Binds that tie, p.12
Binds That Tie, page 12
The lodge was huge, dark, and wooden with a long gleaming bar and silver and red vinyl stools. The walls were adorned with various antique ski equipment and local paraphernalia, including framed newspaper articles. Above a massive stone fireplace was a ten-point buck head. Maggie averted her eyes. Stuffed game always creeped her out. Something about their eyes seemed to still be alive, as though somehow the layers of foam and wire had trapped a living soul. They each settled on a swiveled bar chair and ordered whiskeys on the rocks.
“What’s going on with Miranda?” Maggie asked, touching his arm. She rarely asked him about Miranda. It felt too weird, even a decade later when water should have long flowed under that bridge. But after their day together, she wanted to know. She felt compelled to help somehow.
“I don’t know. I think she’s tired of being alone. I can’t tell anymore. I work constantly, but I’m a junior. She likes a certain lifestyle, and I can’t keep up with it. I can’t keep up with her.” He traced an M in the sweat of his water glass, over and over, and Maggie stared, mesmerized.
“If she got a job, could you slow down?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? Probably not. I’m a lawyer—and a young one. I’m required to bill a certain number of hours a month. She wanted on this train, but she doesn’t like the speed.” Jake ran a hand through his hair, expelling a whiskey-laden sigh. He nudged her with his elbow. “Enough. I had so much fun today. Don’t ruin it, okay?”
“Okay. Fine. I have a dirty joke. Wanna hear it?” Maggie cleared her throat and, with a slurred bravado, told a long, intricate joke in a half-assed Irish brogue. She was laughing so hard, she could hardly choke out the punch line.
“Well, now I have to know. What’s so funny?”
They turned to see Chris pulling off his hat and gloves and heading for the stool next to Maggie. Maggie felt off kilter. She forced a smile. She’d forgotten Chris was there. Jake recapped the joke, but the magic was gone. The punch line seemed stupid. Their discomfort dissipated as the three of them sat at the bar longer than they should have, telling jokes and drinking. Maggie thought of Miranda fleetingly. She should have come. But she knew her sister. Trouble was brewing.
The threesome stumbled back to the cabin, loud and raucous and hungry, their faces red from alcohol and windburn. Maggie marched off to the kitchen to attempt another culinary wonder, but she failed miserably. They consoled themselves over grilled cheese sandwiches.
“Oh, nice. Thanks for making me dinner.” Miranda stood in the kitchen doorway, and all the energy seemed to suck out of the room. “I fell asleep waiting for you guys. Do you know what time it is? What the hell have you been doing all day?” She stomped back to her room, slammed the door, and Maggie’s head buzzed.
Pain in the ass. All the time. This is why I didn’t want to come.
Chris picked up his sandwich and gave a mock salute. “Well, this is where I retire.” He winked at Maggie.
She heard him take the steps two at a time and the soft click of their bedroom door. In typical Chris fashion, he fled from confrontation. Maggie sat at the island, reluctant to follow Chris. Jake shrugged with good-natured resignation and left the kitchen. Maggie heard knocking on a door, followed by muffled voices that were soft at first and then increased in volume. The words were indistinguishable, angry and hate filled.
She pulled the bottle of whiskey from under the sink and filled her glass. She moved away from the kitchen, the voices growing faint and dull, and flipped the switch next to the gas fireplace. She curled up in front of the fire, watching the flames lick upward until her vision wavered. God, I’m properly drunk. That’s been a while.
She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew, she was being shaken gently. When she turned her head, she peered directly into Jake’s clear blue eyes. He sank down to the floor next to her.
“How’s Miranda?” She was groggy and struggled to sit, pushing herself up.
“She’ll live. She’s pissed for sure.”
“Then why didn’t she come with us? Jesus. She’s so much fucking work!” Maggie looked around for her glass.
“I know. I don’t know what to do anymore. All we do is fight.” He lowered his head into his left hand, his elbow resting on his knee, and gave her a wry smile. He took a gulp of whiskey and looked at the ceiling. “I think I’m drunk. God, it’s been forever.”
