Tumbledown (23 page)

“Oh God, please let somebody find us.”

*

“No, thank you. No, it’s fine. You don’t need to do that.”

With the phone clamped between her ear and shoulder, Alex taped the top of the cardboard box shut and wrote “Food” on it in marker pen. Realizing that the woman on the other end of the line wasn’t going to relent, and too polite to just hang up on her, she reeled off an e-mail address she had long ago deleted so that the woman could attempt to send her a holiday home rental brochure.

“Thanks. Yes, I will. Good-bye.” She struck the address off her list and caught the phone as it dropped. That particular scruffy-looking cottage had been standing empty since January, which explained its owner’s desperate sales pitch. After five days of making phone calls, chasing down answering machine messages, and fielding e-mails, Alex had only eight of the seventy-nine local holiday homes left to contact. She was also preparing to move into one of them.

As she set the box of food by the back door, she heard a rustling from under the porch. Even though the noise was familiar and she was sure of its cause, she took up her Glock, unlocked the door, and peered out to check.

“Tilly, they’re not under there, sweetie.”

She waited for Tilly to crawl out from beneath the cabin and threw her a chew treat to distract her from her search for the chickens. They had already been collected by Esther, who owned a plot of land big enough to accommodate them and who was one of the few people Alex could think to ask for help. The small lakeside cottage Alex had arranged to rent in Tawny did allow pets, but she thought that six chickens, in addition to two cats and a dog, might be stretching the definition somewhat.

A sharp scratch to a fingertip made her aware how vigorously she was drumming her hands against the porch railing. She dug out the splinter, stuck her finger in her mouth, and checked her watch: ten a.m. Although sorely tempted to get in the Silverado and head straight out to Prescott, she forced herself to wait another half hour. That would still leave ample time to find the jail and pass through the security procedures. She had been on the verge of dozing off the previous night when Bridie phoned to confirm her place on the visitor list and to tell her that the allotted time for surnames A-L was two till three p.m. It would be the first time Alex had seen Sarah since the arraignment.

Every time they spoke on the phone, Sarah would say, “I’m okay, don’t worry,” and Alex would agree and promise not to worry, and then spend half the night reneging on that promise and the other half thinking about what else she could do to help Sarah when it was finally light enough to give up on sleep. Sarah’s priorities were slightly simpler: “spare knickers” had been her main request, along with a few dollars for her commissary card. Alex might not be able to guarantee her any progress on her case, but she would at least be able to supply her with some decent underwear.

Twenty-five minutes.

Alex decided to take a shower before selecting an outfit that wouldn’t fall foul of the jail’s dress code. As it mainly focused on the prohibition of “see-through tops, low-cut blouses, miniskirts, halter tops, and gang colors,” she didn’t foresee much of a problem. While Tilly resumed her hunt for the missing chickens, Alex relocked the back door and tried to remember which box she had packed all the toiletries in.

*

Sitting cross-legged on her bunk, Sarah reread the paragraph of impenetrable legalese, then gave up and closed the book. She had been trying to concentrate on the text for the last fifty minutes, but nothing was sinking in and her notes made little sense. There was still another hour to go before visiting and—unlike many of her fellow inmates—she had yet to perfect the art of whiling away the time.

The block was calm, for the most part, and she had the cell to herself, as most of the women congregated in the rec room or lingered over lunch. In the last five days, she had concluded that jail was an awful lot of loneliness, boredom, and petty routine, broken up by an occasional outburst of violence and the serving of barely edible food. The majority of the convicted women passed their sentences watching television, volunteering for work and study programs, or dozing in their cells. The remand prisoners, meanwhile, were given unrestricted access to the jail’s small legal library, and those literate enough were encouraged to research their own cases.

