Convicted Read online

  “Ah, but save those thoughts for dinner,” he chided himself as he slid the empty tray through the slot in the bars. “Don’t be greedy.”

  By then the sun had risen enough for the rays to shine through the small horizontal window near the ceiling. He stood and gazed for some time at the sliver of blue sky. It had been years since he had been outside during daylight. “As if I’m a bloody vampire.” He laughed weakly at the unintended aptness of his words and wondered if there really were vampires locked up somewhere in the building. Perhaps. Or maybe the Bureau considered them too dangerous and simply destroyed them. Lucky monsters.

  In addition to the small camera near the ceiling—its light constantly blinking—his cell contained a desk, stool, and shelves, all made of concrete. He’d never been much of a reader, but now he devoured whatever the guards saw fit to give him, often rereading the same books four or five times until they were replaced with new ones. He didn’t know how the specific titles were chosen, but he was grateful for anything at all. He settled in at the desk with his most recent novel, a romance about a Russian countess. He wouldn’t have chosen it had he been free, but It was a blessing indeed to lose himself for a few hours in pre-World War I Paris. Later he’d have a sandwich for lunch, more exercise, two hours of shows on his black-and-white TV, dinner, and a brief time in the dark, cold outdoors. A bit more reading before the lights extinguished and then bedtime.

  Another day of his useless life gone.

  Sometimes he prayed, although he wasn’t good at it. He’d never paid much attention when, as a boy, his mam dragged him to church. He wasn’t even sure he believed in God. If there was a God, why would He listen to Desmond Hughes, who’d turned away from the right path so many years ago? But Des had time on his hands and reckoned prayers couldn’t hurt. So now and then after the overhead lights blinked off, he knelt against the concrete frame of his bed and clasped his hands. I’m sorry, Lord. He never prayed out loud—this was between him and the Almighty, not something to amuse the guards. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. And he added to the familiar plea: Please grant peace to the souls of the people who were harmed and to their families.

  He never hoped for forgiveness. Even the kindest deity wouldn’t grant him that.

  Chapter Four

  The Monday morning dawn was barely breaking, smog-induced orange and peach just beginning to tinge the sky. Kurt had driven to Sherman Oaks in T-shirt, shorts, and Nikes, so he dropped off his suit in the locker room and headed straight to the outdoor track. The air carried a faint honey-and-musk smell of jacaranda. He spent a few minutes stretching out and was just about to begin running when the door from the locker room banged open and two men came out to join him.

  “Shit,” Kurt said with a manufactured groan. “You guys always make me look bad.”

  The taller of the two, a strikingly handsome man named Terry Brandt, laughed. “Edge makes you look bad. I end up way behind both of you.”

  Edge just grunted. Unlike his partner, he wasn’t much of a talker. Maybe that was because he was a dog shifter, or maybe it was just his personality; Kurt didn’t know. In any case, Kurt liked both of them. He trusted them at his back when things got ugly, and unlike some agents, they weren’t annoying to be near during slow times. Yes, Kurt envied them a little—they were partners in life as well as work and clearly adored each other—but that was his issue and not theirs.

  It did irk him that Edge ran faster, even on two legs, than Kurt ever could. In dog form, the bastard could outrun any human. But he gave Kurt a challenge, and since Kurt wasn’t getting any younger—he’d slid past forty a year ago—he needed all the incentive he could get to keep in shape.

  Today Edge didn’t zoom off at top speed but instead kept just a few strides ahead of Kurt, either to tease or encourage. He had a gorgeous ass, so watching it was no hardship. There were a few agents who made snide comments about Terry having sex with someone who wasn’t human, and that always pissed Kurt off. When his parents were married back in ’51, they’d had to move to California to avoid conviction under Arkansas’s anti-miscegenation law. And even on the West Coast, a married black man and white woman caught plenty of abuse. Kurt himself had been flipped plenty of shit for the color of his skin and for being queer. As far as he was concerned, it was nobody else’s damned business if Terry and Edge were in love. And as for Terry and Edge, they mostly ignored anyone who tried to give them a hard time. They’d survived worse than a few bigots.