Maggie smiled and relaxed back on her hands. She studied Jake’s profile, his straight nose and strong jaw, long lashes and full lips, and felt a stirring deep in her gut that hadn’t been there in years.
With his eyes closed, Jake said, “Maggie, I was so dumb. Did I break your heart?”
Her breath caught at the conversation she’d wanted to have almost a decade earlier. It’s too late now, though. God, Jake, don’t. Not after today. “Everything worked out for the best, Jake. Life has a way of moving on, that’s all.” Her voice was soft. The alcohol had worked a number on her system. The room blurred around the edges, and the only clear thing was his face. Her heart thundered in her ears, and she couldn’t think beyond that moment.
He turned his head and met her eyes. “Did I? I want to know. I’ve always wanted to know.” He thumbed her jaw.
Her elbows gave out, and she felt weak. Helpless. “It’s old news. We’ve all moved on.” She gripped his wrist and lightly led his hand back down to the floor.
“Did I? It’s a question.” His gaze was intense, his eyes searching her face.
Because she didn’t know how to answer, even though she’d known the answer for what seemed like her whole life, she shook her head. Jake’s face was inches from hers. Before she could protest, his mouth was on hers, a faint buzzing memory of heat and warmth. His hands pulled her against him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t process it, but she couldn’t push him away either. She’d spent so much of her life wanting to touch him again. He smelled the same, felt the same, tasted the same, and her body moved of its own volition. Her hands moved up his chest and in his hair, and her teeth softly bit his lower lip.
He let out a soft moan. “Oh, God, Maggie.”
In an instant, her name on his lips brought her crashing back to the present, back to reality. With both of her palms flat on his chest, she pushed him softly off of her. The sudden lifting of weight felt isolating. He lurched forward and buried his head in her neck, and she shoved him again. Harder. This is insane. Enough. She struggled to sit up and, just like that, noticed a shadow in the doorway. Tall and blurry, broad-shouldered. Chris.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Chapter Fifteen
Chris
Long after Chris got out the first time, he’d walk down a city street and get a waft of warm air blown up from the sewer, triggering memories of prison, the combination of warm gravy and sour breath. City sewage had nothing on jail; it was potpourri in comparison. Prison smelled of something indefinable, more disgusting and fetid. Odd that the odor seemed so universal. Lying face up on a thin, lumpy foam mattress, Chris tried to pinpoint it. The toilets that were never flushed? The inmates who never seemed clean no matter if they’d recently showered? The chemical odor of drugs? Perhaps it was the pervasive smell of human corrosion, the dregs of society all contained in one place and rotting from the inside out.
He’d been stripped and cavity searched, fingerprinted, violated, and manhandled. He knew his current cell was temporary. He’d heard them announce shift change for the guards, and that meant he was stuck in purgatory until tomorrow. They never did any paperwork or official transfers on the off-shifts. An hour back inside and thinking like an inmate already. He was disgusted with the ease with which he’d assimilated back into the role of a prisoner. As if he’d never left, or perhaps that the prison and all the people in it had just been patiently waiting for his return.
“Stevens, up,” a gruff voice called from the other side of his door.
When it opened, a scrawny kid stumbled in, propelled by a beefy hand. The kid sported a wild shock of red hair, a puffy juvenile face covered in freckles, and looked as though he belonged on the cover of MAD magazine. He also looked terrified, and his right arm crossed in front of his chest, gripping his left elbow. The door slid shut with a slam and Chris shook his head before he flopped back down on the bed. Jesus, you’re dead, kid.
For a white Irish guy, Chris had done surprisingly okay on the inside the first time. His six-foot-three-inch, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame helped. He wasn’t the biggest on the block, but he looked intimidating enough. Chris studied the redhead through slitted eyes. The kid huddled in the middle of the cell, his arms wrapped around his middle, looking as if he was about to piss himself. Chris felt a stab of sympathy.
