of humor. “But don’t you worry about that, Priest. You have bigger worries.”
“Is that right? And what would they be?”
“Bruce Randell,” Godfrey said. “You’re not careful and he’ll kill you.”
5
SEEING THE MANGLED, bloodied finger in a shoe box, I reacted as any normal person sent a piece of her husband’s body might. I rushed to the sink and threw up.
My illness came at the thought of that finger belonging to Danny, but whether it actually was Danny’s finger, I couldn’t know. It was way too mangled to tell. Either way, my world was caving in on itself. Danny’s life was in danger. So was mine.
I stood over the sink, shaking, mind racing. I couldn’t go to the police, that much I knew. Whoever was behind this knew too much about our past. Questions would be asked. People would talk. Both Danny and I would go down.
I didn’t have time to figure out who Bruce Randell was by researching the particulars of his incarceration and looking for details about his case. That was a long shot at best. I had to get to Danny, and there was only one way I knew to get to him. I had to go to Basal.
Impulsively, without even taking the time to look again, I wiped the vomit off my lips, grabbed the shoe box, and dumped the contents, tissue and all, into the garbage disposal. I flipped the switch. Three seconds of chunking and scraping later, the thing was gone, and only then did I wonder if I’d sent valuable evidence into the sewer system.
Danny had once cut things off of people. Maybe someone was returning the favor.
I had to get to Danny. He had to be alive. I knew that from my call to Basal earlier. If he was alive, I would find a way to get to him.
Basal was located in the high country, north of Rancho Cucamonga, far beyond my regular stomping grounds, which pretty much consisted of my condo, north Long Beach, and Ironwood State Prison. I wasn’t one for exploring just for the thrill of it. For starters, I hated the traffic in Southern California, especially the freeways, which were anything but free. They were their own kind of overcrowded prison—thousands and thousands of steel boxes crammed together on concrete with their prisoners staring ahead for hours on end. Then again, I suppose we all live in one kind of prison or another. Mine was my head.
Following the Google map I’d printed earlier in the week, I drove my white Toyota Corolla down the Riverside Freeway and caught the 15 headed north, cursing at the trucks when they barreled down my tailpipe or pushed me to the shoulder. But the hour drive with all of its hazards didn’t distract me from a larger reality pressing in on me.
I’d just ground up a finger and rinsed it down the drain. Maybe Danny’s finger.
It’s difficult to express just how much I loved him. He was my rock, my adviser, my lover in better times. I leaned on him for everything and he seemed to return the favor.
Take my job, or lack thereof. At twenty-seven years old I ought to have had a decent job, and believe me, I’d given it a shot. Not because I needed the money—Danny had given me enough to buy the two-bedroom condo in a quiet corner of an upscale complex and live without working for seven years. I needed a job because we both knew I had to find a way to enter a thriving social context if I didn’t want to go nuts.
During one of my weekly visits to Ironwood, Danny suggested I try something that didn’t require too much interaction with complaining customers, and ease into the workplace that way.
“Like what?” I asked.
He shrugged across the table and gave me one of his crazy, blue-eyed grins. “Like a night watchman. Put your skills to good use.”
I sat up. “Seriously?”
His grin faded. “No, not seriously. It was a joke.”
“But I could do that!”
“You couldn’t do that. I was just having fun.”
“No, I could. The only people I would have to worry about would be the ones looking down my barrel.”
Now his face was flat, that
“Is that right? And what would they be?”
“Bruce Randell,” Godfrey said. “You’re not careful and he’ll kill you.”
5
SEEING THE MANGLED, bloodied finger in a shoe box, I reacted as any normal person sent a piece of her husband’s body might. I rushed to the sink and threw up.
My illness came at the thought of that finger belonging to Danny, but whether it actually was Danny’s finger, I couldn’t know. It was way too mangled to tell. Either way, my world was caving in on itself. Danny’s life was in danger. So was mine.
I stood over the sink, shaking, mind racing. I couldn’t go to the police, that much I knew. Whoever was behind this knew too much about our past. Questions would be asked. People would talk. Both Danny and I would go down.
I didn’t have time to figure out who Bruce Randell was by researching the particulars of his incarceration and looking for details about his case. That was a long shot at best. I had to get to Danny, and there was only one way I knew to get to him. I had to go to Basal.
Impulsively, without even taking the time to look again, I wiped the vomit off my lips, grabbed the shoe box, and dumped the contents, tissue and all, into the garbage disposal. I flipped the switch. Three seconds of chunking and scraping later, the thing was gone, and only then did I wonder if I’d sent valuable evidence into the sewer system.
Danny had once cut things off of people. Maybe someone was returning the favor.
I had to get to Danny. He had to be alive. I knew that from my call to Basal earlier. If he was alive, I would find a way to get to him.
Basal was located in the high country, north of Rancho Cucamonga, far beyond my regular stomping grounds, which pretty much consisted of my condo, north Long Beach, and Ironwood State Prison. I wasn’t one for exploring just for the thrill of it. For starters, I hated the traffic in Southern California, especially the freeways, which were anything but free. They were their own kind of overcrowded prison—thousands and thousands of steel boxes crammed together on concrete with their prisoners staring ahead for hours on end. Then again, I suppose we all live in one kind of prison or another. Mine was my head.
Following the Google map I’d printed earlier in the week, I drove my white Toyota Corolla down the Riverside Freeway and caught the 15 headed north, cursing at the trucks when they barreled down my tailpipe or pushed me to the shoulder. But the hour drive with all of its hazards didn’t distract me from a larger reality pressing in on me.
I’d just ground up a finger and rinsed it down the drain. Maybe Danny’s finger.
It’s difficult to express just how much I loved him. He was my rock, my adviser, my lover in better times. I leaned on him for everything and he seemed to return the favor.
Take my job, or lack thereof. At twenty-seven years old I ought to have had a decent job, and believe me, I’d given it a shot. Not because I needed the money—Danny had given me enough to buy the two-bedroom condo in a quiet corner of an upscale complex and live without working for seven years. I needed a job because we both knew I had to find a way to enter a thriving social context if I didn’t want to go nuts.
During one of my weekly visits to Ironwood, Danny suggested I try something that didn’t require too much interaction with complaining customers, and ease into the workplace that way.
“Like what?” I asked.
He shrugged across the table and gave me one of his crazy, blue-eyed grins. “Like a night watchman. Put your skills to good use.”
I sat up. “Seriously?”
His grin faded. “No, not seriously. It was a joke.”
“But I could do that!”
“You couldn’t do that. I was just having fun.”
“No, I could. The only people I would have to worry about would be the ones looking down my barrel.”
Now his face was flat, that
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