They Tell Me You Are Cunning by David Hagerty

Author:David Hagerty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: blackmail, detective, political intrigue, murder, chicago politics, political thriller, crime mystery
Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC
Published: 2019-06-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Caffeine kept Duncan up half the night, and even after he finally dozed on the couch, his dreams jumbled with thwarted sex until he awoke feeling both aroused and exhausted. As he showered and dressed, he wondered if this sudden stirring of his libido signaled some change or merely a rekindling of instincts long suppressed. He remained a married man and felt a sting of guilt at his impulse for infidelity yet also the thrill of new flirtation.

Unable to reconcile these contradictions, he suppressed them by turning his car stereo to patter about the Cubs. He no longer needed a map nor a watch to gauge the trip south from Chicago, yet he amped the sound to keep himself alert. Despite the infinite sameness of the crops, row upon row of corn and soybeans taller than his vehicle, he knew he was drawing close to the prison when the radio signal faded.

However, inside its walls, the guards directed him to an unfamiliar wing, one accessible only through the yard. They walked across a broad concrete court where inmates played handball and basketball. Many stared after this visitor in civilian clothes, but none said anything until a young Hispanic with a scar creasing one cheek called out “El Jefe.” Then the men whispered to one another and pointed until their target disappeared down a long, white hallway.

When Duncan asked why they were headed to the farthest corners of the prison, the guard—a young fellow with acne and a wispy mustache—said only, “following orders.”

They passed a half-dozen unmarked doors and through a stench mixing piss with lemon before stopping outside a metal slider. The door motored open, revealing another hall with more doors evenly spaced every few steps. Duncan peered inside a couple of the small windows to see forlorn faces watching his passage. At the far end of the corridor, another metal slider led them to a small chapel. The prayer room looked nearly as bare as the halls, with a handful of benches facing a music stand set atop a narrow podium. It offered no stained glass, no banners, no bibles, no prayer books. Only a cross painted on the far wall and some red cellophane on the skinny windows suggested devotion. The few lights had been dimmed, leaving the center of the room in crimson shadows. Unlike most sanctuaries, which bore a scent of wine or incense or candle wax, this one smelled only of dust and sweat.

Aden waited in the front row but did not turn until after his father had sat beside him. Even in fresh scrubs, he looked weak and bedraggled, sagging into his clothes. He still radiated something menthol despite having shed his bandages and tubes.

“Why are we meeting here?” Duncan said.

“There’s no visiting in solitary,” Aden said.

“I was told you’d be... under watch.” He didn’t want to use the word suicide.

Aden shrugged. “Same difference.”

If not for the boy’s aversion to all institutions, Duncan would have thought he’d caught his son in the midst of prayers.

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