“So how are we doing today?” he asked, not expecting an answer but needing to fill the vacuum.
He worked his way slowly around the perimeter of the room, giving the man in the chair a wide berth. Despite the smell, the place was remarkably tidy. Not clean—a layer of dust and grime coated every surface—but tidy. More than tidy, it was bare essentials and no more. Nothing hung on the walls. No plants, no decorations or personal touches anywhere. It reminded Gibson of his own apartment. A depressing thought. In the kitchen, he found the source of the smell—a half-dozen trash bags, full to spilling over, sat propped against a wall in a row. The man had taken the time to empty his trash but not to walk the trash out to the curb for pickup. A stalagmite of empty pizza boxes suggested it had been some time since he’d ventured outdoors at all. Gibson checked the chair again, but the man remained statue still.
What little Gibson knew about drugs, he knew from the movies and a guy in his unit who’d been court-martialed for a heroin addiction, but the kitchen counter looked like Amsterdam at Christmas. In the center stood an ornate green bong. Arrayed around it, like presents for all the good little addicts, were little Baggies of pills, powders, and crystals. A glass pipe with a bulb blackened from use listed on its side. Razor blades, matches, a crooked spoon—the man hadn’t missed a trick.
At the desk, Gibson tapped the space bar, and the monitor flickered to life. Amazingly, there was no password prompt, and it took him to a portal page for a brokerage account on the Bursa Malaysia—the Malaysian stock market. Lea had been right on the nose. The barbarians are at your gate, Charles. Gibson tapped the space bar again idly while he stared at the blinking cursor prompting him for the username and password for the brokerage account. It wouldn’t be stored on the machine locally, so he couldn’t change it the way he’d changed the password at the Virginia State motor pool. There wasn’t anything remotely like enough time to hack the Malaysian brokerage, so if he couldn’t find it written down somewhere, that whittled his options down to one: pry it out of the man in the chair. But how was he going to manage that? He’d never social-engineered a zombie before. Instead, he started with a quick search of the desk—under the keyboard and through all the drawers—in case it was taped somewhere helpfully. The hacking equivalent of flipping down a car’s visor and having the keys drop into your hand. Wishful thinking, but of course it wouldn’t be that easy. He set about a more thorough search of the desk.
The desk was a treasure trove of junk and meaningless papers, no semblance of order. Behind the monitor, Gibson found two picture frames facedown on the desk. Based on the archaeological quantity of dust, they’d been back there for some time. Gibson lifted each up to the light. The first was a picture of a younger Charles Merrick sitting on a sofa, a small boy balanced on his knee. The boy looked determined to squirm free, but Merrick had a firm grip on him. Only Merrick’s mouth smiled; the rest of him looked prepared to flee. The second photo showed five young white teenage boys in suits and confident smiles posed in front of the Merrick Capital logo. One of them held a placard that read, “Summer Intern Team.”
They were the only personal artifacts in plain sight, so Gibson flipped them over and removed the pictures from the frames to check the backs. The intern photo was blank, but on the back of the other, written in a woman’s hand, was “Marty and Charles—2nd Birthday.” He’d hoped for a password, but this piqued his interest. Gibson looked over at the man in the chair. His head still faced straight ahead, but the man’s eyes were on Gibson now. Pupils dilated so wide it looked like an eclipse had moved permanently across the iris; the broken whites of his eyes stained red. Gibson thought it might be him. The second intern from the right in the other picture. It might be the man in the chair, but it was hard to say for certain.
“Are these supposed to be you?” Gibson asked, holding up the pictures.
The man’s head canted in Gibson’s direction. As if there’d been a delayed reaction, and it was only now getting its marching order from his eyes. His head wobbled slightly on its stalk as he looked at the pictures and began, softly, to giggle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lea watched yet another car pull into the visitors’ parking lot outside the prison. She sank a little lower in her seat; there had to be at least thirty now. The parking lot was already full, and like the other late arrivals, the car circled the turnaround outside the prison gates and pulled over along the road leading to and from the prison. The crowd reminded her of the press and protestors that had clamored outside her father’s trial, but these people weren’t here for sound bites or a good cause.
It was strange, but in all the time she’d been planning on taking down her father, she’d never once felt so much as a twinge of sympathy for him. Now, though, she felt strangely protective. It was like insults and families. Family members could say what they wanted, but watch your mouth otherwise. So she felt a little conflicted at these strangers jostling for position to be the ones who would take Charles Merrick when he walked through those gates. Which should have been some time ago . . . she checked the time again. It was already five p.m. Maybe he had seen what was waiting for him beyond the gates and opted for another eight years instead. It would be his first smart move in a decade.
What about her? Did she have a smart move in her? Was she smart enough to throw in the towel and get out while there was still time? She started her car, changed her mind, and threw the key up on the dashboard. Who was she kidding? Gibson would have something smart to say right about now. It felt comforting to imagine him roaming around West Virginia in that van. And what about Gavin? She hoped he’d gotten far, far from here. Not that she believed it. Gavin was like her. Now that he had his teeth into this thing, he’d hang on until it broke his neck.
Lea felt a change in the atmosphere of the parking lot like a storm coming in. The parking lot had gone absolutely still, every head turned as one toward the front gate. There stood Charles Merrick, one foot in and one foot out of the prison. Even at this distance, she could see his fear. The desire to protect him leapt in her again. No, she thought. That man doesn’t deserve your pity. She dredged up the memories that always worked to stoke her bitterness and used them to fight back any instinct toward charity.
Her legs wobbled when she stepped out of the car. She could feel predatory eyes on her. Wondering at this woman in the formal yellow dress. Was this how Little Red Riding Hood felt when she stepped off the path? She forced herself to take a step toward him, then another, and another. By the time she’d crossed the parking lot, she was smiling. You’re happy, she reminded herself. So happy to see him.
Make him believe.