Fire Of Heaven Book I Blood of Heaven Page 7

  At times Coleman thought he was losing his mind. One moment he’d be holding his own, maintaining the mental and emotional steel necessary to run the Row. The next he’d be suddenly distracted by the beauty of the low winter sun striking a brick wall, or the crisp, cold air in the exercise yard, or the soft rustling of pine needles in the tree just outside the fence. These experiences unnerved him. Not only because they were new, but because he wasn’t sure when they would come. Lack of control angered him, and when he wasn’t marveling over the beauty, he was cursing its intrusion. Frequently he tried to push the thoughts and feelings out of his mind. Sometimes he succeeded. More and more often he did not.

  But there was one feeling he could never push away: the terrible loneliness from the dream. It never left. As the days progressed, the ache grew deeper. It was more than his brother’s pain. It was his own. A feeling of abandonment. Of emptiness. More than once, it was all he could do to fight back the tears. And when the sense of wonder and beauty surrounding him struck at the same time as the loneliness, it was impossible to hold back the tears.

  But it wasn’t just his loneliness. He started seeing it in others, too. The way their shoulders sagged as they sat. The way they slowly walked the yard when they thought no one was watching.

  But mostly he saw it in their eyes.

  “Something wrong, Cole?”

  Coleman blinked and came to. He was in the showers. Skinner, a big black man who had been on the Row a couple of years longer than he had, stood under an adjacent nozzle. Just as he had learned the details of bomb making from Garcia, Coleman had learned the intricate nuances of lock picking from Skinner. They weren’t friends, but after seven years of living together they were definitely comrades.

  “You’re staring again, man.”

  Coleman blinked again, then resumed lathering with his bar of soap.

  Skinner leaned closer. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Coleman dropped his head and let the water pelt his forehead and scalp. It was a pleasant sensation: the way the water pounded against his skin, the way it gently massaged the roots of his hair. It’s a wonder he’d never noticed it before. He tried not to smile at the pleasure, but didn’t quite succeed.

  When he came out from under the water, he opened his eyes to see Skinner standing with a quizzical look on his face. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, man, but you better be careful.”

  “What do you mean?” Coleman asked.

  Skinner lowered his voice, making sure they weren’t overheard. “Word has it you’re getting soft.”

  Coleman shook his head and swore.

  “No, I’m serious, man. Losing your grip, that’s what they’re saying. And with Sweeney coming back from the hospital next week… all I’m saying is you better be smart, man. Just be smart.”

  Coleman held Skinner’s look. He was finding it easier and easier to tell when people were lying, and as far as he could make out, Skinner was shooting straight. He gave a faint nod of acknowledgment. Skinner turned off the shower and walked away. A moment later Coleman followed suit, furious. How could he have been so stupid? It was one thing to feel what he was feeling, but to let others see it? That was insanity. Any weakness on the Row meant trouble, and apparently he had shown that weakness more than once. What was happening?

  He crossed the white tile to a metal bench, where he scooped up his towel and began drying off with the other men. No one said a word to him. They knew. Something was coming down. Coleman was losing his touch, and with Sweeney returning, any allegiance to Coleman now could be dangerous. The thought infuriated him.

  “All right, men, let’s head back.” It was McCoy, one of the 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. hacks. He’d been with them almost four years. A good man, though impossible to con. They obeyed and shuffled into the hall, their thongs flip-flopping as they headed back to their cells.

  It was then that Hector Garcia pulled up alongside him. “Listen, Cole, I never got to, you know, say thanks.”

  Coleman stared straight ahead.

  “And if I can ever, you know, show my appreciation …” He gently let his arm brush against him.

  The punk was putting a move on him! Gratitude or not, you never broke protocol by talking to someone of Coleman’s status without being spoken to first. And you never, never disrespected him by making an offer like this.

