Inside it’s all linoleum flooring, fluorescent lighting, pressboard furniture, and anxious people. It’s probably fifteen minutes before the gatekeeper—a desk sergeant? a dispatcher? an ordinary cop who pulled this duty for the day?—has time to ask us our business and find someone to take us to Ryan. We surrender our coats and purses and walk through a metal detector before we’re escorted down a brightly lit hallway fronted by a series of closed doors. Within a few steps we find ourselves on what looks like the set of a bad TV movie.
The Quinville police station boasts three holding cells, each about the size of a small bathroom. They’re all constructed of cinder blocks on five sides, including the floor and ceiling; the sixth side is a barred door set with a heavy lock. Each cell holds nothing but a bunk, which also appears to be made of cinder blocks, and a metal toilet bolted to the corner. All the walls are inexplicably painted a bright yellow. Since obviously no one chose the color to make the place seem more cheerful, I assume it’s to camouflage traces of urine and maybe vomit, both of which scent the air.
In the far left cell, a teenage boy is sleeping on the cinderblock bed, his back to us. The middle one is empty. Ryan is in the far right cubicle.
“Thank God,” he says when he sees us, and his hands grip the bars, just like the prisoner in every jailhouse movie you’ve ever seen.
“You’re only supposed to stay a half hour,” our escort tells us, but with such detachment in his voice that I have a feeling he doesn’t care if we’re here all day, singing camp songs and picnicking on the floor, as long as no one complains. “Make sure you sign out when you leave.”
Celeste practically flings herself against the bars, thrusting her hands through so she can give Ryan an awkward hug. “Oh, Ryan, what did you do?” she wails into his shoulder.
“Hush,” he says sharply, glancing up at the discreet little camera set at the join of the wall and ceiling. “Aurelia says you have to assume everything is being recorded.”
A little late to think of that, I want to point out, but this doesn’t seem to be the time for recriminations. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. I’m still so much in shock that I can’t figure out how I should feel about the situation. Or how I do feel, if that’s different from how I should feel.
Celeste pulls back a little and gives him the fakest smile ever. “Aurelia’s the best,” she says in an encouraging voice. “If anyone knows what to do, she will.”
He surveys her for a moment. “You look a little better,” he says. “But you’re gonna have a scar. Right there.” He lifts a hand and traces a wound that runs from her left temple down to her ear.
“I know,” she answers. “I’m just going to have to grow my hair out so no one sees it.”
He looks over the top of her head and gives me a solemn nod. “Hey, Kara. Thanks for coming.”
I step close enough to take his hand, which closes on mine with an almost convulsive grip. I can tell he’s working hard to hold it together, but he’s worried. This is a bad spot and it could get worse fast, and he can’t control what happens next.
But he’s not a total wreck. He’s not despairing. Which means he thinks he has options. Which means he might have some kind of crazy plan.
“We thought you’d like to see a couple of friendly faces,” I say. “Is there anything we can do for you?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice heavy with meaning. “I need my prescription. And I need it really fast.”
I nod. “We were just talking about that. I’ll go to my house this afternoon and bring you all that I’ve got.”
Celeste glances toward the other cell, where the young man may or may not be sleeping. “When’s the last time you took any?” she asks delicately. “I mean—how much longer could you hold out if you had to?” When did you change last? is what she means. Or, more accurately, How soon before you change again?
“I think I have two days,” he says. “Not much time.”
“And then—what comes next?” Celeste wants to know. Again, she’s speaking vaguely to confuse any eavesdroppers, but Ryan and I understand the question: What animal will you become next? His cycle is fixed, inflexible: cat, fox, hawk, cat, fox, hawk. My serums have bought him time, but I haven’t tried to mess with his menagerie.
“Cat,” he says, barely breathing the word.
“Could be better, could be worse,” Celeste decides.
“I thought so, too.”
“How long do you think you’ll be here?” I inquire. “Aurelia seems to think you’ll be transferred to the county prison soon.”
“No one’s told me anything.”
Celeste seems to be thinking it over. “Big prison might be better,” she offers. “If you aren’t in a small cell when—something happens—and if there isn’t a camera on you and if you don’t draw attention to yourself—” If you’re not locked up and videotaped when you change into a cat, you might be able to escape the building without anyone realizing what’s happened. Would have been easier to do if he were a hawk, harder if he were a fox.
“I know. I thought of that,” Ryan says. “That’s why I need the drugs now. While I’m here.”
“Is there anything else we can get you?” Celeste asks, and there’s an urgent undertone in her voice. “Or anything we can do for you? At your apartment or wherever?”
It takes a while for me to realize what she’s asking. Is there any evidence we can dispose of for you? Just let us know. Looks like Celeste has come down hard on the side of justifiable homicide. She’s going to stand by her friend no matter what his crime.
Ryan gets her meaning, too, and he gives her a lopsided grin. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. You’ve got to take care of yourself right now. Let Aurelia take care of me.” He glances at me. “And Kara. She’s the only one who can really help right now.”
