The record keeper a murp.., p.16
The Record Keeper (A Murphy Shepherd Novel), page 16
I spoke as I cut. “He’s afraid. Scared of his own shadow.” I pointed the knife at him. “I need you to stand overwatch.”
He tilted his head sideways and grumbled.
I extended another bite. Saliva spilled from his muzzle. After a few seconds, I turned my hand, nodded, and he inhaled the steak. Tail wagging faster.
More cutting. But this time I pointed at him with the fork. “And you can’t make a scene if he wets his bed. Okay? No sniffing around. No doing that thing you do with your ears that will let him know you know. You can’t let him know. You gotta run the play like it’s completely normal. No big deal.”
At this point he started crawling closer to the plate. Whining.
I gave him another bite. And was in the process of extending another when I pulled it back. “And if he gets lost, you bring him home. But”—I gave him the bite—“he should never get lost because you’ll be watching him.”
More crawling.
“Wherever he goes, you go. You’re his shadow.”
Gunner stared at me.
“If he starts shaking and closes his eyes, especially if he squats down, you lie down with him. I don’t care if his pants are wet or not. You just put your head under his hand. Just let him feel you breathe.”
Gunner looked at me, the plate, then back at me. When he did, he tilted his head and pointed his ears forward.
“Are you listening to me?”
He barked once.
“You sure?”
Another bark. Not quite as loud.
I pointed the knife at him. “Lastly, if anybody, and I do mean anybody, tries to take his tiger or hurt him or take him somewhere he doesn’t want to go, I want you to chew their face off and turn them into a eunuch. Deal?”
Gunner rubbed his muzzle with his left paw and licked his chops.
“I’m not kidding. Eunuch.”
Gunner’s tail quit wagging and he lifted his head. Staring at me. Then, without notice, he walked toward the table where I’d set Bones’s orange Pelican case. Gunner nudged it with his muzzle, licked it, pushed it with his paw, and then returned to sit next to me where I rubbed his head. The emotion was overwhelming.
“I know, buddy.” I choked back a sob. “Me too.”
Finally, I released him, slid the plate toward him, and watched him inhale the rib eye.
Chapter 21
Eddie and the team wasted no time creating a “clean” room for us to work in. No sooner had we landed than they went to work. From scanning walls to floor to machines that block radio waves to scanning for listening devices to no personal phones to satellite imagery and drone surveillance, they did everything they knew to do to make us as invisible as possible to Frank. With the all clear and the clock ticking, I assembled the team and figured I’d cut to the chase.
“Bones has been gone twenty-four hours. Anybody got any ideas?”
Crickets.
After my excursion into the cave, Bones placed locators on his person and gear. Just in case. After I woke up, he did the same with me. In deciding locations, we’d tried to think of things we were never without. Bones soldered one to the back of his cross, which he wore around his neck. Wedged another inside his pocket knife—which he was never without. Screwed a third inside the guide rod of his Sig P220. And wedged a fourth inside his wallet—which he was prone to misplace. The fifth had been placed inside his orange Pelican case—which was on the plane when he was taken.
Eddie set four GPS locators on the table. “Found these in a room next to the morgue where you last saw Bones. Laid out like they wanted us to find them. Like somebody was making a statement.”
“Which means Frank knew not only to look for them, but where to look for them. And removed them from Bones before they left the hospital.”
Eddie nodded.
I looked at the team. Camp, BP, and Jess all stared at me. “I need you all to figure out how Frank knows what we’re going to do before we do it.”
Eddie nodded. “Working on it.”
Jess raised a hand. “That’s a waste of time.”
Camp nodded in agreement.
“How so?” I asked.
“We’re spending energy on defense. We don’t have time. Finding Frank’s entrance into us won’t find Bones. We need to focus all our energy on that one thing.”
“Got any ideas?”
“The bookkeeper.”
“I’m game, but how—and where does that get us?”
Camp spoke next. “Trade him for Bones.”