  The fury over Skinner’s comments, the silent betrayal of the men, his own stupidity — it was more than Coleman could contain. His vision grew sharp and narrow. The sound of the men’s thongs exploded in his ears. The colors of the beige walls and the lime-green doors burst in vivid contrast. It was time to reestablish his authority.

  It took a single blow to double Garcia over, and one double-fisted uppercut to throw the boy’s head back and reeling into the wall. Garcia was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  McCoy’s baton came down hard, but Coleman felt nothing. He never did in this state. He spun around, grabbed the stick from the startled McCoy, and was about to smash his skull when he came up short.

  It was the fear in McCoy’s eyes that stopped him. The fear that said he had a wife, kids, a mortgage. Fear that said he was only trying to do his job and please, please, don’t hurt me. I’m lonely and scared and faking it just like everybody else. Please…

  The rage began to dissolve. There he was, in front of all the men, standing with the baton in his hand, staring at McCoy and doing nothing. But how could he strike when there was such fear and loneliness in McCoy’s eyes? He threw the baton down in disgust and turned back to Garcia. The kid lay on the ground with a trickle of blood running from his nose.

  Overwhelmed with empathy, he stooped down to check on the boy. He could feel the other men’s eyes, but he no longer cared. He knew he’d already lost their respect by refusing to go after McCoy. And by kneeling to check on Garcia, it was doubtful that he could ever regain it. But that didn’t matter. Right now, all that mattered was Garcia’s injuries, and the tightness of emotion constricting Coleman’s throat.

  He was barely aware of the rattling sounds behind him as McCoy retrieved his baton from the floor. There was a sudden, powerful blow to the back of his head. Pain exploded in his brain for a split second before he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER 5

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, he’s withdrawn his appeal?” Steiner sat up rod-straight in his legal clinic work cubicle. “He can’t do that!”

  “He can do anything he wants,” came the voice at the other end of the line. “It’s his life.”

  “But —” Steiner fumbled for words. “What’s his angle?”

  “No one knows. Could be he’s grown tired of the fight; we’ve seen that before.”

  “No. Coleman doesn’t get tired. He’s a machine, an unfeeling machine.”

  The silence on the other end did not disagree. “Of course there is the other theory…”

  The voice hesitated. It belonged to Robert Butterfield, assistant D.A. for Douglas County. The two had worked together on the case since its beginning. Unofficially, of course. Steiner knew Butterfield had caught heat from the press over their alliance and on more than one occasion he had received some questioning memos from his boss. But Steiner also knew Butterfield’s respect for professional courtesy. More importantly, he knew the man had a daughter. And whenever Steiner’s relentless naggings put an edge to Butterfield’s voice, Steiner only had to ask, “What if it had been your daughter, Bob? What if she were the one who was stabbed to death and found with her throat slit?”

  “What other theory?” Steiner demanded.

  “Rumor has it something’s happened on the Row. Coleman’s supposedly gone through some sort of change. Moping around his cell, feeling remorseful, that sort of thing.”

  Steiner scowled. He knew Coleman inside and out. Men like that didn’t have remorse. An accidental killer might. Or someone who kills out of passion, sure. But not multiple killers. They never have feelings for their victims; it’s simply not in their nature. So w
hat was he up to?

  Steiner cleared his throat. “What does his counsel say?”

  “They’re as puzzled as the rest of us.”

  “They’re playing straight?”

  “Whatever scam he’s trying to pull, he’s pulling alone.”

  “Maybe he’s going for insanity — proving he’s not mentally fit for execution because he agrees he should be executed? Others have tried it.”

  “I don’t know, Harold. I’m only telling you what his lawyers say and what I hear from the Row.”

  Steiner’s mind raced. Coleman was clever, crafty. And he was absolutely amoral. What was he doing?

  “Harold?”

  A thought was forming.

  “Harold, you still there?”

  “Yeah. Listen, Bob. If this is legit, and we know it’s not, but if it was — wouldn’t the best way for him to prove it to everybody, wouldn’t the best way be for him to finally let me visit him?”