  Edge and Kurt ran five miles, with Terry so far behind that eventually they completely lapped him. He swore at them cheerfully as they passed.

  They all hit the showers, where Terry serenaded them with a current hit song. He had a good singing voice but a terrible Scottish accent for the lyrics, and even the usually dour Edge joined in the laughter. “You still on that kraken case?” Terry asked Kurt as they were getting dressed.

  “Sea serpent, and no. Chief’s got something else waiting for me this morning. I don’t suppose I’ll be sharing the case with you two?” That would make the assignment more pleasant—and would make Kurt feel more secure. Good backup was always a benefit.

  But Terry shook his head. “Don’t think so. We’re heading up north tomorrow. There was another Sasquatch sighting in eastern Oregon, and we’re supposed to check it out. I think if the poor bastards exist, we should just leave ’em alone. They’re not hurting anyone.”

  “But we’ll get to go into the forest,” Edge added, his eyes glittering with excitement.

  “Yep. And I think we should take our own sweet time making sure everybody up there is good and safe.” Terry turned to Kurt. “No Sasquatch for you, huh?”

  “No. Guess I’m getting shipped out into the desert.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  They all took the stairs to the third floor, where Terry and Edge shared an office, and then Kurt climbed one more flight. His own small office was neat and functional, with a couple of photos of Jason as his only personal touches. He had a view of the outdoor track and the little office park beyond it. The message light on his phone wasn’t blinking, which was good, but a small piece of paper sat centered on the desk. Chief Townsend is expecting you. Kurt recognized the firm, even handwriting of Townsend’s secretary, Mrs. Kirschenheiter. Straightening his jacket and tie, Kurt left his office and climbed the final flight of stairs to the fifth floor, where his boss reigned supreme.

  Townsend’s suite was identical to the one he’d occupied in the old HQ, down to the lingering smell of cigarettes and the framed newspaper articles hanging crookedly on the walls. Entering the suite always disoriented Kurt slightly, as if he’d been suddenly transported from Sherman Oaks back to downtown LA. No time to deal with that, however, because Mrs. Kirschenheiter was glaring at him.

  She unpursed her lips enough to speak. “He’s been waiting for you, Agent Powell.”

  Kurt glanced at his watch. “It’s not even eight a.m. yet.”

  “He’s been waiting.” Mrs. Kirschenheiter was a solid woman with bobbed steel-gray hair. She always wore gray suits and sensible shoes, a pair of glasses on a chain around her neck, and a disapproving look. Kurt was almost positive she had never been a child and had never once cracked a smile.

  “I’m sorry to keep him,” Kurt said. No point antagonizing her further.

  Still scowling, she picked up the phone receiver, jabbed a button on the console, and said, “He’s finally here.” Then she waited a moment before hanging up and narrowing her eyes at Kurt. “You can go in.”

  Townsend sat behind the oversize desk in his inner sanctum, writing something in a battered black leather notebook. “Come in, come in.” He didn’t look up.

  Kurt entered and, when Townsend continued to ignore him, sat in one of the low-slung chairs and looked around. The chief’s office fascinated him, although
he didn’t know why. It looked perfectly ordinary: two tall metal filing cabinets, a coatrack holding Townsend’s jacket and hat, and, under a big window, a round wooden table and four chairs. Papers cluttered the tabletop. Among the framed newspaper articles were a couple of framed certificates. Townsend’s name was the only thing in English; the rest could have been in Latin, although Kurt wasn’t sure. Townsend’s gold lighter and silver cigarette case sat on the desktop next to an overflowing ashtray. There was nothing truly unusual about the room, yet Kurt always had a sense that something odd was happening just past his peripheral vision. No matter how quickly he turned his head, however, nothing weird showed up.

