Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

Jamie thought about Judas. He had three phone numbers. Call the numbers – not from Ben's phone but from a payphone. Call and see -

Do you honestly believe Reynolds hasn't been in touch with this Judas person? After what happened this morning at the park?

You don't know that Reynolds and Judas know each other.

You're right, I don't. And neither do you. For all you know Reynolds did, in fact, recognize you and is now speaking to Judas.

That's why I have to find out who he is. I have to -

What you have to do, Jamie, is keep your children safe. That is your priority. Or do you want to relive what happened in the dead room?

Her mind started filling with images. She tried to turn away from them, and then she saw herself removing her hands from the duct tape – by some miracle of God she hadn't died, hadn't passed out – ripping the tape off one ankle and standing, and there was no time to do the other one because Michael and Carter were bound to the chairs crying, bleeding out, and they needed an ambulance or they would die. She ran with the chair dragging behind her into the hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she saw Dan hunched over the sink, what was left of his right hand – a shredded stump of raw muscle, torn skin and jagged bone – dripping blood into a growing puddle on the floor. She saw his head lying crookedly inside the blood-spattered sink, his skin a dark purple from the noose wrapped around his neck, the other end of the rope fed into the waste-disposal unit. She took a knife from the butcher block, cut the bindings on the other ankle and grabbed the phone as blood clogged her throat, and she kept crouching and staggering while the 911 dispatcher kept saying, 'I can't understand you, I can't understand you.' She saw herself standing in the room thick with gun smoke and Carter not moving and he was so small and he couldn't lose much blood and he'd lost so much, oh God Jesus, she descended on him first and cut through his bindings as Michael turned and coughed up blood and in between sobbing said he was scared and she screamed at him to hold on, hang on, baby, help is on the way – and she realized she was saying this to Carter, not Michael, and she was giving her baby mouth-to-mouth and watching his tiny chest rising and between each breath she was screaming to the phone lying on the floor next to him, screaming to the dispatcher to hurry up, Jesus, please hurry, please hurry, and then Carter opened his eyes and he was coughing up blood but he was breathing and his eyes were wide and scared and bright with tears as he coughed up more blood and started crying, 'Mamma? Mamma?'

Jamie dropped her cigarette as she got to her feet, almost tripping over the lawn chair.

'M-M-Michael, come… ah… here.'

He waltzed across the lawn in his bare feet. Carter went back to practising his lightsaber skills.

Michael stood in front of her, arms crossed over his chest. 'What did I do wrong now?'

'How… you… ah… feel… ah… ah… moving?'

'You mean move out of the house?'

She nodded.

'Where are we going?'

'Where would… you… like… ah… go?'

Something lit up inside him. She could see it in his eyes, the way his body relaxed.

Michael sat on the end of the lawn chair and looked at her, startled, as if he couldn't believe his opinions and needs were actually being considered for once.

'Are you serious?'

She nodded.

'I've always wanted to live someplace warm,' Michael said after a moment. 'Dad told me once that you guys spent some time in San Diego.'

She smiled at the memory – a two-week holiday they'd taken in their early twenties. Boozy afternoons spent in Solana Beach and long walks through Del Mar and Coronado. Sunshine and beaches and making love in the hotel rooms, their bodies brown and warm and smelling of suntan oil.

'Dad said you came close to living there.'

She nodded again. They had talked about it, but their hearts lay in New England.

'Let's… ah… ah… pack… up. Go.'

'When?'

'To… ah… today.'

Surprise bloomed on his face – and some apprehension too. 'What's the rush?'

'No… ah… rush. Been thinking about… about… ah… you said. Unhappy here. No need to… ah… ah… stay any more.'

'What about the house?'

'Real estate agent,' she said. It might take a while until the house was sold, especially in this shitty economic climate, but they could make do on the savings until she got a job.

She leaned forward in her chair, smiling, and took his hand into her own. 'Fresh… start. Deserve it. You.'

'Do you think Carter would like it?'

'I… ah…think he… ah… be happy… ah… any place with… ah… you.'

'Okay.'

'You… You… ah… happy?'

'I am. It's just so, you know, sudden. And what's with the smoking?'

'Bad… ah… habit.'

'You shouldn't do it. There's a reason why they're called cancer sticks.'

'Can… ah… you… help… ah… pack?'

'Sure. Sure, I can. What's with the ultra-short haircut? You look like a guy.'

'It's… ah… so… ah… hot I… I… wanted… ah… shorter.'

'You can see your scars.'

'We… ah… need… ah… get… boxes.'

'You're going in for another operation, aren't you? That's why you practically shaved your head.' He looked so scared, vulnerable.

She cupped his face in her hands. 'No… ah… operation.'

'You're not lying to me?'

'No.' She kissed him on the top of his head. 'I love you.'

'I love you too.'

Walking back inside the house, Jamie imagined Kevin Reynolds somewhere close by, watching, and ran for her car keys.

Walpole's MCI-Cedar Junction, one of the state's two 'supermax' high-security prisons for adult male offenders, had a strict dress code for female visitors. No tank, halter or tube tops. No sleeveless shirts. No jogging suits or gym clothing. No clothing made of Spandex. No sheer or see-through material. Trousers had to be free of holes and rips and couldn't contain any open pockets like those found on cargo trousers. Skirts and shorts measuring less than four inches from the kneecap were deemed too revealing and not allowed – no clothing of any type that exposed a woman's midriff or back was allowed, no exceptions.

Darby placed her tactical belt, keys, wallet, badge and phone in a small plastic dish. After checking her sidearm, she raised her hands. A female guard, a heavy-set black woman, waved a metal-detecting wand over her body.

A young male guard somewhere in his late twenties, Darby guessed, wearing a short-sleeved shirt stood next to a metal door. He stared at the raw cuts and crisscrossed rows of stitches on the right side of her swollen face. Lieutenant Warner had driven her to her condo and stayed in the car while she went upstairs to shower. She dressed quickly, grabbing things from her closet. She realized she had forgotten a belt and pulled the canvas tactical belt from her chest-of-drawers. Not wanting to waste any more time, she had decided to forgo the lengthy process of trying to bandage her face.

'You wearing an underwired bra?' the female guard asked.

'No,' Darby said. 'And you'll be happy to know I remembered not to wear my crotchless underwear this morning.'

The woman let loose a dry chuckle. The male guard didn't crack a smile, too busy working hard on his mess with me and you will pay expression. The way his biceps bulged like rocks underneath his tanned skin made her think of Coop. She had tried calling him from the road, calling his mobile and his direct number at the lab, but kept getting his voicemail.

'Well,' the woman said, placing the wand on the table, 'I'm glad to see you took the time to read the dress code. Most people don't even bother. The women visitors, they are the worst. They strut on in here wearing short-shorts or some low-cut skirt without any panties, then get all belligerent when we tell 'em, ah, sorry, ma'am, but you can't come in here with your junk all exposed. Need to put on something just a little bit more formal.'