Brian Freeman - The Voice Inside

He suspected that she’d said those words to herself many times over the years, as she tried to convince herself that she’d done the right thing.

“If you’re right, then someone is playing a sick game with me,” Frost said.

“No doubt someone working with Rudy Cutter,” Camille replied.

“Most likely. I’d like to know how they managed to locate this watch. What would a person have to do to put their hands on an exact duplicate like this?”

“Fly to Switzerland,” Camille said impatiently.

“The jeweler doesn’t have a website?”

“It’s a one-man business in a small village. Not every corner of the world is online, Inspector.”

“And do you think the owner would keep records of his customers and what they purchased?” Frost asked. Because he knew what those records would show, and so did she.

A shadow crossed Camille’s face. “I have no idea.”

“What was the name of the jeweler?”

“I really don’t remember. For all I know, he’s dead by now. He was very old even then, and this was a decade ago.”

“What about your ex-husband? Would he remember? You said the jeweler had some kind of family connection.”

“You’d have to ask him,” Camille said, her voice growing exasperated. “Honestly, Inspector, I really don’t understand the relevance of any of this. I already told you, it’s not Melanie’s watch .”

“I’m just trying to understand how hard it would have been to obtain an exact copy,” Frost replied. “It sounds like it would have been pretty hard. Almost impossible, in fact. A very expensive watch from a jeweler in a remote town overseas? I can’t imagine how Cutter would have pulled it off.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have any answers for you, Inspector.”

Frost stood up. He picked up the mug and finished his coffee. “Well, I appreciate your time, Ms. Valou. Thank you for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome.”

He made sure they were alone. There were no morning pedestrians on Cole Street. The door to the restaurant was closed. He leaned across the table toward Camille and whispered just loud enough for her to hear. “There were two watches, weren’t there?”

Her nostrils flared with annoyance. Her eyes were hard black sapphires. “What?”

“You bought two watches back then, didn’t you? One for you, one for your daughter.”

“I have nothing more to say.”

“Was it your watch that Jess found in Cutter’s ceiling? And if so, how did it get there?”

“I think you should leave, Inspector,” Camille said.

Frost straightened up. “If you’d like.”

He turned away from the restaurant, but Camille called after him in a loud voice. “Inspector, before you go. There’s an old French proverb you may know. Il ne faut pas réveiller le chat qui dort. It means, when the cat is asleep, you don’t wake it up.”

“Let sleeping dogs lie?” Frost replied.

“That is exactly right. Let sleeping dogs lie. You should remember that.”

Rudy Cutter listened for the boots of the prison guard. He’d been waiting for him for hours. Waiting for news.

It was late afternoon. Shadows stretched across the lower bunk of his cell at San Quentin. People said the nights were worst in prison, but really, it was the long, dull, dead afternoons. He heard the noises of the south block around him. Smack talk bounced from cell to cell. Someone sang. Someone prayed. Above him, his cellmate, Leon, played the same rap by Lil Wayne over and over. “Hustler Musik.” When Leon played the song more than ten times in a stretch, Rudy would kick the mattress to shut him up, but he didn’t like to anger Leon. If you wanted to stay alive in here, you learned to get along.

Lying in his bunk, Rudy stretched out his arms. He could touch both stone walls on either side of the cell. He did that sometimes, to remind himself where he was, to confirm that this wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t. This was life. Fifty-four square feet. A sink. A toilet. Two men.

The chaplain had told him to make the most of his time inside. Read. Take classes. Find God. The first step was to accept your fate. Instead, Rudy had spent the last four years making plans. The people of the State of California had said that he would never be a free man again, but the people were wrong.

The day was almost here, and he was ready.

Rudy stared into nothingness. His blue eyes were sunken into his face, surrounded by deep wrinkles and dark bags. Haunted eyes, some people said. Or predator eyes, others said. They were focused and unblinking, like alligator jaws that clamped around you without letting go. His skin was pale and freckled, his blond hair short and dirty. When he rubbed his chin, he felt the roughness of half-gray stubble. He was fifty-three years old, but one advantage of prison was that he was in the best shape of his life. In here, it paid to be muscled and strong and to develop a sixth sense for what was happening behind your back.

Over his head, Lil Wayne rapped about not being a killer. The lyrics always annoyed Rudy when he heard them. If you weren’t a killer, you couldn’t understand what it felt like, so don’t sing about it, don’t talk about it, don’t write about it. The only way to really know was to do it. That was the fraternity of murderers.

He thought about his late wife, Hope, who was part of that fraternity. She was always with him. She never went away. When he closed his eyes, she was in his dreams. When he stared outside the cell, he could see her taunting him on the other side of the bars. Her smile. Her blood. Her grotesque pride in what she’d done.

Thirty years in between had changed nothing.

Looking back, he wondered why he’d ever married Hope. They were both only twenty years old then. He was still in college, and she was in nursing school. What did he see in her? It wasn’t her looks. She was slightly heavy, and it showed in her face. She had puffy cheeks and a rounded chin. Her mousy hair was short and practical. Her face was forgettable. Ten minutes after meeting Hope, you’d struggle to describe her.

What was it?

Maybe he’d thought he could fix her. Hope was bipolar, and when she had her episodes, she would scream, she would explode in jealous rage, she would throw things, she would cut him, she would hit him. When he talked about leaving, she would tell him how much she needed him, how much she loved him, and how she would kill herself if he left her. So he stayed.

It wasn’t all bad. For a while, after college, things got better. He got a job as an underwriter at a savings and loan; it was a boring job, but boring worked for him. He didn’t have to deal with people. He could focus on numbers and formulas. He could plan, analyze, and make risk assessments, and he discovered that he was good at it. Like a chess player, he could anticipate options and alternatives ten moves away. The company promoted him quickly.

Hope became an ER nurse. She got on meds, which smoothed out her moods. She started seeing a therapist, who advised her to turn to her artistic side and paint or sketch when she felt the stress of life overwhelming her. Her violent outbursts faded. He began to think that they were happy.

And then came Wren. Their daughter.

Until Wren, Rudy had never had a clue what love really was. That little girl, in his arms, became his reason to live. She was beautiful. She was innocent. She was perfect. He found it nearly unbearable to leave for work in the morning. On the bus coming home, he would grow agitated, because he was so anxious to see his daughter again. Seeing her face made every bad thing in the world vanish.

He was so enraptured with Wren that he hardly noticed Hope beginning to disintegrate again.