  “We’ve been through that a hundred —”

  “I know, I know, but think about it. The man claims he’s repentant. The father of his victim wants to meet him. What’s he going to do, say no? Who would believe him then? Don’t you see, he’s played right into our hands. If he says yes, I get my meeting. If he says no, I prove he’s a fake.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “It could backfire. He could play the media and turn public opinion around. ‘Repentant Killer Begs Forgiveness.’ ”

  “Like Walking Wily in ’94?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But we still fried him, didn’t we?”

  “True.”

  “And with the public so pro-death these days, and this being an election year…”

  Butterfield finished the thought. “It would be political suicide for the board to pardon him.”

  “Exactly. Let me take my chances, Bob. Ask Coleman’s lawyers to run it past him again. See if you can get me in. Tell them it’s a good litmus test to see if he’s legit.”

  “And if they refuse?”

  “Then I’ll be the one to go to the press. If Coleman wants to play a new game, that’s fine with me. He’s still not getting away. I won’t let him. The law won’t let him.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. Finally: “I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.”

  The stench of raw chicken fat is replaced by disinfectant, an overwhelming odor of pine and ammonia that makes Coleman’s nose twitch. It’s a new smell for the fourteen-year-old, but it’s a smell he will grow accustomed to over the years.

  A ping-pong ball clacks back and forth. Kids talk, swear, laugh. Boys and girls. A billiard ball cracks. Coleman reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white sweat sock, the same type they issue every day in this juvenile center located behind Douglas County Hospital. White socks, white T-shirts, and blue jeans.

  He is waiting for Father Kennedy. He steps back — black, high-top Keds squeaking on yellowing floor tile. He feels the pool table behind him and turns. Discreetly he reaches into the leather-thonged side pocket.

  “Get your paws outta there.”

  He flashes the boy with the cue stick a leer and pulls out a single billiard ball.

  Cue Stick Boy momentarily considers making an issue out of it but appears to remember Coleman’s reputation and decides otherwise.

  “Oh, here you are.” It’s an older voice with a trace of an Irish accent. Coleman stiffens but does not turn to face Father Kennedy.

  “Thanks for meeting me here, son. May I buy you a Coca-Cola?”

  Coleman shakes his head.

  “Listen,” the man says, “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you at chapel.”

  Coleman slowly opens the sock. His back is still toward the Father.

  “I really am quite open to hearing opinions and answering questions.”

  Cue Stick Boy pretends to line up another shot, but it is obvious he is watching everything.

  “Still, there’s a time to speak and a time to listen.”

  Coleman drops the billiard ball into the sock. It stretches the material three or four inches. He raises it so it does not clunk the table.

  “And by challenging my authority in front of the group, well, I’m afraid your comments were a little too disruptive. That’s why I had to ask you to leave.”

  Coleman discreetly wraps the long neck of the sock around his right hand one time.

  “I hope you understand. No hard feelings?”

  He hesitates.

  “Now, if you have any questions, I’d be more than happy to discuss them with you.”

  Coleman spins. His arm flies into the air, whipping the ball, whirling it toward the man’s face. It is only then that he recognizes the eyes. They are not Kennedy’s eyes. They are his own eyes. He can tell by the emptiness, their aching loneliness.

  But it is too late. The ball smashes into Kennedy’s left cheekbone. Yet it is Coleman who cries out in pain. The impact is jarring, searing. He feels his own face give way, sees his own eyes staring back at him in pain and confusion and betrayal.

  But he cannot stop. He swings the ball again, then again — each time feeling the blow himself. As victor and victim he screams. And still, he continues.

  Somebody runs toward him. Construction boots against tile. His father’s boots.

  He continues swinging. The eyes in the battered face no longer register any expression. Coleman hits his face again, shrieking in pain, weeping at the cruelty.