“What’s your name, kid?” Chris asked, forgetting his own rule and forgetting Jake’s words. Don’t talk to anyone.
“Smith. Smith Hamilton.”
Chris’s eyes flew open. “Are you fucking serious? Your name is Smith Hamilton?”
“Yeah. Why?” He furrowed his brow and wrinkled his nose.
Chris laughed. “Dude, you better make some shit up. If you walk around here looking like you do with the name Smith Hamilton, you’re a dead man.” He eyed him up and down. The kid looked a hundred thirty pounds soaking wet, and his forearm had a red, crusted scab from his elbow to his wrist. Looked like the worst case of road rash Chris had ever seen. “What’d you do, fall off your moped?”
Smith shrugged and grinned wickedly, revealing moss-colored teeth.
Chris shuddered. “You’re probably a dead man anyway.”
“What do you mean ‘dead man’? Like someone’s bitch?” The kid looked terrified. His fingers worked at the thatch of raised skin on his arm.
“You watch too many movies or something? Just listen, okay? Don’t talk to anyone. Ever. Mind your own business. Don’t initiate conversations. If people talk to you, answer their questions and move on. Do what you need to do. Don’t talk to the guards, especially. If they talk to you, try to get out of it before someone sees you. But don’t be rude. You’ll piss them off, and they look for reasons to be pissed at us. Keep your head down.”
“What’d you do? Why are you here?”
Chris sat up and looked the kid right in the eye. “Don’t ever ask anyone that question unless you want to get yourself hit. That question will get you labeled a snitch. Got it?”
“Pssst, Abercrombie, who’s your friend?” The question was hissed from across the block, and Chris rolled his eyes.
Prison never changed. His last nickname was Letterman. With his black curly hair, green eyes, and dimples, Chris looked the consummate preppy. He crossed the small cell and stood at the door, looking out. He saw two eyes peering back at him from across the hall.
“I dunno.” Chris shrugged, and the eyes receded into darkness.
Through the dim light, Chris made out the figure of a hulk of a man, bigger than Chris. He knew the guy had been there awhile. His cell was covered with lined papers scribbled with what he’d heard were Bible verses. Chris didn’t know about anyone else on his block. Yet.
“Who’s that?” Smith asked.
Chris shook his head. “Go to bed, kid. We’re done talking. Maybe forever.” Chris put his finger to his lips and rolled on his side, his back to the center of the room.
“Dude, it’s like eight o’clock at night. Can you really go to sleep this early? Are they gonna turn out the lights?”
Chris pulled his pillow tight over his ears, blocking out the kid’s questions and the fluorescent nighttime lights, and willed himself to sleep. He dreamt of a vampiric vision of Maggie, her wild blond hair swirling around her, and he woke up sweating. In the darkest hour of the night, he dreamt of Derek, a long, spindly arm stretched out in accusation. Killer. Liar.
The lights flickered in the early morning hours before coming on full blast.
Chris was pacing by the time the bang of night sticks on metal and the clanking of doors opening signaled morning. Wake-up time was five thirty, but not knowing the time on a regular basis was driving him crazy. He wanted a shower and a watch. The latter he could get at the canteen.
“Okay, ladies, time for breakfast.” The guard opened the door and shoved in a tray containing two of everything: bowls, spoons, small boxes of Cheerios, and pint-sized milk containers. He was short and squat like a bulldog with the low-slung posture of an ex-wrestler. He had a thick, wobbling neck and an impressive paunch hanging over his standard-issue black belt.
Hamilton sat on his bed, rocking gently. Every once in a while, he’d hum under his breath. It was kind of making Chris crazy. The guard blinked twice at the kid, his mouth turning up in a smirk.
Chris grabbed the tray. “When can I get a shower? And maybe visit the canteen?”
Chris could tell the guard was a dickhead by the chiseled set of his jaw. The real screws had a look to them, like they enjoyed their job in ways they shouldn’t. As if they knew they were exactly like the guys on the other side of the bars, and they get off on it. The kid pushed himself up and leaned close to Chris, hopping back and forth. Chris waved him back.
