All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 212

212

“He was tougher than I thought…the way he looked at me.”

“Who’s that?” Patch said.

“Warden Riley. I mean, the big fellow hauled me right to the warden’s office, didn’t even fix up my nose or nothing. I dripped a little blood outside.”

Patch thought of Warden Riley, knew the man would have a couple of inmates come scrub that pathway clean before the kid’s blood could print a reminder of how he plied his trade.

“He yelled like I was at school or something…Tell you, on the outside I might have—”

“He’s tough because he has to be. Don’t worry about it.”

“I ain’t…I mean, I was looking right by him, that painting he’s got hanging like this ain’t prison but something fancier.”

Patch drummed his fingers on the bed frame as he thought of his painting.

“You seen it? I reckon it…you know how some people can just paint or sing or play guitar. Like Lou used to say it can be taught, but that ain’t

true.”

“You can learn in this place, Tom.”

Another sniff. “Not like that. It’s like being right there, you know.

Leaving this place and heading back. You reckon I can ask them to get me a copy or something, place it in my cell.”

Patch thought of the kid’s future, then his own, so tired he knew the fighting was done. All of it. He would hand back his library key, dip his head when the time came, acknowledge another loss in a life spent losing

each fight he took on. He would say a silent prayer that Marty Tooms went quick. And then he would wait on the Brand to move again, and this time he wouldn’t swing. He was not a pirate. He was not a father or friend. He did nothing noble. He lived a little life.

“You reckon he’s been there?” the kid said.

Patch yawned. “Who?”

“The painter. You reckon he’s been to the town or just saw a photo or something. I mean, it ain’t all correct but close enough.”

Patch opened his eye, the cell a blur of golds, the smell so thick it caught in his throat. He didn’t speak for a long time, just played the kid’s words back over before it fully dawned. “What are you talking about, kid?”

“Alabama.”

Patch moved to the bars, his arms through them as he pressed close to the stone divide.

“I ought to know it. I grew up two towns over. Might as well have been a world away though. They got the fancy school and all.”

Patch gripped the bars tight, the sound falling away till all he heard was the gentle rush of his own blood.

“The town…you’re saying it’s real?” Patch said.

“Of course, it’s real, Pirate. I’ve been there a dozen times. Used to case the big houses when I was fifteen, but they got the dogs and all.”

“Are you sure about this, Tom?”

“I am.”

“Tell me the name.”

Patch held his breath and felt the old walls beginning to crumble. His body trembled, his forehead on the rusted steel as the moment ran.

“Grace Falls. The town in the painting is Grace Falls, Alabama.”

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