Page 78 of Long Way Down

She was too tired to feel nervous…or so she thought, because when Contreras slowed and turned off Highway 9, her pulse fluttered.

“Not far now,” he said, and the road curved toward the river, and there was the perimeter wall. Windowless, built of smooth-faced, pink-white stone, set at intervals with turreted guard towers, the prison wall stood medieval and threatening against a backdrop of dark clouds.

“You ever been up here before?” Contreras asked, the car slowing further as they passed maintenance sheds and parked equipment. The drive turned a corner and the wall hemmed them in on the left, blotting out the view of the river, its shadow dimming the light inside the Charger.

“No,” she said, and found that her mouth was dry. She swallowed. “Only Rikers.”

He nodded. A gatehouse loomed ahead. “The atmosphere’s a little different in here. There’s no urgency…” He sent her a look as they pulled up to the gatehouse arm, expression unusually serious. “But there’s not a lot of hope, either. This is where the lifers and long-haulers go. It gets to them. Whatever Osborn says, whatever he’s like…don’t lethimget toyou.”

He wasn’t being condescending to her because of her experience or gender; wasn’t insulting or doubting her. He was imparting wisdom, here on the threshold where society gave way to something else entirely, and she took it as such.

She nodded.

~*~

The check-in process was slow, lengthy, and left her feeling, by the time she was wanded, likeshewas the one being incarcerated.

The deputy warden, a wide-shouldered, soft-middled man who looked like a linebacker gone soft after school, Carl Ferguson, came to meet them and walk them to the interview room.

“Here for Osborn, huh? He gets a lot of visitors, but he’s not had officers in for a while.”

Melissa traded a look with Contreras. “How many is ‘a lot’?” she asked.

“Four, five a month, maybe. ‘Girlfriends,’ he calls them.”

Melissa stared at him as they walked. “He doesn’t get conjugal visits, does he?”

“Oh no. Not with his rap sheet. But they come talk to him through the glass. They bring him pictures and magazines and stuff. One of ‘em bakes. Brought cranberry muffins, last time. Gluten-free,” he said, brows jumping.

Melissa frowned.

Contreras said, “Do they all know about each other?”

“No idea. It’s a fan club kinda situation. He gets a ton of mail, and phone calls. He’s a regular celebrity around here.”

Around them: white walls, white floor. At the end of the hall lay a door of white bars, and beyond, the echoey sounds of many voices, a murmur of conversation, a bark of laughter. As if they walked toward an ordinary cafeteria. Long-haulers, Contreras had said, with no hope. Knowing you were stuck some place forced you to adapt; it was no longer about waiting for release, but making the best of things on the inside.

“He seen any new fans lately?” Contreras asked. “Anyone who’s not a girlfriend?”

Ferguson stopped before they reached the door, and turned back to face them, expression firming. “I heard about the perp you guys are after. About the notes he’s leaving with the victims.”

And on them, Melissa thought, recalling the white-rimmed fear in April’s eyes.

“Warden said you guys were wondering if anyone had been in to see him who might have been an admirer – adifferentkind of admirer,” he stressed.

Contreras made a sound like a bitten-back sigh. “Yeah. Any men been in to see him?”

“Nobody but his attorney.” The curl of his lip said what he thought ofhim. “You’ll meet him. He got here an hour ahead of you.”

Melissa’s brows twitched. “Why’s his lawyer here?”

Ferguson shrugged. “He’s twitchy as hell anyway. Osborn must have told him you were coming up, and he wants to be here to caution him, or whatever. He’s been pushing for parole.”

“Shithead’ll probably get it. That’s the bad part,” Contreras said. He cussed so little that the swear shocked her, a little. He wasn’t happy to be here, and definitely wasn’t happy to talk to Osborn, she was coming to realize.

A voice beyond the barred door called out to the prisoners, telling them it was time to return to their cells. “The thing about Osborn,” Ferguson said, his tone cautionary, “is that he’s gonna seem like the nicest guy you’ve ever met.”

“So did Hannibal Lecter,” Contreras said.