Merrick lay in his bunk and thought about the future soon to come. He rubbed his coarse blanket between his fingers and dreamed of four-hundred-thread-count sheets. Of course, they made sheets with thread counts in the thousands, but that was just a marketing gimmick for rubes who thought more meant better; counts of more than four hundred meant using thinner, weaker thread to fit it on the loom.
He would sleep well tonight.
When the lights finally came on, Merrick waited by his bunk while the guards took the morning count. He expected one of them to pull him aside, but the guards passed by without a glance and blew the whistle that signaled inmates were free to move around. He asked a large white guard with more tattoos than most of the inmates if there was somewhere he should go.
“Out my sight would be a good start, inmate.” The guard refused to make eye contact. “Don’t know nothing about no release.”
Perplexed, Merrick got in line for the showers and then headed to chow as if it were any other morning. He accepted his daily dose of breakfast and took his tray to an empty table, where he picked at it moodily. The table soon filled up around him with inmates talking among themselves. No one spoke to him or even acknowledged his presence. He’d never exactly endeared himself to his fellow inmates, and they were happy to see the back of him. There would be no congratulations or fond farewells.
A tall black guard came into the cafeteria and scanned the room for someone. Merrick made himself tall in his seat and looked his way.
“Merrick! What are you doing just sitting there?”
The room fell silent, then the guard continued before Merrick could answer.
“Get your ass moving, or did you go and fall in love? I can come back in another year, you need more time.”
That elicited much merriment from the assembled congregation, and Merrick heard wolf tickets being thrown his way. That he was soft. That he was a punk. That he was a stuck-up bitch. Maybe I am, he thought, but this stuck-up bitch is going and you’re staying. He hustled over to the guard and apologized profusely. The guards were ontologically incapable of mistakes, so it was always safer to act sorry. Merrick followed him back to the dormitory.
“Collect your shit,” the guard said and stood aside while Merrick gathered his possessions, such as they were, in a plastic tub. The guard was still angry about earlier and muttered under his breath. “Making me look for you like it’s my job.”
Shit collected, the guard escorted Merrick to a holding cell and cuffed him to a bench alongside two other inmates, each with tubs filled with their possessions: priceless artifacts on the inside, worthless junk in the real world. His compatriots passed the time engaged in the time-tested ritual of good-natured one-upmanship, trading stories about where they were headed, first meals, first drinks, the parties, and all the fine, fine ladies they had lined up. They tried to include Merrick, but he ignored them. He’d spent eight years humoring idiots like these two, but those days were behind him.
After an hour, a guard came and collected one of the inmates. A few minutes later, a replacement inmate was led in with his plastic tub, as if three were the room’s maximum occupancy. Another hour passed before they came back for the next inmate. Then another. By the time it was Merrick’s turn, his stomach was growling for lunch, and he was sorry he hadn’t eaten more of his breakfast. He was taken to an office, where a guard filled out his release paperwork while Merrick answered questions. They asked if he wanted anything from the tub; he said no. Then they searched it for contraband anyway and tossed it in a dumpster. He was ordered to strip for a cavity search.
“Do you seriously believe I plan on sneaking anything out of prison?”
“Shut up, inmate. Spread ’em and cough.”
Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light, reflected Merrick as he assumed the position, heard the snap of the latex glove, and squeezed his eyes closed and thought of sandy beaches.
With that indignity complete, he was permitted to dress and wait in a different holding cell, where he rejoined his compatriots. They shared a pitiful lunch—a granola bar, a cup of water, and a brown banana. For entertainment, the two inmates treated him to a graphic replay of how they would celebrate their impending releases, only with more steak, more parties, and many, many more hot women who just couldn’t resist a penniless ex-con.
Merrick put his head back and dozed.
Gibson pulled the van to the side of the road and spread the map out on the steering wheel. It was noon, and in the last twelve hours, he’d covered the smallest two remaining grids. Hungry and tired, he felt as though he’d driven every highway, byway, and alleyway in West Virginia. So it was discouraging to see how much of the state remained.
He looked at the map again, studied the remaining grids without a red cross through them. There were no more educated guesses left to make. It would be dumb luck or nothing at all. Quitting seemed a reasonable option. Merrick might already be a free man for all he knew. He hated to fail the judge, but he’d taken this thing as far as could reasonably be expected. Far past reason, if he were being honest, but honesty lay bleeding in a ditch a ways back.
So pick another grid, and get back on the road.
But which?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO