The Dead Room
seconds later, the phone beeped again. It had been a hang-up, probably from Jones. Barnett hadn’t called, and Teddy found it incredible. He punched Barnett’s cell number into his phone. When the message center kicked in, he swore. Obviously, Barnett had turned off his phone. Teddy flipped open his address book and found Barnett’s home number. He punched it in, trying keep cool. The phone rang four times and then Barnett’s service picked up.
    Teddy slipped his cell phone into his pocket, wondering what the hell was wrong with Barnett. After a moment, he switched on the wipers and backed out of the parking space. As he pulled past the gate and out of the lot, the car made a sudden shift and slid. He couldn’t tell if the roads were slick or it was just his car. He knew all four tires needed to be replaced, but had been trying to put off the expense until after the holidays. His credit cards were maxed out, and when he applied for a new one last week, they had turned him down. Either way, he could feel the Corolla slipping on the pavement. Teddy backed off the gas, easing the car up to speed in short bursts. As he climbed the exit ramp onto I-95, the lights from an approaching truck hit the rearview mirror and Teddy looked away from the glare. His eyes swept through the darkness and stopped on the abandoned building hidden in the falling snow.
    Holmesburg Prison.
    The building was completely dark, the ancient prison silhouetted against the wrecked cityscape of North Philadelphia. He hadn’t wanted to look at it. He hadn’t wanted to see it, but there it was—rising out of the muck after being buried in his mind for so long.
    His father had said it would be okay, but it really wasn’t.
    Teddy tightened his grip on the wheel, knowing he was losing it. He checked the temperature gauge and watched the cold air drop six degrees below freezing as he reached the city, then left it behind, heading west on the expressway. The roads were covered in a black glaze, and the freezing rain had given way to heavy snow. Digging into his pocket, he fished out the pack of Marlboros and lit one. Then he cracked the window open and flipped on the radio, hoping that if he concentrated on the chatter, his mind wouldn’t slip from the surface the way his car was skidding down the road.
    It would be okay. His father said it would. Teddy had been so young at the time, he believed him. Two weeks later, the phone rang and his mother got the big call....
    Jonathan Mack had been an architect and builder of moderately priced homes in the suburbs fifteen miles west of the city known as the Main Line. He’d formed the business with a high school friend upon graduation from the School of Architecture at Yale, and after ten years of struggling, people began to notice their innovative designs. A few years after that, they couldn’t build houses fast enough. But Teddy’s father had been a visionary. He could see the sprawl eating up the countryside and had an idea he thought could save it. Instead of building one development of single-lot homes after the next, he’d been playing with the idea of designing a self-contained community. People needed a place to live, and the government wasn’t up to doing anything about the population, which was out of control. The choice seemed clear. Either you compacted the living space or you cut every tree down. Jonathan Mack’s goal was to save the land.
    A site was found for the project, a team of architects commissioned to assist with his father’s design. Teddy could remember watching his father go over the drawings every night at the game table in his study. His father seemed so happy, and Teddy would sneak peeks at him, hiding behind the rail of the staircase in the living room. There were lots for hundreds of townhouses, a space for a shopping center so no one would have to drive very far and waste gas, and then just as much space for three corporate parks. It was like his dad was designing an entire

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