The guard shook his head, shutting the door as he answered. “You’re not staying here, bud. You’re a capital case. When you off someone, you don’t get the princess treatment. Meth head behind you though, he’ll get a shower around six.”
When Chris turned back around, the kid eyed him suspiciously. “Dude, you killed somebody?”
“I’m not talking to you, kid. Eat your Cheerios. They’re heart healthy.”
Chris just needed to make it to nine or ten o’clock, when he figured Jake would get in. The uncertainty was killing him. If wake-up was at five thirty, it had to be close to seven. They never came to get the kid for a shower, and Hamilton waited at the door, watching the rest of the block.
Chris shook his head. “Curiosity is a terrible thing in here.”
The kid whirled around and glared at Chris. He seemed to resent Chris’s unsolicited advice, and Chris had to wonder why he kept offering it. “What am I supposed to do?”
“When you watch the block, they think you’re watching them. So you can use it later. Go lie down, take a nap, whatever.”
“I can’t lie down. When’s my shower? Do you know?” Hamilton ran his right hand up and down his left arm, over the raised skin.
Chris cringed. His head was pounding, a deep thrumming behind his eyes brought on by the chemical smell wafting off the kid and a lack of sleep. Hamilton stood next to the cot. Chris turned his head and looked down, watching Smith’s toes wiggle under his starched canvas Keds. Jesus, keep still for two minutes. The cell door slid open with a metal-on-metal groan. On the other side stood the Dickhead.
He gave Chris a wide smile with lots of teeth. “Okay, Abercrombie, your lawyer is here.”
Chris raised his eyebrow to ask where’d you hear that?
The guard shrugged, his smile widening. “What? I thought it was pretty good. It’s a good thing you won’t be here long. You’ll be going up to the high security in a few days, I’d guess.”
Chris held his hands out in front of him, his wrists together. He didn’t feel like listening to the guy any longer than he had to. The guard cuffed him and held open the door. Chris followed Dickhead down the hall to meet Jake. When they reached the end of the block, the guard fished a key from his ring and swung open the door to a small conference room, motioning for Chris to enter first.
“You get an hour.” Before Chris could reply, Dickhead pulled the door shut with a thunk. Loud metallic locks clicked into place, final and definitive.
Jake stood, crossed the room, and gave Chris a perfunctory hug. He looked as comfortable in jail as he did in his seven hundred-square-foot office or on an expansive golf course. Chris was convinced Jake had received the five-star treatment from Dickhead. Jake was a defense attorney, abhorred by prison guards everywhere, but he had the kind of face people liked. An everyman. A good guy. His shirt was appropriately wrinkled, the top button undone. Professional but not unapproachable.
Jake once said that everyone who learned of his profession would say, “Oh, can you help out my cousin? He’s having some trouble…” He just looked like the kind of guy who would say, “Yeah, no problem.” His smile was quick and inclusive, his laugh easy.
“How are you? How was the night?” Jake’s brows knitted in concern. He pulled out a metal chair with a lime-green vinyl seat and sat opposite Chris.
Chris studied the mottled surface of the cheap, dirty Formica conference table. He wondered how many other guys had been in that chair, staring at that table. How many were still there? “Uh, I’ve been better, but then again, I’ve done this before.” He shrugged.
“Did you talk to anyone?”
“Yeah, my cellmate. He doesn’t shut up.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Uh, yeah. Smith something. Hamilton. Smith Hamilton.”
Jake wrote it down on one of his legal pads. “We’ll try to get him switched, okay?”
“Fine. Now what?”
Jake opened a file. The legal pad with Stevens printed on the binding was filled with pages of notes. Jake had been busy. “Okay, yesterday, I went to the courthouse. We’re going to challenge probable cause at the preliminary hearing. It’ll be us, the prosecution, and a judge. No jury. They still don’t have a body. I filed a discovery motion, meaning we should get the police file, as complete as they can make it, in a few days. We’ll have about a week to put together a good defense.”
