“What the fuck,” Don said. If the pie ladies of the world were gone, and he still wanted sweet stuff, he was going to have to eat more adventurously.
“Uh, Frank?” Vern Rangle said.
“What?” It sounded more like What now?
“I was just thinking maybe we ought to have a cruiser watching the prison. In case, you know, the doc decides to take her out and hide her somewhere.”
Frank stared at him, then slapped the side of his own head—a good hard whack that made them all jump. “Jesus. You’re right. I should have done that right away.”
“I’ll go,” Don said, forgetting the ice cream cake. He got up fast, his thighs striking the underside of the table and making the cups and plates rattle. His eyes were bright. “Me and Eric. Anyone tries to get in or out, we’ll stop them.”
Frank didn’t much care for Don, and Blass was just a kid, but maybe it would be okay. Hell, it was just a precaution. He didn’t really think Norcross would try to take the woman out. To him, she probably seemed safer where she was, behind the prison walls.
“Okay,” he said. “But if anyone does come out, just stop them. No drawn guns, you hear? No OK Corral stuff. If they refuse to stop, just follow them. And radio me ASAP.”
“Not Terry?” the judge asked.
“No. Me. Park at the foot of the prison access road, where it meets West Lavin. Got it?”
“Got it!” Don snapped. He was on the case. “Come on, partner. Let’s go.”
As they left, the judge mumbled, “The unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable.”
“What, Judge?” Vern Rangle asked.
Silver shook his head. He looked weary. “Never mind. Gentlemen, I must say that on the whole, I don’t care much for the way this is going. I wonder . . .”
“What, Oscar?” Frank asked. “What do you wonder?”
But the judge didn’t reply.
5
“How’d you know?” It was Angel. “About the baby?”
The question drew Evie away from the Olympia Diner where, from the eyes of the moth perched on the light-globe, she’d been observing the men making their plans. And just to add to the fun, something else was going on, much closer. Clint had visitors. Soon she would have visitors, as well.
Evie sat up and inhaled Dooling Correctional. The stench of industrial cleaning products went horribly deep; she expected to die soon, and felt sad about that, but she had died before. It was never nice, but it had never been the end . . . although this time might be different.
On the bright side, she told herself, I won’t have to smell this place anymore, this mixture of Lysol and despair.
She’d thought Troy stank: the corpse piles, the fires, the fish guts thoughtfully left out for the gods—gee fucking thanks, guys, just what we want—and the stupid Achaeans stomping around on the beach, refusing to wash, letting the blood cook to black in the sun and rust the joints of their armor. That was nothing compared to the inescapable reek of the modern world. She had been young and too easily impressed then, in the days before Lysol and bleach.
Meanwhile, Angel had asked a perfectly fair question, and she sounded almost sane. For the time being, at least.
“I know about your baby because I read minds. Not always. Most of the time. I’m better at reading men’s minds—they are simpler—but I’m pretty good with women, too.”
“Then you know . . . I dint want to.”
“Yes, I know that. And I was too hard on you. Before. I’m sorry. There was a lot going on.”
Angel ignored the apology. She was focused on reciting something she’d clearly memorized, a little comfort she’d created to provide light when the dark was at its deepest and there was no one awake with whom to speak and take her mind off herself and the things she had done. “I had to. Every man I killed did hurt me, or woulda hurt me if I give him a chance. I dint want to put that baby girl down, but I couldn’t let that be her life.”
The sigh that Evie produced in response was thick with real tears. Angel was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth of an existence in a time and a place where things had just not worked out. Of course, chances were slim that they would have worked out for Angel, anyway; the woman was bad and mad. Even so, she was right: they had hurt her, and they probably would’ve hurt that baby girl, given time. Those men and all the men like them. The earth hated them, but it loved the fertilizer of their murderous bodies.
“Why you cryin, Evie?”
“Because I feel it all, and it’s painful. Now hush. If I may once more quote Henry IV, the game is afoot. I have things to do.”
“What things?”
As if in answer, the door at the far end of A Wing clashed open and footfalls approached. It was Dr. Norcross, Officers Murphy and Quigley, and two strangers.
“Where’s they passes?” Angel shouted. “Those two don’t have no passes to be back here!”
“Hush, I said,” Evie told her. “Or I’ll make you hush. We were having a moment, Angel, don’t spoil it.”
Clint stopped in front of Evie’s cell. The woman pushed up beside him. There were purple pouches beneath her eyes, but the eyes themselves were bright and aware.
Evie said, “Hello, Michaela Coates, also known as Michaela Morgan. I’m Eve Black.” She put her hand through the bars. Tig and Rand moved forward instinctively, but Clint extended his arms to hold them in place.
Michaela clasped the offered hand with no hesitation. “You’ve seen me on the news, I take it.”
Evie smiled warmly. “I’m afraid I’m not big on the news. Too depressing.”
“Then how do you know—”
“Shall I call you Mickey, as your friend Dr. Flickinger does?”
Garth jumped.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see your mother,” Evie went on. “She was a good warden.”
“Like fuck,” Angel muttered, and when Evie cleared her throat forbiddingly: “Okay, I’m hushin, I’m hushin.”
“How do you know—” Michaela began.
“That your mother was Warden Coates? That you took the name Morgan because some silly cockhound of a journalism professor told you that television audiences tend to remember alliterative names? Oh, Mickey, you never should have slept with him, but I think you know that now. At least the miscarriage saved you having to make a difficult choice.” Evie clucked and shook her head, making her dark hair fly.
Except for her red-rimmed eyes, Michaela was dead pale. When Garth put an arm around her shoulders, she clutched at his hand like a drowning woman clutching at a life preserver.
“How do you know that?” Michaela whispered. “Who are you?”