the back of the room, where he could see a guard. Gretchen always traveled with a guard.
He was not prepared for what he saw when he came around the curtain. Gretchen was restrained in the bed, her wrists and ankles secured with leather cuffs. Her head was turned to the side, and her eyes were closed. She was wearing a hospital gown and Archie could see deep bruises on both of her slender arms. Hematomas. The skin swollen, darkened with broken blood vessels. They had found her in her room like that. Curled up on the floor. A rape kit had been positive for semen. It made Archie sick to think about it.
“Give us a minute,” Henry said to the guard.
The guard shook his head slowly. “I’m supposed to stay with her.”
Henry tilted his head at Gretchen’s prone body. “She’s tied to a bed, Andy. Give us a minute.”
The guard glanced at Gretchen’s prone, bruised body. “I’ll wait by the door, if you need anything,” he said.
Archie moved around the bed to an aluminum chair and sat down. Gretchen didn’t stir. He reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. Her hand felt cool and delicate.
Her eyelids fluttered open and she smiled when she saw him. “So this is what it takes to get your attention?” she said weakly. An IV morphine drip was taped to her arm and her cadence was slow and careful.
“Who did this to you?” Archie asked softly.
Her blue eyes moved to Henry. Archie knew she wanted Henry out of the room, but he wasn’t about to ask him. He knew Henry wouldn’t go.
“Tell me who did this,” Archie said again.
She raised an eyebrow. “That would be a breach of prison etiquette.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Henry said.
Archie shot Henry a look. “Let me worry about that,” he said to Gretchen.
“Are you concerned about me?” she asked, appraising him. “That’s sweet, darling. But your job isn’t to protect me.” She lowered her voice to a faux conspiratorial tone. “It’s to protect people from me.”
“Don’t misunderstand my interest,” Archie said. “You’re a ward of the state. I’m an employee of the state. Until we’ve located everyone you’ve murdered, your well-being is in the state’s interest.”
“So romantic,” she said with a sigh. She turned her head toward Henry. She had made an art out of ignoring him. She had never responded to anything he’d said, and had carried on whole conversations with Archie as if Henry weren’t even present. “Tell me something, darling,” she said, looking at Henry but talking to Archie. “Can you feel that your spleen is gone? Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore,” Archie answered.
“I think about that,” Gretchen said dreamily. “Having my hands inside you. You were so warm and sticky. I can still smell you, your blood. Do you remember?”
Archie ran a hand over his face. “I lost consciousness,” he reminded her quietly.
She smiled. “I regret that. I wanted to keep you awake. I wanted you to remember. I’m the only one who’s ever been that far inside you.”
“You and the team of trauma surgeons at Emanuel.”