The me on the TV screen—looking grayer, older, and tenser than I would have liked—shook his head. “He’d have to be pretty dumb to come after me,” I told the reporter—or was I telling myself? “If he comes within a mile of me, he’ll be nabbed by the FBI or the TBI or the Knoxville Police Department. I’m what the fishermen call ‘live bait,’ and he’s way too smart to take it.” With that, I gave the reporter a smile—a strained, plastic smile, clearly—and walked out of the shot, hoping that what I’d said was true.
Beth Haynes’s face filled the screen once more, looking even more somber than before—more somber than I’d ever seen her. “Breaking news, and a shocking update, just in. Authorities now say that family members of two prison officials from South Central Correctional Facility—the prison from which Nick Satterfield escaped—were brutally murdered today. It’s not yet known whether or how these murders are connected with Satterfield’s escape, but WBIR News will continue to monitor this developing story and keep you posted.” In what seemed to be a return to her earlier script, she added, “Needless to say, escaped killer Nick Satterfield is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information on his whereabouts should call the FBI or the TBI. Authorities have announced a $50,000 reward for information leading to his capture.” Satterfield’s photo appeared on-screen over one of Beth’s shoulders, and a toll-free number materialized at the bottom of the screen, along with the caption “$50,000 Reward.”
The story over, I switched off the television so we could talk.
“Fifty thousand dollars!” exclaimed Walker, who—at fifteen—still retained a boyish enthusiasm. “I wish I knew where he was! I could buy a Corvette with that!”
“Yeah, right,” said Tyler, already world-weary at age seventeen. “A Corvette. Just what you need. Because you’re such a great driver already, the way you keep one foot on the brake at all times.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who ran over our mailbox.”
“Shut up,” said Tyler.
“And the neighbors’ mailbox,” Walker persisted.
In the blink of an eye, Tyler pounced, hurling his brother to the floor. “Boys! Boys!” Jenny yelled, to no avail, as they grappled and thrashed. “Boys!” Jeff came from behind my chair, preparing to pull them apart, but before he could enter the fray, a denim-clad leg—impossible to say whose—kicked upward, the foot careening against a ceramic lamp and sending it flying. The lamp hit the wall in a duet of destruction: the soprano notes of shattering lightbulbs accompanied by the lower, rounder clanking of fired pottery splintering into shards.
The room fell silent, except for the panting of the boys and the slow, furious breathing of their dad. “Get up,” he ordered. “Get up, clean up that mess, and apologize for your stupid, stupid behavior.” The boys lay there, looking stricken. “Dammit, I mean now!” he bellowed, grabbing each boy by an upper arm, and yanking with a force and a fury I had never seen in him before. Jenny stared at him, shocked, as the boys—flushed and frightened-looking—scrambled to their feet and hurried to the kitchen for the broom and the Dustbuster.
“Jeff?” She said it slowly; carefully; as if unsure whether the man in front of her was her accountant husband or a psychotic mental patient.
Jeff squeezed his eyes tightly closed, and drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly before opening his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just . . . I’m sorry.”
“It’s a lot to process,” I said. I looked at Jenny, who still seemed shaken. “Why don’t y’all go on home. I’ll clean this up. To be honest, I could use the distraction. Ever since I heard the news, I’ve been about to jump out of my skin. I expect we’re all feeling edgy. Even them.” I nodded toward the kitchen, just as the boys emerged, cleaning implements in hand.
“Grandpa Bill, I’m so sorry,” said Tyler. “I didn’t mean to break your lamp, and I . . . I’ll buy you . . .” He stopped, and I saw tears coursing down his face.
“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” I said, gathering him in my arms, feeling him begin to sob. “I know you didn’t mean to.” A moment later, I felt Walker burrowing against us, and I widened my arms to take him in, too. They were quite an armful—hardly boys anymore—yet at this moment, they seemed small and vulnerable. “Everything will be okay,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen to any of us. I promise.” They squeezed more tightly against me. “And you know what else, guys? For forty years, I have secretly hated that damn lamp.”
THAT NIGHT I HAD A DREAM, AND IN MY DREAM, I could hear Satterfield’s voice inside my head, taunting me. “You should have let Decker kill me,” he said. “He had the chance, and he wanted to, but you said no. You chose mercy over justice. A foolish choice. Now all your family will die. Everything you ever loved will die.”