  Kurt caught the scent of booze but, as usual, didn’t see any. He’d heard from other agents that the chief drank heavily in their presence, but Kurt had never seen him take so much as a sip. Maybe that was out of respect for Kurt’s history with alcohol and drug abuse—a history Townsend knew well.

  After five minutes of writing, Townsend put down his pen, clapped the notebook shut, and lit a cigarette. He blew out a big cloud of smoke. “And how are you doing, my boy?”

  Kurt might have bristled over the term boy, but Townsend used it for all male agents regardless of their race or age. He called the women girls, even Mrs. Kirschenheiter.

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Got in your exercise this morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. An agent should stay fit.” Townsend, a rotund man who always strained the seams of his clothing, apparently saw nothing hypocritical in the statement. “You were running with Brandt and Edge again?”

  Why did Townsend insist on asking questions he already knew the answer to? Kurt tried to keep his expression neutral. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Those two have worked out well for us. They did an excellent job helping capture the reprobates who were breeding dog shifters.”

  “I’ve heard about that case.” The facts of it had made him ill, especially once Kurt realized that Edge had come from one of those breeders, had been bought and sold like a dumb animal without any regard for the humanity that shone clearly from his soul.

  Townsend stubbed out his cigarette, leaned back in the chair, and laced his hands over his belly. “Hmm. Did they tell you I’m sending them up north?”

  “Yes. Am I going to join them?”

  “No,” Townsend replied, chuckling. “Frankly, it’s more of a little holiday for them than anything else. A chance for Edge to run free for a bit. He finds the city stifling, I think.”

  “There’s no Sasquatch?”

  Townsend snorted and flapped a hand. “Our large-footed friends never harm anyone, but still people insist on calling in when they see them. So I send a couple of agents to investigate, Edge gets his romp in the woods, and everyone’s satisfied.”

  Kurt gave a noncommittal shrug. Even though Townsend had probably saved his life and had definitely improved Kurt’s prospects, Kurt was never certain how far to trust him. He didn’t understand the man’s motives. Sure, his story about Terry and Edge’s new mission might be completely factual—or it might not. And Kurt knew from experience that speculating about Townsend’s motives would get him nowhere.

  Avuncular smile firmly in place, Townsend lit another cigarette and peered at Kurt through the smoke. “Where do you suppose you’d be right now if we hadn’t met?”

  “In a grave. Or in prison.” Kurt felt the truth of that in his bones.

  “Hmm. And yet here you are, very much alive and free. A hero, even.”

  “Sir, I’m not—”

  “How many lives do you think you’ve saved since joining the Bureau?”

  This wasn’t a question Kurt had ever considered. He simply figured he was following orders, doing his best, and hoping the outcomes were good. “I don’t know.”

  “Nor do I. It’s hard to count things that didn’t happen. But I think it’s fair to say you’ve saved more than a few. Sometimes you’ve risked your own neck in the process, and that qualifies you for hero status in my book—even if you’re damned quiet about it. Once upon a time you were spiraling down into self-destruction, and you were damaging your family in the process. Yet now you rescue others. That’s the classic redemption arc, my boy. A beautiful story.”

  Although this facile summary of his life experiences made Kurt’s jaw tighten, he didn’t protest. In part because Townsend was the chief, and in part because nothing he said was false. “I’m doing what I can,” Kurt finally managed through gritted teeth.

  “Indeed. I believe in redemption, Powell. It’s not just a pretty story—it’s our future, our hope.” Cigarette seemingly forgotten in the ashtray, Townsend leaned forward over the desk. His eyes glittered with enough intensity to make Kurt dizzy, and he spoke in a hushed tone that was nothing like his usual rumble. “The road to redemption is long and twisted and paved with shards of glass. Your feet bleed when you travel it. The heat sears your blood and the cold breaks your bones. Savage beasts chase behind you. Every step is uphill. But all other roads lead to devastation, you see, so you must keep going, and you must remain on this road. No matter what.”