As it happens, we don’t stay any longer than our allotted thirty minutes. There’s just not much we can say, especially knowing that our conversation might be monitored, and the place is so depressing that the air has an actual weight to it, crushing my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I feel guilty for so many reasons when I reach through the bars to hug Ryan good-bye. Because I’m so relieved to be able to walk out when he can’t. Because I don’t hate him for killing Bobby.
Because I do hate him for killing Bobby.
Because I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with a friend who is also a murderer.
* * *
As luck would have it, Sheriff Wilkerson is just arriving at the police station when Celeste and I step out into the bright, blessed, clean, fresh, beautiful sunshine of freedom.
“Well, hello there, Miss Karadel,” he says with his usual avuncular charm. “What brings you to the station on this pretty day?”
“Visiting a friend of mine who got picked up last night,” I say.
“Now, who might that be?”
“Ryan Barnes.”
His face doesn’t lose its usual friendly expression, but I think I see his eyes sharpen with interest. “Ah, that’s right. In connection with the murder of Bobby Foucault. That’s a sad business.”
“Listen,” Celeste says. “Ryan’s got a medical condition, and he needs to take a daily injection. Can we go to his place and pick up some drugs for him?”
She instantly has the sheriff’s full attention, which, despite his aw-shucks demeanor, is searching and smart. “Well, we’d need to talk about that,” he says pleasantly. “I don’t think I know you, young lady.”
She smiles with her usual patented brilliance, though I have the feeling it doesn’t have the typical effect. “My name is Celeste Saint-Simon. I’m a friend of Ryan’s, too.”
“How do you do?” he says, and shakes her hand. “You’re the girl who had the dustup with Bobby a few weeks back, aren’t you, over at Arabesque?”
Fuck. Who’d have expected him to remember her name?
But it’s obvious his mind is quickly connecting all the dots. Celeste is the link between Bobby and Ryan. Aurelia hadn’t been sure if we should offer up Celeste as motive for Ryan’s actions, but right now it looks like we’re not going to have a choice.
Celeste casts her eyes down in embarrassment and confusion, but I know she’s furiously trying to think it through. “That’s right,” she says, very low. “That’s the first night I met Bobby. He tried to—hurt me.”
“Looks like someone else tried to hurt you recently, too,” he observes in a gentle voice.
When Celeste lifts her eyes again, they’re swimming with tears. The girl is the best actress I’ve ever seen. I can tell she’s come to the same conclusion I have, so she’s just going to fling herself into the inevitable. “Bobby and his brother,” she says, barely above a whisper. “They thought I deserved to be beaten up for what happened that night at Arabesque.”
“Now, when did this happen?”
“Saturday evening.”
“Did you file a report with my officers?”
She shakes her head, her expression utterly woebegone. “I thought that would just make things worse.”
“People like Bobby Foucault do not take kindly to police interference, that’s a fact,” the sheriff agrees. “But the police are the ones who should be dealing with men like him, so young ladies like yourself aren’t repeatedly put in danger.”
“I suppose. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Ahuh. Did your friend Ryan know that they assaulted you?”
Celeste gives a frightened start, as if it’s just now occurred to her that it might not be a good idea to be confiding in cops, and looks at me with beseeching eyes. I put my arm around her shoulders.
“I’m not sure what Ryan knew,” I say. “I’m not sure his lawyer wants us to be talking about stuff. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be—what’s that word?—obstructive.”
“Well, you talk to Miss Aurelia and get back to me,” he says.
Celeste turns away to pull out a tissue and surreptitiously wipe her eyes. I take a deep breath and say, “So. Sheriff. About the medicine.”
“Oh, that’s right. The medicine.” He gives me a rueful smile. “See, I can’t just let people bring random drugs into the station and hand them out to prisoners. I don’t know what all could be in those pill bottles.”
“It’s an injection.”
“Well, that could be even worse,” he says humorously.
“But he needs the medicine,” I say, my voice gaining intensity. He hasn’t asked me what Ryan’s condition is, thank God, because I haven’t figured out what answer I should give. All I can think of is diabetes, but I don’t want some prison doctor to suddenly start injecting Ryan with insulin. “Isn’t it a crime to withhold life-saving drugs?”
“I don’t want to withhold anything. Have a doctor or pharmacy deliver the meds and we’ll happily administer them. But failing that—”
I’m about to argue the point when Celeste clutches my arm. “We’ll do that,” she says. “Thank you so much. It was good to meet you, Sheriff.”
“It was very interesting to meet you, Miss Celeste.” He actually tips his hat to us and saunters on into the station.
Celeste tows me to the car without speaking, but her face is full of determination and shows no traces of her recent tears. Once the doors are safely shut and no one can overhear us, I burst out, “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to call in a prescription to Q-Ville Drugs,” she says in a triumphant voice. “And Alonzo will deliver it—after you’ve switched the medicine in the bottle!”
“Great idea—except I’m not a physician! I can’t get prescriptions for people filled at a pharmacy.”
“Someone can. We’ll figure that part out. Alonzo is our ace in the hole.”
