All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 192

192

Twenty cells, eighteen of them in use.

Silver bars red rusted at the centers, where arms sometimes leaned, hands flexing, orange sleeves rolled back over thinning forearms. Natural light came from a line of windows opposite, too high to see more than a sky dappled gunmetal.

Blackjack opened the final gate, and Patch hauled in a canvas bag spilling with books. There had been a library service once before, in the late eighties, before Warden Riley wielded budget cuts, the business of correction not entirely immune to the world outside. Inside, the cells were much like his own, maybe with a little more color, the posters numerous, a couple of cacti, a radio played quiet. The first man was Ricky Nelson, and Patch guessed him to be sixty. He asked for cigarettes and declined reading matter. The second man was Howie Goucher, and he did not acknowledge Patch at all. A couple of guys took a random selection. Patch picked out Blood Meridian, Lonesome Dove, and Huck Finn. His fingers traced over Gatsby, the memory of his daughter catching him dead, tightening his jaw and neck.

Patch knew the average wait was fifteen years in a cell eight by ten, also knew a quarter would die before the state could kill them. He knew they were more prone to disease, malnutrition, psychosis. Sleep was broken every thirty minutes for counts that rattled locks. Patch knew four percent would be innocent. No religious rights, despite what the Supreme Court ruled. Patch knew these things because he had spent his first year in the prison library reading and listening and working his angle.

So when he made it to the final cell, he slowed a moment to recall the past, to hear the voice in the dark, to feel the touch on his skin.

The radio sang of pale blue eyes.

The man was thinner, kept his hair parted neatly, his hands by his sides.

He looked down at his own boots.

For a long time Patch could not find the words he had practiced.

He could not even remember to breathe.

He could not imagine how a man could exist for nineteen years without

even the company of hope.

And then, finally, their eyes met.

“Hello, Joseph,” Marty Tooms said.

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