Behind me, I heard the unmistakable step-step-tap of Clay’s cane-assisted walk. Although I was pretty sure the cane was for show. “Mister Murphy?”
I turned. “Clay, you’re killing me. We’ve known each other long enough now. You can get rid of the ‘Mister.’”
“Yes, sir, my head knows that. But like I told you, in prison everyone is ‘Mister’ and I was in prison a long time. Just ’cause I’m out here doesn’t mean my mouth is.”
I knew what was coming, but I asked anyway. I just liked how he said it. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, if ‘Murphy’ is in my mouth, then ‘Mister’ is coming before it.”
The team chuckled.
He sat at the table and folded his hands. “Remember how I once told you I needed to tell you a story?”
I nodded.
“Given everything that’s happened, between Freetown and the island and you being laid up, seems like we never really had time. To be honest, I was starting to think maybe it wasn’t all that important anymore, but now maybe . . .”
We waited.
He waved his hand across all of us. “I think I might can be of help.”
“Please.”
“Several years ago, I was moved to an old prison in Alabama. No A/C. No nothing. It was old school. Hot as hell. Used to have the lynchings in the yard where all us could see. Right before I come to live there, they’d built this new prison next door. State of the art. But they had a problem. The old prison cemetery was surrounded by an old stone wall, and since they had war heroes and such in the cemetery, it was made a historical place. Big plaque and everything. Which meant they couldn’t tear the wall down. Which meant they couldn’t get a backhoe or Bobcat through the gate. Which meant all graves were dug by hand. And since they didn’t trust too many of us with a pick and shovel, they used to send me and another old boy, Larry Rogers, out there to dig holes. Which was fine with us. We didn’t mind. We liked the exercise, plus it got us outside and we got to smell the air and stretch a bit. They didn’t push us too hard, so we took our time. Dug slow. Talked a lot. Me and Big Rog’ made a pretty good team. I don’t know how many holes we dug, but it was a couple dozen ’cause every prison in Alabama buried their dead in our yard. Big Rog’ told me a story one day I think you should hear.”
“You want to give me the CliffsNotes?”
“I think you better hear it for yourself.”
Chapter 22
Day 2 Without Bones
The plane touched down in Nowhere, Alabama. A few miles from the prison. When we parked, Clay stared at the two rows of chain link topped with concertina wire and the opposing guard towers—and the armed men who stood there.
He touched my arm. “Mister Murphy?”
I studied him.
Clay’s black skin wasn’t quite so black. “You promise me they’re going to let me back out?”
I nodded. “I promise.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I won’t leave without you.”
Clay’s eyes traveled the length of the fence and stopped at the guard studying us through binoculars. “You promise?”
“I do.”
Clay put his hand on the door handle, bit his lip, and never took his eyes off the tower. “You ever broken a promise?”
I shook my head.
“You plan to start today?”
“No.”
Clay spoke more to the memory than me. “This place ain’t kind to Black men who kill white men.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Clay?”
He looked at me. As I was about to speak, my phone rang. I recognized the number, answered, and put him on speakerphone. “Yes, sir.”
A female voice responded. “Captain Shepherd, please hold for the vice president.”
Clay looked at me and his eyes grew wide. A second later, a man’s voice resonated across the line. “Murph, just heard about Bones. You need to know we’re doing everything we can.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Vice President. I know that.”
His voice strengthened. “I will personally turn hell inside out to find him. You know that, right?”
I didn’t bother to tell him that Frank was probably listening to our conversation. “Yes, sir.”
Clay looked at my phone as the voice of the vice president matched the one he’d heard on the news. He smiled and his shoulders relaxed.
The vice president continued. “You got any leads?”
“Sir, we know very little. It’s pretty thin.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Ask your team to assist Eddie in any way he needs. He’s heading up our team. I’m chasing a lead in Alabama as we speak.”
“Alabama?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Pettybone with you?”