She drives back to Bonnie and Aurelia’s at a furious pace. Alonzo’s gone, but Bonnie’s home, and the house is rich with the scents of baking bread and simmering soup. Bonnie cooks when she’s troubled; it’s like she’s preparing for war, and she needs to lay in supplies for the troops.
The three of us sit around the kitchen table, put Celeste’s cell phone on speaker, and call Aurelia. For a wonder, she’s actually in her office and not, at the moment, consulting with a client, so we quickly recount our adventure at the police station. She agrees with our assessment that we had no choice but to explain to Sheriff Wilkerson that the Foucaults attacked Celeste. And she very much likes the idea of using Alonzo to deliver the necessary serum to Ryan.
“But I told Celeste. I can’t write the scrip,” I say.
“I can take care of that part,” Aurelia answers. “I know someone who will do me a favor.”
“Prescribing unnecessary drugs?” Bonnie demands. “That seems morally questionable.”
“I’ll make the case that they’re necessary but, for various reasons, unobtainable through the ordinary channels,” Aurelia replies. “Which has the advantage of being the truth. Don’t worry.”
Bonnie sighs and looks weary. When, a few minutes later, we cut the connection, she continues to sit and just stare at the phone.
Celeste watches her a moment and then says, “You hate this.”
Bonnie looks up, some of the usual fire in her eyes. “I would think we all hate this.”
“You think Ryan did this terrible thing and he deserves to be punished for it,” Celeste challenges her.
“And you don’t?”
Celeste flings her hands in the air. “I think he did a terrible thing for reasons I understand. He did a terrible thing, but he’s still Ryan. And he’s still my friend and I want to help him if I can. I do not want him to go to prison. I’d lie for him. I’d set him free if I could. I’d help him leave the state, or leave the country. If you hate me for that, I’m sorry. But I’d do the same thing for you if you murdered somebody.”
I expect Bonnie to retort I would never murder anybody! But her fierce eyes grow fiercer and she stares Celeste down. “I believe that, in certain circumstances, any of us can be moved to violence,” she says in a steely voice. “If someone threatened Alonzo’s life, for instance, and I had the means at hand, I would kill that person if it was necessary to save my boy. But deliberately seeking a man out to take his life because you believe he does not deserve to live—that’s something I can’t countenance. Something I can’t forgive.”
“Don’t you think—” Celeste begins, but Bonnie overrides her.
“If Ryan can decide Bobby Foucault deserves to die, why couldn’t Bobby’s brother decide you should die? If vengeance is always an acceptable motive for murder, all of us will be gunned down at some point. And if we give the individual the power to make those life-and-death decisions—if the single, armed vigilante can take it upon himself to rid the town of monsters—how can we make sure the individual correctly identifies the monsters? Some people would call you a monster. So does that give them a right to shoot you on sight?”
Celeste’s face is stormy. “No—I don’t believe in vigilante justice. I don’t think we should all be armed and shooting at people because we don’t like them. But this is Ryan. And so it’s different. I can’t explain.”
“Situational ethics,” I say in a muffled voice.
They both look at me. “Well, don’t you agree with me?” Celeste demands.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m so shocked I have no idea what to think. And I don’t expect to figure it out anytime soon.”
Bonnie gives a heavy sigh and appears to deflate a little. “In the meantime, there are mouths to feed and people to care for and ordinary days to get through,” she says. “Maybe we can solve this problem tomorrow. It will certainly be waiting for us then.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It’s a relief to get out of the house when Joe arrives a little after three, Jinx and Jezebel peering out happily
from the backseat of the extended cab. There’s a little coolness between Bonnie and Celeste after the argument about Ryan, and I can tell Celeste is thinking it’s time for her to return to her own apartment or at least find another place to recuperate. I wonder if I should bring her back to my property for a few days. Surely between the two of us—and Helena and her girls—and Daniel, if he’s around—we could fend off the remaining psychotic Foucault brother.
I mention this idea to Joe once we’re out of the main traffic of Quinville, not quite to highway W.
“Sure, if you want,” he says. “But I’d like to stay, too, if I can.” He glances over at me, and his smile is warm. “It would be nice to find out what it’s like to wake up next to you and not go rushing off to some disaster.”
“Things have been pretty exciting with my friends lately,” I agree. I keep my voice light to camouflage the sudden wild excitement of my heart.
“Of course, you’re practically running a bed-and-breakfast these days. Not like we’d have much privacy.”
“The doors lock. We’d have privacy.”
“Then let’s do it.”
We travel a couple miles without exchanging any more words. Joe is a relaxed driver, his right hand loose on the wheel, his left elbow resting against the door frame. I lean back in my seat and try to convince myself the silence is companionable. But despite his casual pose, I think I feel tension emanating from him, or maybe it’s disapproval.
Or maybe I’m the one feeling tense.
“You haven’t said what you think about this whole Ryan situation,” I say finally. My voice sounds overloud and almost accusatory. I feel like I have blundered into this conversation, but I don’t know how else to begin it.
He gives me a brief glance before returning his attention to the road. “I think it sucks.”
“Bonnie thinks we’re wrong to even try to help him,” I say, my words still bald and bumbling. “She thinks there shouldn’t even be any thought of mercy for a murderer.”