“Why?” Matheny dropped keys on the desk. “Because fuck him, that’s why.”
When he was gone, she raised an eyebrow at James Randolph, who shrugged. “It’s a pretty common sentiment around here.”
“So, why is he helping us?”
“Matthew shot me on a quail hunt when we were kids. I tend to remind him about it from time to time. It irks him.”
“But, a lockdown cell…”
“I bought you an extra minute.” James unlocked the big door. “Don’t make me come in there after you.”
*
Elizabeth stepped into the hall, saw big cages on the right and left, the blank door of the lockdown cell at the far end. She moved deeper, and the hall darkened as old fluorescents flickered and snapped and made her uncomfortable. The place felt too much like prison, and prison, for her, was becoming a little too real. Low ceilings. Sweaty metal. She kept her eyes on the lockdown cell, which butted against the end wall. A grim affair, it had a solid-steel door, and an eight-inch cutout at face height. It was reserved for junkies, biters, the mentally disturbed. The walls and floors were padded with ancient canvas, stained with fecal matter and blood and every other possible fluid. Beyond anger, spite, and small-mindedness, no legitimate reason existed for Adrian’s confinement there.
Slipping a bolt, she opened a hinged plate and peered into the cell. For some reason she held her breath, and the silence seemed to radiate outward. No movement in the cell. No sound beyond a whisper.
It was Adrian, in the corner, on the floor. He had bare feet. No shirt. His face was tucked into knees.
“Adrian?”
The cell was dark, dim light fingering its way past Elizabeth’s head. She said his name again, and he looked up, blinking. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Liz.”
He pushed himself up. “Who’s there with you?”
“It’s just me.”
“I heard voices.”
“No.” Liz glanced down the hall. “No one else.” He shuffled closer. “Where’s your shirt? Your shoes?”
He made a vague gesture. “It’s hot in here.”
It looked it. Sweat glinted on his skin, beaded under his eyes. Parts of him seemed to be missing. The intellect. Much of his awareness. He tilted his head and sweat rolled on his face.
“Why are you here, Liz?”
“Are you okay, Adrian? Look at me.” She gave him time, and he took it. She noticed small twitches in the muscles of his shoulders, the single shudder that led to a cough. “Did something happen after they brought you in? I know it was rough, but were you mistreated? Threatened? You seem…” She trailed off because she didn’t want to finish the thought, that he seemed less.
“Darkness. Walls.” He offered a difficult smile. “I don’t do well in small spaces.”
“Claustrophobia?”
“Something like that.”
He tried to smile, but it turned into another round of coughing, another twenty seconds of the shakes. Her eyes moved down his chest, and across his stomach.
“Jesus, Adrian.”
He saw her looking at the scars and turned away. His back, though, was as bad as his chest. How many pale, white lines were there? Twenty-five? Forty?
“Adrian…”
“It’s nothing.”
“What did they do to you?”
He picked up the shirt and shrugged it on. “I said it’s nothing.”
She looked more closely at his face and saw for the first time how bones did not line up as she remembered. Shadows filled the hollow place beside his left eye. The nose was not quite the same. She threw a glance down the hall. She had minutes. No more. “Have they questioned you about the church?”
Adrian put his palms flat against the door and kept his head down. “I thought you were suspended.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Francis told me.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“To stay away from you. To keep my mouth shut and not drag you into my problems.” Adrian looked up, and for an instant the years faded. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill her.”
He was talking about the church, the new victim.
“Did you kill Julia Strange?”
It was the first time Elizabeth had ever questioned his innocence, and the moment stretched as muscles tightened in his jaw and old wounds pulled apart. “I did the time, didn’t I?”
His gaze, then, was clear and angry. Same Adrian. None of the weakness.
“You should have taken the stand,” she said. “You should have answered the question.”
“The question.”
“Yes.”
“Shall I answer it, now?”
The words were flat, but the stare was so intent a throb began at the base of Elizabeth’s skull. He knew what she wanted. Of course, he knew. She’d waited every day of his trial for the question to be answered. There would be an explanation, she’d thought. Everything would make sense.
But he never took the stand.
The question was never answered.
“It’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?” He watched her. “The scratches on my neck. The skin under her nails.”
“An innocent man would have explained it.”
“Things were complicated, then.”