Lost - Michael Robotham [36]
Visiting time has almost ended. Howard pushes against the tide, walking as though his legs are shackled. He gazes around the room, looking for his visitor, perhaps expecting Rachel.
More than forty years on I can still recognize him as the fat kid from school, who changed behind a towel and chain-smoked on an asthma puffer. He was almost a semi-tragic figure but not quite so tragic as Rory McIntyre, a sleepwalker who did a high dive off the third-floor balcony in the early hours of Foundation Day. They say that sleepwalkers wake up in midair but Rory didn’t make a sound. Nor did he make a splash. He always was a good diver.
Howard takes a seat and doesn’t seem surprised by the sound of my voice. Instead he stops, arches his neck and swivels his head like an old tortoise. I step in front of him. He blinks at me slowly.
“Hello, Howard, I want to talk to you about Rachel Carlyle.”
He smiles little by little but doesn’t answer. A scar runs from one side of his throat to the other, just beneath his chins.
“She comes to see you. Why?”
“You should ask her.”
“What do you talk about?”
He glances at the screws. “I don’t have to tell you anything. My appeal application is next Thursday.”
“You’re not getting out of here, Howard. Nobody wants to set you free.”
Again he smiles. Certain people don’t seem to match their voices. Howard is like that. It is pitched too high, as though laced with helium, and his pale face seems disconnected from his body like a white balloon moving gently in a breeze.
“We can’t all be perfect, Mr. Ruiz. We make mistakes and we deal with the consequences. The difference between you and me is that I have my God. He will judge me and get me out of here. Do you ever wonder who is judging you?”
He seems confident. Why? Maybe he knows about the ransom demand. Any suggestion Mickey might still be alive would automatically grant him a retrial.
“Why does Mrs. Carlyle come here?”
He raises his hands in mock surrender and lowers them again. “She wants to know what I did with Mickey. She’s worried I might die before telling anyone.”
“You’re messing up your insulin injections.”
“Do you know what it’s like to go into a diabetic coma? First my breathing becomes labored. My mouth and tongue are parched. My blood pressure falls and my pulse accelerates. I get blurred vision, then pain in my eyes. Finally, I slip into unconsciousness. If they don’t reach me quickly enough, my kidneys will fail completely and my brain will be permanently damaged. Soon after that I will die.”
He seems to revel in these details, as if looking forward to it.
“Did you tell her what happened to Mickey?”
“I told her the truth.”
“Tell me.”
“I told her that I’m not an innocent man but I am innocent of this crime. I have sinned but not committed this sin. I believe in the sanctity of human life. I believe all children are gifts from God, born pure and innocent. They only act with hate and violence because we teach them hate and violence. They are the only ones who can truly judge me.”
“And how are the children going to judge you?”
He goes silent.
Sweat rings beneath his arms have spread out and merged, plastering his shirt to his skin so that I can see every freckle and mole. There’s something else on his back, beneath the fabric. Something has discolored the material, turning it yellow.
Howard has to look over his right shoulder to see me. He grimaces slightly. At that same moment, I force him forward across the table. Deaf to his squeals that are muffled against my forearm, I lift his shirt. His flesh is like pulped melon. Angry wounds crisscross his back, weeping blood and yellow crystalline scum.
Prison guards are running toward us. One of them puts a handkerchief over his mouth.
“Get a doctor,” I yell. “Move!”
Commands are shouted and phone calls are made. Howard is screaming and thrashing like he’s on fire. Suddenly, he lies still, with his arms stretched across the table.
“Who did this to you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Talk to me. Who did this?”
He mumbles something. I can