Every inch of the thin pad of paper she had bargained for on the first day was now covered in scribbled notes, with the exception of the single sheet on which she intended to write a letter to Alex. She had started the letter three times in as many days, each time shredding the first lines until the paper was barely a third of its original size and looked like a rat had nibbled on it. What she wanted to say was so simple: “I miss you, I love you, and I hope you’re okay,” but it always made her cry, which inevitably smeared the ink or stained the paper. Alex would never believe what Sarah said on the phone if she sent a letter that looked as if it had been used to blow her nose. She shook her head wryly. She didn’t have a hope in hell of Alex believing her anyway, so she might as well just write the damn thing.
Later
, she promised herself, and swapped the legal tome for a copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. She had always intended to catch up on the classics one day, and now seemed as good an opportunity as any.

*

Prescott County Jail was a new redbrick building, housing a facility that had outgrown its original position adjacent to the County Courthouse and been relocated to a patch of waste ground on the outskirts of town. The guard at the gate directed Alex to park in a small underground lot and follow the signs to the visiting center.

“First time here?” he asked, and gave her a set of instructions without waiting for her to answer.

She skimmed through the salient points, before leaving everything in the Silverado except her keys and driver’s license, which she handed obediently to one of the guards in the lobby. She watched a child in front of her stand stock-still for a pat down search and then assume the correct position for the guard to pass an electronic wand over him. He couldn’t have been more than six years old. When the guard had finished, the child grinned at his guardian and skipped through the arch of the final metal detector. Following his lead, Alex submitted to the various search procedures without uttering a word and nodded her thanks to the guard.

“Second door on the left,” he told her as he made a note of her driver’s license number. “You’re authorized for a contact visit.”

She nodded again and tried not to show any emotion. That meant she and Sarah were allowed a brief hug and kiss at the start and the end of the visit. Handholding was permissible, too, so long as their hands remained visible on the table throughout. The intimation that she should be grateful for that much opportunity to touch Sarah made her feel ill.

A long line had formed outside the visiting room, and the door opened as Alex tagged herself onto the end. The adults filed in, holding children who chattered and tugged to go faster. All the women sitting waiting at the tables were dressed identically—bright red tabards over beige shirts—and it took Alex a few disorienting seconds to spot Sarah, seated in a far corner, beyond the main locus of noise and activity. She stood as Alex approached, a smile brightening her face even as tears filled her eyes.

“Hey.” The familiar greeting came out in a rush of breath and she stepped forward to bury herself in Alex’s arms. She felt thin and her face was pale, but when they kissed, her lips were soft and her hands clasped Alex’s firmly.

“Not sure beige is really your color, sweetheart,” Alex told her as they took seats opposite each other.

“No? You should see me in Prison Transport Orange. It sets off my eyes a treat.”

Alex edged a finger beneath the cuff of Sarah’s sleeve, tracing the ridge of one of the concealed lacerations. “How you doing? Really?”

“Really?” Sarah held her gaze. “Good moments and bad moments, and then some truly horrible moments. But I’m mostly okay.” She caught hold of Alex’s wandering finger. “Those are healing fine. The antibiotics kicked in at last.”

“Are you eating properly, then?”

In their phone conversations, Sarah had repeatedly mentioned that the antibiotics had reduced her appetite, as if she wanted an excuse for any weight loss Alex might notice.

“Better than I was.” She lowered her eyes. “But I ran out of toothpaste and soap a couple of days back, so…” She shrugged, as if the inference was clear. When Alex finally figured it out, her naivety made her want to kick herself.

“You traded your meals.” She shook her head, distraught. “Why didn’t you ask Bridie for money? You know she wouldn’t mind. She’d just add it to the fee.” As soon as the words left her, she regretted them; Sarah had had every ounce of her dignity stolen from her, and Alex was sitting there encouraging her to beg for pennies. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Fuck, just, ugh. Are you allowed to slap me?”

“No,” Sarah said, but she was smiling. “I think that would probably be frowned on, even in a contact visit.”

“I brought all your stuff, and money for your card, so no more skipping meals, okay?”

Sarah’s smile widened. “You mean I finally get to wear my own kecks?”

“Is that prison slang or northern English slang?”

Sarah winked. “Just testing. It’s northern for knickers, or ‘panties’ to you. Believe me when I tell you that prison knickers are nobody’s friend.”

“Scratchy?”