“Yes, sir. He was once a guest here.”
“Mm-hmm. Bones told me about Clay and his help both in Key West and at Freetown during the fire. Showed me the video of him running back into that inferno. We sent a burn specialist down to help with his recovery following the explosion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You give him my best regards, and you two be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone clicked dead and I glanced at Clay, who was smiling wide enough to display most of the teeth in his mouth. I pointed at the security checkpoint. “You ready?”
Clay opened the door. “I never been more ready in my whole life.” Clay buttoned his top button, exited the car, and we walked up the sidewalk to the window. They buzzed us in, and when the security guard saw Clay, he stood and extended his hand. “Clay, it’s good to see you, sir.”
Clay bowed slightly and shook the man’s hand. “Mike. Good to see you, sir. How you and Cheryl? And . . . I guess Sam must be—”
The guard smiled. “Sixteen. A junior now. Just started driving.”
Clay laughed an easy laugh that rose up out of his belly. The kind of laugh that had been earned. “Lord have mercy. Time flies.”
“Yes, sir, it does. Seems like five minutes ago I was changing his diaper.”
“Seems like five minutes ago you were running around here showing off a picture of a squishy, red-faced kid with no hair. Eight pounds and something.”
Mike nodded, smiling at the memory. “You good, sir? We heard you’d been hurt rescuing some kids in a hospital. Folks around here were asking about you.”
Clay nodded. “I got a little smoky, but I’m all good.”
Mike looked at me. “You must be Mister Murphy?”
“I am.”
“Sir, I know who you are, but anytime you meet with a lifer”—his tone was apologetic—“I have to search you.”
“No problem. Do what you’ve got to do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Twenty minutes later, they placed us in a concrete room with several steel tables. I watched Clay staring at the walls, and I wondered what memories they evoked. He pointed. “This used to be the hospital. Maybe ‘triage’ is a better word. They’d bring us here if we got cut or . . .” He trailed off. “One night, I got jumped by two men. Bad dudes. They’d taken a toothbrush and sharpened one end.” He lifted his shirt, showing several scars in and around his rib cage. Another point to the corner. “They put me over there.” He chuckled. “You look hard enough and you’ll find my bloodstains on that floor.”
About that time, we heard the unmistakable sound of electronic locks unlocking and doors swinging open, followed by the sound of guard commands and shuffling feet. When the last door opened, two guards escorted a big, hardened-looking man chained hand and foot. The man saw Clay, smiled, and stood silently while Clay rose and the two studied each other. The guard, who did not know Clay, pointed at the two of us. “You may not touch or pass anything to the inmate.” Then he pointed to the cameras. “Understand?”
I nodded. “Understood.”
Chapter 23
The huge man sat, folded his hands on the table, and asked Clay, “How you doing? You look good.”
“It’s what freedom do to you.”
The man smiled. His face was kind and movements slow. Like a man with all the time in the world. Clay asked him, “You remember when they had us on grave detail?”
The man nodded.
Clay looked at the man but thumbed at me. “You mind telling him what you told me?”
The man spoke deliberately. “I been here a long time. And there were a lot of lifers like me—”
I held up my hand. “I’m Murphy Shepherd.”
Another smile. “Mister Murphy, I’m Larry Rogers. ’Round here they call me R273469518, or Stumps for short.”
“Thanks for meeting with us.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Anytime.” He continued, “Stay here long enough and you serve your sentence. Your life runs out.” A shrug. “Prison ain’t easy on a body. Especially when you get old. So they send me and Clay out to dig the holes. Cemetery was old and they couldn’t get a Bobcat through the wall. We got pretty good at it too. Prided ourselves on square corners, and sometimes that ain’t easy in Alabama clay. Anyway, the cemetery ran alongside the road that led to the new high-tech prison. It’s got more barbed wire, lights, cameras, and armed guards than a POW camp. It’s where they put the most evil of us. Had one whole block of nothing but solitary, but whoever built that place was smart ’cause they put it several stories underground. Which was true of much of the prison.”