  His father is there. Coleman’s eyes are too battered to make out the blurry form of the man, but he can smell the whisky on his breath. He will kill Coleman. The boy begins flailing his arms, but he hits only air. His eyes no longer work. The pain is unbearable, resonating from his skull through his body and into his gut. He doubles over, convulsing. Once, twice, until finally…

  Coleman woke up vomiting. He rolled onto his side and managed to spew most of it onto the floor. When the convulsions ceased, he sat up and threw his feet over the edge of the bed. He ran his hand over his face. It was covered in sweat and tears.

  They were coming every night now. The dreams. Acts of violence he had completely forgotten. Brutality where he becomes his own victims, feeling their pain, screaming their anguish. Each dream ending the same way, with uncontrollable tears of remorse.

  As he sat on the edge of the bed, catching his breath, he heard a train’s distant and mournful whistle. He paused to savor the sound. Over the years he’d been vaguely aware of it, but never really heard it. It was painful and beautiful. A distant, sorrowful wail that cut through the stillness of the night.

  Over the past weeks Coleman had grown accustomed to the beauty surrounding him. It was still just as breathtaking, but it was no longer quite as unnerving. But the other thing — the ache in his chest, the tightening in his throat, the gnawing loneliness — once that pain came, it never left. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried to ignore it, it was always there.

  The only thing worse than the loneliness was the look in other people’s eyes. The inmates’, the guards’, the caseworkers’. They seemed so haunted, so full of their own emptiness. They were Coleman’s brother’s eyes, forsaken and abandoned. They were Kennedy’s eyes, full of searching anguish. That was the reason Coleman spent more and more time in his cell, away from the rest of the population. It was their eyes. He simply could not bear to see the loneliness.

  Shadows crossed the window of his door, and he stiffened. Somebody was out in the hall. A key slipped into the lock and the door swung open. Glaring light poured in from the hallway, and Coleman squinted as two, three, maybe four forms shuffled inside.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  No answer. The door shut. It was dark again.

  “What do you want?”

  “Hello, Cole.”

  A chill swept through his body. He recognized the voice. It had a different diction, thanks to the missing tooth, but there was no mistaking its owner. Sweeney was back. Other silhouettes became distinguish
able. Three men from the Row. No hacks. Just inmates. Apparently Sweeney had been busy all afternoon recruiting and convincing them to change their alliance. Coleman wasn’t sure, but for a second he even thought he saw Garcia.

  “You wouldn’t come to my welcome-home party,” the voice sneered, “so I thought I’d bring it here.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Murkoski protested. “How can you say I’m pushing too hard?”

  O’Brien held the phone against his left shoulder, bending and unbending a paper clip in his hands, trying his best to remain calm. “Kenny, a mouse from the GOD gene colony has been killed by one of its own kind. We’ve got to slow down. We’ve got to retrace our steps to see what went wrong.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Murkoski’s voice scoffed over the phone. “Wolff’s an incompetent buffoon, that’s what’s wrong. I’ve said that from the first day we brought him on board. Did you run a biopsy on other animals in the colony? Run some gels? See if one of them’s mutated?”

  “No, he suggested we wait until you —”

  “See what I mean? Incompetent! The man won’t even run a gel without me there. Totally incompetent!”

  O’Brien paused a moment to let the conversation cool. “It’s not going to hurt us to put off the transplant a few more weeks.”

  “He’s scheduled for execution in thirty days.”

  “So have your federal guys talk the governor into a stay.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Kenny, I just don’t understand the rush. What would it hurt —”

  “Look, if you want to run this thing, then you come back here and run it!”

  “Kenn —”

  “The guy is off the prison grounds and in a local hospital. His behavior is exactly as we hypothesized. And this latest beating is the perfect alibi to keep him out of circulation for the next several weeks. I’m telling you, the timing couldn’t be better.”

  “Have you checked with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I remember you conveniently forgetting to mention anything to him about a bone-marrow transplant when I was there.”