“Oh, that’s just the start of it. Scratchy, available in any color so long as it’s beige, and amusingly ill-fitting. The pair I have on come up to my armpits.”

Alex rocked back in her chair and laughed. “God, I fucking miss you.”

“I bet I miss you more.” Sarah shook her head and changed the subject. “How’re the rabble?”

“The remaining three are slightly confused by your absence and the absence of the chickens, but they’re managing.”

“Bandit behaving?”

“Hell, no.”

“You moving tomorrow?”

“Yeah, rental starts at ten. I put the new address and number in with your things.”

“Lovely. So…” Sarah awkwardly tapped the nail of Alex’s index finger, obviously reluctant to say what was on her mind.

“Still working on it,” Alex said. “I have eight properties left to contact and about ten more that owe me a response. Caleb Deakin’s photo is out there and Castillo is busy running background on the people in here. Have you had any—?”

“No,” Sarah said. “No, everyone’s been okay so far. I’m trying to keep my head down and eyes open and stay out of trouble.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m reading
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“Yeah? You know, I always meant to read that.”

Sarah squeezed her hand. “No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” Alex admitted.

“Well, I’m quite enjoying it. I think I might have a slight crush on Lizzy, but it’s probably just petticoat envy.”

Alex found herself staring at Sarah as she continued to talk about the book. Her eyes were lively with enthusiasm, and every so often her hands jerked; she would have been gesturing with them, were she not so determinedly keeping hold of Alex’s.

All too soon the officer at the door called a five-minute warning and the mood in the room shifted, voices becoming more hushed and urgent and someone away to the right beginning to weep inconsolably.

“Is there anything else you need?” Alex asked. From where she sat, she could see the guards as they propped the doors open and then stood waiting, on the lookout for potential flashpoints.

“No, I don’t think so.” Sarah looked around as well, and her cheeks lost a little of their color. “Shit. I’d say time flies, but in here it really doesn’t. You’re coming back on Wednesday evening, aren’t…?” She faltered, as if remembering the distance and disruption involved. “I mean, only if you want to.”

Alex used their joined hands to pull Sarah to her feet. Around them, chairs scraped across the floor and infants wailed as some unspoken signal told people it was time to leave.

“Of course I’m coming back.” Alex wrapped Sarah in her arms, breathing in the unfamiliar scents of cheap soap and medicinal shampoo, and something beneath those scents that was still unmistakably Sarah. “I love you,” she said, kissing her as tenderly as she dared.

“I love you too.” Sarah looked at the floor. “Go.”

Alex did as she asked, hesitating only when she reached the door. For a few moments, she watched Sarah helping another inmate pile the chairs together, her head still bowed. When people began to grumble at Alex for blocking the exit, she turned and kept walking; she didn’t look back again.

The sun was setting as Alex secured the gate on the access road. All around her, shadows lengthened, crowding in on her and combining with the eerie noises of nocturnal creatures to give the forest a horror movie atmosphere. As she set off again, the half-light made it difficult for her eyes to adjust, forcing her to creep along for fear of driving straight off the track. It was one stress too many on a day that had already pushed her to her limit. With no quick resolution to Sarah’s case in sight, the thought of making that six-hour round trip twice a week was already making Alex consider switching her choice of rental property to one closer to the jail. Her back hurt from the drive and she was tired, lonely, and completely demoralized. During the last hour of the journey, she had kept herself alert by planning her evening, deciding on nothing more elaborate than beer and junk food. She was sure that just this once, Sarah would understand.

A hot shower left her feeling human again. She fed the animals before piling a tray with chips, Oreos, and the coldest beers she could find and taking her “dinner” out onto the porch. She unclipped her holster, leaving her Glock within easy reach, and propped her feet up on the porch rail. One long drink drained half of her first beer. The alcohol hit her empty stomach, and within minutes, she felt herself beginning to relax. Try as she might, she couldn’t figure out how to dunk an Oreo in her bottle of beer; she chewed one of the cookies and washed it down with what remained instead. The taste wasn’t altogether unpleasant, so she cracked the top off a second bottle and recreated the process in the interest of empirical culinary inquiry.