She turned to look at him, and saw that his head was bowed. An overwhelming urge to touch him filled her, but she didn't dare, not under the watchful eyes of the guard.
After a bit, he drew a deep breath.” I guess I'll never see it.”
Carey bit her lip and blinked hard, fighting down the sorrow that was suddenly threatening to choke her. Something. She had to find something to say, something to comfort him, but no words would come.
“Time,” the guard said. He sounded almost reluctant.
John leapt up from his cot and turned, lifting the thin mattress and pulling out a composition book.
“Here,” he said, thrusting it at her.
Carey looked down at it, her vision blurred by unshed tears.
The Poems of John William Otis.
“Take it,” he said.
“Why me?”
“Take it,” he repeated. “You understand. You won't just throw it away or burn it. I couldn't stand for someone to throw it away.”
She lifted her head, looking at him, feeling helpless and hating herself for it.
“You have to leave now, Ms. Stover,” the guard said. He was opening the door.
“Please,” said John Otis. “It's all that matters now.”
The prison officials let her keep the book. They searched it first, to make sure Otis wasn't sending some kind of illicit message, and they discussed the propriety of it, then decided to let her have it.
“He'll just leave it to her in two weeks anyway,” the warden said. “It doesn't matter.”
But it did matter.
Clutching the book tightly to her breast, Carissa stepped out of the gray atmosphere of Raiford Prison into the blinding sunlight and high temperatures of the first day of September and wondered how the world could look so unchanged.
“What's that?” Seamus asked as she got into the car.
Settling into her seat, she looked down at the notebook she clutched. “Poems. Otis gave them to me.”
He looked at her a moment. “Fasten your seat belt.”
She put the notebook on her lap and reached for the harness, buckling it with a click that somehow sounded final. Seamus backed out of the parking space, then headed them toward home.
“I figured we'd get some lunch along the road,” he said presently. “Fast food, or should I look for something better?”
“Fast food is fine.”
“Okay.”
She looked down at the notebook in her lap, wishing Otis hadn't given it to her. God knew what she'd find in there, but she somehow suspected it wasn't going to help her sleep any better.
Worse, it felt like a trust. Regardless of what was inside it, she was going to feel as if she had to guard it for the rest of her life. How could she not?
Finally, she dragged her gaze from it and looked out the window at the passing countryside, but she didn't see the trees or the houses, or even the growing line of thunder-heads before them.
They were so close to Jacksonville that she was tempted to ignore her need to go to work tonight, and instead head for the east coast. There was a tiny little motel in Neptune Beach, high on the dunes overlooking the Atlantic, that she loved to stay in. What was it called? She couldn't remember the name.
“Are you going to be okay?”
The sound of Seamus's voice startled her, and she realized they were coming into Gainesville. “I'm fine. I didn't sleep much last night.”
“I'm not surprised.”
He took them to a burger place, but rather than eat inside with a busload of excited, noisy children, they took their food with them. Carey ate hers absently as they drove south on I-275, but it tasted like sawdust. Finally, she stuffed the remains of her burger back into the bag and drank the diet soft drink instead.
“How'd it go?” Seamus asked.
She figured he deserved some kind of answer since he'd been sitting on the question for nearly two hours. “It was okay. He seems nice.”
“A lot of them do. That's why people make the unfortunate mistake of trusting them.”
For all she considered herself a cynic, she hated Seamus's cynicism. “I know that,” she said finally. “But it was something else. He wasn't practiced. He wasn't doing a con. I think I can tell the difference. I met enough of them in State Attorney's Office.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
So that's how he was going to be, she thought wearily. Silent. Noncommittal. The way he had been on the trip up here.
But then he surprised her. “Do you feel better or worse, now that you've seen him?”
“Worse. He's not guilty, Seamus. I'd stake my reputation on it.”
“Did he say so?”
“No. Actually he wouldn't talk about it at all. But I'll tell you something. Not only did he not kill the Klines, but he knows who did.”
Another five miles passed before he spoke again. “Sweetheart—”
“Don't call me that!”
“Sorry. Look, I have a problem with mind reading. If he didn't say that, how can you know that?”
“It was something about the way he looked. And the way he didn't deny it when I suggested it.”
“That's not very helpful.”
“No, it isn't. And he knows that.” She closed her eyes against the sun and the headache that was beginning to grow in her forehead and neck. “He's protecting somebody.”
“That only happens in the movies. Real live people don't go to the electric chair to protect somebody.”
Yesterday she would have agreed with him. Today she couldn't.
“At the risk of having you tell me again what a son of a bitch I am, I gotta tell you, Carey, I'm beginning to wonder if you aren't—” He broke off.
“Delusional?” she asked. “It's possible, I guess. Although under the circumstances it'd be a whole lot more helpful if I believed John Otis was a rotten s.o.b. who killed the Klines in cold blood.”
“Maybe. And did you ever consider that if he knows who did it, he's an accomplice?”
A shiver ran through her. No, she hadn't thought of that.
“I mean, if he
is
protecting someone, then he was part of it anyway, and he's getting what he deserves.”
In an instant they passed from bright sunshine to the gloom beneath the line of thunderheads. The day darkened, turning greenish.
“I hope we make it back in time for your show,” Seamus said as the first large raindrops spattered on the dusty windshield.
Carey discovered that she didn't care one way or the other. Something inside her, stressed too far, had shut down.
Opening the book of poems, she began to read.
16 Days
“They Tell Me Snow”
They tell me snow is white and soft
And downy fluffy on the ground.
That where it lays on earth and trees
It mutes and humbles every sound.
They tell me snow is bright and wet
And scrunchy hard when packed in balls.
That snow forts shield the worst of blows
While children's happy laughter falls.
