Craig Johnson - Hell Is Empty

The eyes shifted behind the mirrored blaze but didn’t make it all the way to me. I took a chance and held the mug out in her sightline, between her and the roiling fire.

She finally looked at me, and I smiled. “Coffee?”

She took a deep breath, letting it out in a shuddering release that seemed like an exorcism, and the words that came from her were barely audible. “I like tea.”

I felt like laughing but couldn’t risk the energy. “Would you like me to make you some tea?”

She nodded, just barely.

I’m not sure if she really wanted tea or if it was a way of insulating herself for just a little bit longer. I refilled Omar’s coffee with the contents from Beatrice’s cup and, with his help, found a box of Earl Grey bags and submerged one into what was left of the boiling water.

I lifted the edge of my improvised sling to check the patch job I’d done on the big-game hunter-it looked like the bleeding from his shoulder wound was subsiding. “How are you doing?”

“Fuzzy, but I’ll get there.” He yawned, which emphasized the leonine aspects of his features. “He was-I tried to…” He stopped speaking, and the only noise was the popping of the pine logs in the fire.

I studied him. “What?”

He took a deep breath. “Nothing.”

I clamped my jaws shut to keep from yawning in sympathy, thinking about how much further I had to go, wondering how far that was and what I’d find there. I thought about my plan, or lack of one. They were mobile, and unless Omar assisted me, I was not. They were many and well-armed, I was not. The only thing I had going for me was the topography-the simple fact that they would soon have nowhere to go. They didn’t know it, but they had bottled themselves up, and other than Tyrell Ranger Station, the concrete, not-so-portable potties were the only indoors in all the great outdoors.

They would have to stay in the Thiokol for the night, so I could grab a few hours of sleep and maybe that would help me clear my head.

I looked at the shine in my friend’s eyes and thought about how many creatures Omar had killed and in how many exotic locales, only to slay his first human being literally on his own doorstep. I lowered my voice. “There’s a conversation we’re going to have to have, but not in front of her.”

He nodded and slowly sipped his coffee.

When I got back to the sofa, Beatrice was still hypnotized by the fire. I stood there feeling the heat radiating against my back, pulling at my sore muscles, and prickling my skin. The waves of exhaustion washed against me like an ebb tide, causing me to waver a little. I forced the air from my lungs and blinked to clear my eyes to find Beatrice’s looking up at me.

She took the tea and held it in front of her face in clasped hands. “Thank you.”

I waited, but she didn’t say anything else.

“Um, I have some questions.”

“I bet you do.” She looked away from me and back to the fire. “ ‘The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.’ ”

“Pascal.”

She looked at me again.

I tipped my hat back. “I’ve been thinking of moonlighting at the local community college.”

It took a while, but she did laugh and then laughed again. When the words came out of her, they weren’t the ones I was expecting: “He’s not as bad as you think; he’s not a simple misanthrope.”

Aware of the Stockholm syndrome, I still wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Excuse me?”

“I was sure you knew, when I told you I was from Wacouta and you mentioned the Red Wing factory, that there’s a maximum security prison just down the road.”

“No.”

“That’s where I met Raynaud, and I guess I was vulnerable, but he’s so, well, I don’t know, charming, kind of, and he loves me, really…” She froze for a moment, and I was worried that I’d lost her, but then her lips moved and she began speaking again. “My father had just died, and I was struggling with a thyroid cancer diagnosis and a divorce. I was working at a veterinary clinic, and maybe it was coming to terms with my own mortality when I started feeling sorry for the number of dogs that were exterminated for lack of adoptive owners. A friend of mine suggested I start a cell-dog project with the prison. You know those programs?”

I figured this was the only way to get her talking, and I was curious about how she’d gotten tangled up with Shade. “I’ve heard of them.”

“I interviewed Raynaud for the program, and we argued at first about which method produced the best-trained dogs, discipline or positive reinforcement.”

“Want me to guess which one he believed in?”

She sighed a laugh. “I asked him which one worked best with him.” She tucked the blanket in a little closer. “He was magnificent with the dogs, had a real talent working with the most vicious animals-they loved him. I think he saw a reflection of himself in them.” A hand crept up and stayed there at the side of her head. “One day he complimented me on my hair.” She looked up at me. “I know I’m not very much to look at, Sheriff, and that’s probably why it struck me the way it did-like water on a dying plant, I guess. Anyway, a few months later we made plans for him to escape so that the two of us could be together. I was going to sneak him out in my van with the dog supplies. We were going to run away to the Northwest Territories, in Canada, where he’s from. I pulled forty-two thousand dollars from my bank account; it was about all I had, but he was worth it.”

“What happened?”

“They had a heartbeat monitor at the gate that discovered him. I was charged with aiding and abetting, but my husband-my ex-husband-paid the bail money from what was left from the forty-two thousand. Raynaud was transferred to the prison in Utah but wrote me a letter asking me to forgive him for getting me into all the trouble.” She sipped her tea. “We continued to stay in touch, and he told me there would be one last opportunity for him here, in Wyoming. We had devised a kind of code; he’s brilliant, Sheriff. A genius.”

I thought about how much planning this entire escapade must’ve taken, which reinforced my thought that Raynaud Shade was more than your usual, garden-variety sociopath. “So, he had all of this planned far in advance.”

She nodded. “He said there was a body that he had buried here in the mountains and that he knew where that was and could get himself this far. All I had to do was help him get free and provide supplies, and he’d take care of the rest.”

Indeed. “So you figured out the hairpin trick with the handcuffs?”

“He taught me.” A quick sob escaped her, and she shook, finally speaking into her mug. “I know everybody wants me to hate him, but I don’t.”

I waited, thinking about all the things that affected us, things we were aware of and things we weren’t. I recited the rest, hoping I could remember it all: “We must always love something. In those matters seemingly removed from love, the feeling is secretly to be found, and man cannot possibly live for a moment without it.”

She turned, and I could see the tears shining on her cheeks. “More Pascal?”

“More Pascal.” It was time to change the subject, and I only hoped she’d stay with me. “I’m going to be honest with you; there are some serious consequences for what you’ve done, but that really doesn’t concern me right now. Right now, I’ve got only one question-do you have any idea where they might be going?”

“No.” Behind the glasses, her eyes were still full of tears-maybe she was attempting to dampen the flames. “I really don’t know.”

I waited a little before asking again. “Anything you might’ve overheard?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”