something much darker.
"Well, let's go see Lockhart," Anderson said.
The rest of the walk was down a long, wide corridor. The walls were swollen from moisture. Up this high you could hear the wind. Through a window I saw a greening maple tree.
Anderson went to a door that was padlocked from the outside. The padlock was so big it looked comic, like something a circus clown might have.
"Shit," he said.
"What's wrong?"
"Listen."
We listened. "I'm afraid I don't hear anything."
"That's the point. Should be some kind of noise in there."
He took the key, inserted it in the lock, and let us into the room. It was bigger than a prison cell, but less adorned. It had once been a bathroom, apparently. There was a stool, but where the sink had been there were now just two gaping plumbing holes. There was a plastic air mattress on the floor.
"I'll be goddamned and go to hell," B. J. Anderson said as the three of us stared at the floor. The room was empty.
Above was a window with two bars. It was an old story, one that happens in ten jails somewhere in the country every day. The window was smashed. One of the bars had been hacked through with something sharp.
B. J. Anderson said, "Doesn't look like you're going to talk to Mr. Lockhart, after all."
Chapter 9
Â
W e ate at Denny's. "I could never do that," Donna said over her fish sandwich and fries.
"What?"
"Climb down a three-story wall the way Lockhart did."
"You could if you were desperate enough to get out."
"He must have been very desperate."
"He was."
"He really used a hacksaw?"
"Probably."
"I thought that was only in Heckel and Jeckel cartoons."
"Heckel and Jeckel?"
"Yeah, they were always on the tube when I was a girl. They were always getting out of jail with hacksaws people would bring them inside birthday cakes."
"Gosh," I said, "I'm sorry I missed all those laughs."
"Well, what cartoons did you watch?" She was getting mad.
"The Warner stuff. Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd and all those guys. Sylvester."
She said something, but she mumbled it intentionally so I wouldn't hear.
"What?"
She looked as if I'd just beaten her at bridge. "I said, 'Yes, the Warner stuff is better than Heckel and Jeckel."'
 "So what're you so pissed about?"
"It just seems weird to me that everything you do is innately superior to everything I do."
"Uh-oh."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I was right."
"About what?"
"About what time of month it is."
"God, you keep track?"
"You bet. For reasons of self-defense."
She frowned. "Don't say it, Dwyer. My personality doesn't change when I get my period."
"I couldn't agree more," I said, wanting to avoid our usual argument. I stood up.
"Where are we going?"
"The Bridges Theater. There's something I want to check."
"What?"
"If our friend Keech has ever spent much time with Anne Stewart."
David Ashton was wearing bib overalls with a paint-spotted T-shirt underneath. He was standing on a ladder painting with a wide brush and humming along to a beautiful-music radio station.
"David?"
He looked down from the flat he was painting and nodded to us. "Give me a minute."
Donna walked around and looked at the set for Long Day's Journey . It was very well done, as were most things at the Bridges Theater.
By the time David came down from the ladder, it was apparent from his gaze that he still remembered being humiliated in front of me by his mother-in-law.
"That was quite a little scene last night," he said. "You looked really distressed by it. I just wanted to tell you that I'm used to it by now."
"I told her what I thought about it."
"I wish I could say it would do some good. She still sees me as the interloper. Connived to win myself a fortune and succeeded."
I smiled. "Seems the painting helps you forget. I heard you humming."
"Oh, yes. My two brothers are painters." He looked melancholy for a moment. "The closer I get to fifty, the more I wonder if I shouldn't have spent my life as a laboring man. I mean,
"Well, let's go see Lockhart," Anderson said.
The rest of the walk was down a long, wide corridor. The walls were swollen from moisture. Up this high you could hear the wind. Through a window I saw a greening maple tree.
Anderson went to a door that was padlocked from the outside. The padlock was so big it looked comic, like something a circus clown might have.
"Shit," he said.
"What's wrong?"
"Listen."
We listened. "I'm afraid I don't hear anything."
"That's the point. Should be some kind of noise in there."
He took the key, inserted it in the lock, and let us into the room. It was bigger than a prison cell, but less adorned. It had once been a bathroom, apparently. There was a stool, but where the sink had been there were now just two gaping plumbing holes. There was a plastic air mattress on the floor.
"I'll be goddamned and go to hell," B. J. Anderson said as the three of us stared at the floor. The room was empty.
Above was a window with two bars. It was an old story, one that happens in ten jails somewhere in the country every day. The window was smashed. One of the bars had been hacked through with something sharp.
B. J. Anderson said, "Doesn't look like you're going to talk to Mr. Lockhart, after all."
Chapter 9
Â
W e ate at Denny's. "I could never do that," Donna said over her fish sandwich and fries.
"What?"
"Climb down a three-story wall the way Lockhart did."
"You could if you were desperate enough to get out."
"He must have been very desperate."
"He was."
"He really used a hacksaw?"
"Probably."
"I thought that was only in Heckel and Jeckel cartoons."
"Heckel and Jeckel?"
"Yeah, they were always on the tube when I was a girl. They were always getting out of jail with hacksaws people would bring them inside birthday cakes."
"Gosh," I said, "I'm sorry I missed all those laughs."
"Well, what cartoons did you watch?" She was getting mad.
"The Warner stuff. Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd and all those guys. Sylvester."
She said something, but she mumbled it intentionally so I wouldn't hear.
"What?"
She looked as if I'd just beaten her at bridge. "I said, 'Yes, the Warner stuff is better than Heckel and Jeckel."'
 "So what're you so pissed about?"
"It just seems weird to me that everything you do is innately superior to everything I do."
"Uh-oh."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I was right."
"About what?"
"About what time of month it is."
"God, you keep track?"
"You bet. For reasons of self-defense."
She frowned. "Don't say it, Dwyer. My personality doesn't change when I get my period."
"I couldn't agree more," I said, wanting to avoid our usual argument. I stood up.
"Where are we going?"
"The Bridges Theater. There's something I want to check."
"What?"
"If our friend Keech has ever spent much time with Anne Stewart."
David Ashton was wearing bib overalls with a paint-spotted T-shirt underneath. He was standing on a ladder painting with a wide brush and humming along to a beautiful-music radio station.
"David?"
He looked down from the flat he was painting and nodded to us. "Give me a minute."
Donna walked around and looked at the set for Long Day's Journey . It was very well done, as were most things at the Bridges Theater.
By the time David came down from the ladder, it was apparent from his gaze that he still remembered being humiliated in front of me by his mother-in-law.
"That was quite a little scene last night," he said. "You looked really distressed by it. I just wanted to tell you that I'm used to it by now."
"I told her what I thought about it."
"I wish I could say it would do some good. She still sees me as the interloper. Connived to win myself a fortune and succeeded."
I smiled. "Seems the painting helps you forget. I heard you humming."
"Oh, yes. My two brothers are painters." He looked melancholy for a moment. "The closer I get to fifty, the more I wonder if I shouldn't have spent my life as a laboring man. I mean,
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