  Anger curled in Kurt’s stomach, scorching him. “Are you trying to imply that I’m slipping? I’m not. Haven’t touched a drink or anything stronger than aspirin since I got out of rehab.” Eleven years and counting. “I’m a good agent and a good father.”

  Townsend shook his head slowly. “You’re misinterpreting. I already told you that you’re a hero. Your son is growing into a fine young man, and you’ve never given me any reason to doubt you. I count you as one of my great successes, in fact.” He chuckled. “Not that you haven’t contributed to your own achievements. But then that’s part of my point here—while everyone must walk that road himself, some are fortunate enough to find a guide.”

  Kurt, his anger cooling, didn’t understand what Townsend was getting at but nodded anyway. “Does this have something to do with my next assignment?”

  “It has something to do with every assignment. Even my own. Especially my own.” Townsend twisted his lips into a wry smile that Kurt didn’t understand.

  The phone on the desk—a heavy black one that would have made a good weapon—buzzed urgently but was ignored. Townsend opted instead to finish his cigarette and then light another, staring at Kurt for well over a minute before quirking another small smile as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a brown accordion folder stuffed so thickly that the elastic band barely held it closed. “Here.” He dropped the folder on the desk with a heavy thud.

  “My new assignment?” Kurt asked.

  “Of course. Take today to read through it. Tomorrow I want you to requisition a vehicle—something sturdy and not too flashy. An SUV, I think.”

  “All right. Where am I driving to?”

  Townsend smiled widely. “Into the desert, my boy. It’s time for you to meet a lost cause.”

  Chapter Five

  Days felt interminable inside the cell, but nights were worse. Des had never needed much sleep. When he was a boy, he’d sneak out of the house after everyone had gone to bed—carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards—and wander the alleyways of Belfast in search of adventure. He wasn’t supposed to go, due to the soldiers on patrol, but he was good at slinking through shadows. Generally all he found were drunks and stray cats, but that was all right. Even though his Illinois family had kept him from straying after bedtime, he kept a flashlight hidden under his mattress, and after hours he’d read or draw or play with the set of toy soldiers his mam had given him before sending him away. His teenage years had found him back on midnight streets again, visiting bars if he could afford a few drinks or just walking if he couldn’t.

  Now he was allowed none of these luxuries. His cell lights were doused at ten, shortly after his outdoor time, and then it was too dark to read. The guards yelled and threatened him if he got out of bed for any reason other than the toilet.

  “Could wank,” he whispered as he slid a hand into hi
s jumpsuit to fondle his cock. But it remained uninterested, as it generally did now. His fantasies had grown stale years ago, and he was weary of his own touch. With a sigh, he pulled his hand out, tugged the blanket more tightly around his chest, and did his best to reposition himself—his too-tall, too-broad frame no match for the hard, narrow mattress.

  He pulled up a different distraction. “Remember the eggs, Desmond? Yeah, I’ll never forget them.” After running away from Illinois when he was fourteen, he tramped around the country, hitching rides and catching odd jobs when he could. One job—when he was fifteen or sixteen—had been on a vast chicken ranch where he gathered eggs. Everyone there thought he was twenty because he’d lied about his age and his body was big enough for them to believe it. He hauled heavy sacks of chicken feed, shoveled manure, found and removed dead chickens, and collected eggs. “Hard work. They paid me nothing but shite. And I’d come back to that trailer stinking so badly I had to hose myself off before going inside.” But he’d shared that tiny living space with three young men, and at night they’d drink cheap booze, play cards, and fuck like bunnies.

  Eventually he fell asleep on his concrete bed and dreamed of eggs.

  Six o’clock: lights on. Piss, wash, exercise, breakfast eggs made of chemicals and sawdust. Then a third read of a book about a woman who gets knocked up by the devil. Partway through he closed the book and paused to think. “Does the devil really exist? Mam said so, and so did the priests, but I didn’t believe it when I was a lad. But then there was Larry….” No. Larry had been a man and nothing more. No use giving Satan credit for purely human evil.