He pointed in the direction of the prison. “You can see a couple floors up top, but there’s far more below. While the old prison was a state prison, the new one was privately owned. Prison for profit. Anyway, they liked us old-timers. Thought we were harmless. And since they were private and always cutting costs, they brought us over to do menial stuff. Empty the trash. Mop. Whatever. We didn’t mind. Got us out of our cells. Plus, they had A/C. So they put us on trash detail. Which, personally, I kind of liked. Let me stretch my legs. We just pulled out the old bag and put a new one in its place. Nothing to it. And we got to ride the elevator. Seven floors total.
“On the bottom floor, they had this glass room filled with computers. The glass was three to four inches thick and outside sat an armed guard. Which I always thought strange. Who in their right mind was going to try to break in down here? Never made no sense to me. Anyway, me and Clay kept to ourselves. Minding our own business. Did what they told us. Once a week, they opened the glass door and slid out this cart filled with these thick, black plastic bags and cardboard boxes. We never dug through it ’cause much of the trash was either soiled linens or medical, and I don’t like needles. Once we collected it, all the trash went into the incinerator. They burned everything. And I do mean everything. Anyhow, me and Clay would divide and conquer. He’d take one hallway. I’d take the other.
“One day, they opened that glass door and passed me the cart filled with all those black bags, and when they did, I noticed one of those bags wasn’t sealed. So what’d I do? I looked. Of course. I was curious. Wanted to know what they were throwing away. What I found was strange. All these little silver boxes. Dozens of them. All the same. I had no idea what they were used for, and they didn’t mean nothing to me. Didn’t have no screen. No On-Off button. Just a funny place on one side where it looked like you plugged it in. So I kept my head down and just kept pushing and didn’t bother nothing, all the way to the incinerator, which was good because I learned quickly they always counted those boxes. Every week. Without fail.
“After a few months, I got to thinking about those boxes and wondering why they counted them only to burn them. They treated them like Gillette razors. Use ’em once or twice and pitch ’em. It seemed to me that by burning them, they were hiding something. I talked to Clay about it, and he said he thought they were something that might have been important. It was a for-profit prison. They didn’t throw out nothing. They stretched a dollar till it screamed. But not those drives. All shiny. They still looked good to me. And all of them had the date they were installed written in black ink on the outside of the drive. Each was only a few months old. Some only a few weeks. Why not reuse them? Seemed like a waste of money.
“Around about in there, something else happened.” He nodded toward Clay. “Clay got out. His time ended before his life did, so he left me. I guess he’d been in so long that the state reevaluated his sentence and figured he was too old to do any harm.”
Clay nodded. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Larry continued, enjoying the easy, measured pace of the story. “Prison gives you a lot of time to think and not a lot to think about, so naturally I got to thinking about those drives. Couldn’t figure it out. So one day, I switched one of those silver boxes to another bag and just went about my business. I dropped the trash off at the incinerator, checked my cart, and started making my way out of the prison. I heard the first alarm on the elevator, and by the time I got to the surface and the door opened, there were four guards pointing guns at me. To be honest, I liked the attention. But I played dumb anyway. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. So they search me up one side and down the other, then turn me around and march me back to the incinerator where they start asking me a bunch of questions. All of which I answered truthfully, save one. ‘Did I tamper with the bags?’
“Well, they knew I didn’t have the silver box tucked under my shirt, so they made me rifle through all my trash. Empty every bag. And sure enough, when I got to that last bag, there was that silver box. Big as Christmas. They looked foolish and tried to cover it up, but most days after that, whenever I emptied the trash, they made sure to slip a few glazed donuts into a Ziploc and place it on the cart. They didn’t intend for the donuts to get incinerated. They meant those for me. Which was nice ’cause I’d lost a good bit of weight in prison and those donuts helped me put on a pound or two.”
