She passes him a twenty. ‘Take me to Allegheny County Jail.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Seeing it from the outside now, Emma thinks Allegheny County Jail is like someone took a medieval barbarian’s castle and thumped it down in the middle of a modern Pittsburgh city block. The jail is entirely constructed out of brown granite, which its founders probably thought looked dignified but which Emma thinks looks forbiddingly bleak. She asks the cab driver to go up Forbes Avenue and onto Ross Street, passing beneath the Bridge of Sighs, the ancient stone walkway that links the jail to the red-roofed turrets of the courthouse. She alights just outside the external jail gate.
The gate is decorated with elaborate Romanesque ironwork, and is followed by a wooden door, a steel door, other doors. She submits to the standard search and consents to them holding on to her backpack. She shows her FBI identification, explains that she’s visiting in connection with Agent Howard Carter’s ongoing investigation – it’s very fortunate that Carter failed to repossess her ID when he sent her packing. A correctional officer on the admin desk recognizes her from yesterday’s prisoner transfer, which is also helpful.
Once she gets past the elegant ironwork and stout doors and appropriate checks, she arrives at a kind of lobby area, where the walls are thick stone and soundless plaster painted an unpleasant yellow, reminiscent of tobacco-stained teeth. Emma is the only person waiting on the solitary church-like pew for an audience with her chosen inmate. On the wall in the lobby, an old-fashioned sign outlines theGENERAL BLOCK RULES TO ALL INMATES:In here, individuals cannot choose at will those rules they will abide by and those they will disregard. It’s impossible to imagine Simon Gutmunsson observing such an injunction.
Emma wonders how long it will take Francks to realize she has eluded him, how long before Carter finds out, how soon until they deduce her location. She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth and waits.
Shortly thereafter, a correctional officer escorts her through a barred door and down a branching corridor. Finally, they arrive at a matte-gray door made of solid metal, which is stenciled in red:KNOCK ONCE ONLY. The conducting officer knocks once with his baton. Emma hears locks clicking on the other side.
The door slides open on tracks. Emma is ushered inside, the door is rolled back and locked behind her, and another officer – a man in his fifties, dependable-looking – issues instructions.
‘Okay, your guy is the only inmate on the range here.’ The officer stands by the hatch of his metal station box, similar to the guardhouse in the population intake area. ‘The rules are real simple. Don’t pass him anything, and stay in the center aisle. See the white lines on the floor? That’s the center aisle. You can step back a little, but don’t step forward or you’re within arm’s reach.’
‘I understand,’ Emma says.
He waves her onward. ‘Okay, mind the aisle, like I said. Go on down now – you got twenty minutes.’
Emma looks at the sixty-foot stretch of dark stone corridor with its guiding aisle. A single lamp shines above a cell at the end. She can feel cold air; the hairs on her arms prickle. A flash of clarity tells her that she doesn’t want to be here.
Go. Don’t go. Linda will die if you don’t go.
Emma makes a fist of her heart and begins walking toward Simon’s cell.
She smooths her black T-shirt and tries to order her thoughts. It’s important to have a clear understanding of what she wants and why she’s here: she wants any final information Simon has about the case so they can find Linda Kittiko quickly. She is here only to get this information. Nothing more.
Her anger about Simon’s connection to the videotapes is so close to the surface, though. Like cactus spikes under her skin. She reminds herself that the issue of her videotape is a subsidiary matter: she is not here to be angry or accusative. Simon knows what he is; there is nothing she might say that will be a revelation to him. Showing fury or frustration will not move him in any way.
But … can she use her anger somehow? Withholding fury and frustration means denying Simon his chance to gloat, and it might be advantageous to prod his ego in such a way. Won’t heexpecther to be angry? Yes, of course he will.
With each step, Emma thinks quickly. She is accustomed to using anger for fuel. Perhaps this is an opportunity to turn it toanother use. She has been shoving down her rage toward Simon for hours now – maybe it would be good to just let things out, and watch how he reacts and what he is goaded into revealing.
Emma allows a whippy tendril of her anger to emerge. It feels satisfying. It powers her final steps, blood heating in her cheeks as she arrives in front of Simon Gutmunsson’s cell.
This cell is a ten-foot-square box with three solid walls, and a barred front wall – like Byberry, but stone instead of concrete. It is very spare: a bunk, a chair, a toilet bowl. Simon is sitting on the chair in the perfect center of the cell, wearing the same blue scrubs and long-sleeved white T-shirt he wore in the asylum. Deep shadows in the creases of his blue scrubs make them seem like Baroque drapery. Simon’s posture is upright, his ankles crossed. He holds a small hardcover book open in one hand as he turns pages with the other. He looks studious and neat, like a cleric.
Emma hears crows cawing at the sight of him. For a moment her head is full of the sound, like a flock has nested inside her skull.
Simon looks up from his reading material with a gracious smile. ‘Good morning, Emma. How lovely to see you.’
She recovers her fire. ‘Don’t you “good morning” me, you lying, discourteousasshole.’
‘Oh, Emma, so cruel.’ His eyebrows lift. ‘Although it certainly makes your visits lively.’
She decides to go in hard and fast. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew about the videotapes?’
‘You never asked.’ Simon closes his book, shoulders straight. ‘And I resent being called discourteous.’
‘I could call you worse things.’ Emma stalks to the edge of the white line. ‘And I could expend a lot more energy being angry at you, but I don’t have the time for that.’ She shakes her head, watching his face. ‘It’s thepointlessnessof it that I find hard to take. A twenty-year-old girl, Linda Kittiko, is going to die – and for what? Because you enjoy watching the FBI scurry around and jump when you say so?’
‘That does have significant appeal.’ Simon sets the book on the floor. His eyes are shards of turquoise, never leaving her.
‘You’ve trashed any kind of connection we had.’ Emma introduces a note of disgust. ‘Why?For no reason at all? It’s just a waste.’
Simon holds himself very still. ‘It’s the nature of life to be pointless, Emma. Mayflies fluttering for a single glorious day … Existence has no real meaning – I thought you knew that. We shine briefly, and are extinguished.’