They tell me snow is gray and slick
And slipp'ry slidy on the street.
That people slide and cars collide
When snow and our impatience meet.
They tell me snow is gay and free
When giddy happy people play.
They lie and wave their arms and legs
Leaving angels where they lay.
They tell me snow is all these things,
And hopeful longing I concede
That all these snowy things seem real,
Yet somehow, doubting, I still need
To hear the silence in the air,
Feel the wet cold in my hair,
Step so lightly, not to fall,
And leave my angel, most of all.
They tell me all these things of snow,
But ‘til I see it, I won't know.
Carey finished reading the poem into the microphone, and let a moment of silence go out over the air. “And that,” she said finally, “was a poem written by John William Otis. Ted Sanders follows the newsbreak. Stay tuned.”
She cut away to commercial then, glad that her time was over. Pulling off her headset, she stood up and stretched hugely. Sitting at the mike didn't seem to be growing any easier with time.
Ted walked in, giving her a big smile. “Great show tonight, Carey.”
“Thanks.” At least it had been different. She'd started with a mention of the countdown to Otis's execution date, and then had gone on to discuss other things for the full three hours, coming back to Otis only at the very end when she read his poem. She figured she could make her point without devoting the entire show to it.
Besides, after seeing Otis that morning, she couldn't bring herself to talk about him. The whole mess had become even more personal than it had been before.
She should never have gone to Raiford, she thought as she walked out into the steamy night. It hadn't clarified a thing except her conviction that Otis was innocent. It certainly hadn't given her even the tiniest lever to use to prevent his execution.
“Carey!”
Ted's producer was leaning out the door.
“Carey, get back to the studio, now!”
Turning, she ran back to the building. Ted was in the studio, talking into the microphone. He waved her to come in.
“She's here,” he said into the microphone. “It's okay, Bob, she's here.” He pointed to another set of headphones on the conference table.
Carey put them on and at Ted's gesture spoke into the mike in front of her. “This is Carey Justice,” she said.
“Carey,” said a voice that was somehow familiar. “I called last week about Otis.”
“I'm sorry, I don't remember.”
“I'm the guy who called and said he didn't do it.”
Now she
did
remember. “That's right.”
“You didn't believe me.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I don't believe John Otis killed Linda and Harvey Kline.”
“You don't?”
“No.” She looked at Ted questioningly, wondering why he had called her back in for this. This was the kind of caller a host usually cut off right away.
Ted spoke. “Bob said he has some information about the break-in at Tricia Summers's house, but he said he wouldn't tell anyone except you.”
“Well, I'm listening, Bob. What about the break-in?”
“I thought it would convince everyone that John didn't kill the Klines. But nobody's paying any attention.”
A chill began to creep along Carey's spine. She looked at Ted, who was frowning, then at Ted's producer, who was back at her post on the other side of the window. “I'm paying attention,” she said into the mike. “I thought there were similarities.”
“The police aren't paying attention.”
Get his number,
Carey mouthed to the producer, who shrugged that she didn't understand.
“Tell me about it, Bob,” she said into the microphone. As soon as the guy started talking, she reached for the pad and pen Ted had beside him. Quickly she scrawled, “Tell Lucy to get his number!” and passed it back to Ted. He nodded and pressed the button that would allow him to talk privately to Lucy.
“I thought the pink nightgown would let them know,” Bob was saying. “They're stupid! They're all stupid!”
“Well …” Carey wasn't quite sure how to handle this. She wanted more information, but she didn't want him to hang up before they had his number. She had no idea how the computerized tracking system worked, and whether any time was needed.
“It was so obvious a fool could have seen it,” Bob said, his voice rising. “But I guess they're even stupider than that So it's their fault, Carey! It's their fault!”
“What's their fault?” She looked toward Lucy and saw the woman making an “OK” sign and waving a piece of paper.
“It's their fault I had to kill somebody!”
“Wait!” Carey felt as if her heart had stopped dead. Everything else seemed to fade away except the microphone in front of her. “You don't have to kill anybody, Bob. Just talk to me. Make me understand so I can make them understand.”
“They won't understand. It was the nightgown! It was the same damn nightgown the other woman was wearing.”
“How do you know that, Bob?”
“Tell ‘em to check it out. But it's too late anyway. John didn't do it. I did.”
There was a click followed by a dial tone, suddenly the scariest sound in the world to Carey. She couldn't think of anything to say. She looked at Ted and saw he was equally at a loss. Lucy, however, was quicker than either of them. She cut them away to a commercial, covering the dead air.
“Jesus Christ,” Ted said when he realized nobody would hear him except Carey. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Carey's brain ground back into action. “When you go back on the air, don't say anything about it, Ted. There's no way you can discuss that call without taking the chance you'll piss this guy off enough to make him actually do something.”
He nodded. “You're right. What are you going to do?”
“Call a friend at the police department.”
He looked grim. “Sounds like a plan. Christ I can't believe this! I've had people threaten to kill
me,
but I've never had anyone threaten to kill somebody else. It gives me the willies!”
Carey knew exactly what he meant. It was worse somehow. Maybe because when the threat was against you, you didn't really believe it. But when it was against some poor, innocent bystander …
She let the thought trail away, unable to deal with it. Leaving the studio, she went to get the phone number from Lucy and ask her to save the tape in case the police wanted it, then hunted up a phone she could use.
Seamus wasn't at home, so she called the police station.
“Detective Rourke is out on a case, ma'am,” said the detective she was finally put through to. “Maybe somebody else can help you.”
She tried to remember the names of other detectives she'd known in her days as a prosecutor, and found herself drawing a blank. “I'm a radio talk-show host,” she said finally. “I just had someone call me claiming knowledge of the break-in at Tricia Summers's house last week. He also said he killed somebody.”