Part 2
Garrison’s left hand struck the pen cup. Metal pens scattered across the desk, but he did not look down.
For three seconds he was no longer the warden of Red Creek. He was a man listening to someone dead knock from the other side of a locked door.
Then his face closed.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know the mark.”
He pressed the call button beneath his desk.
Kline entered almost immediately, as though he had been waiting with his hand on the knob.
“Take her to segregation,” Garrison said. “Pending investigation for inciting a disturbance.”
Kline’s bruised wrist showed beneath his cuff. “How long?”
“Until I decide otherwise.”
Mara kept her eyes on Garrison. “You can lock me behind every door in this building. Your hand will still know my grandmother’s name.”
His face lost another shade of color.
Kline grabbed Mara’s arm and pulled her into the corridor.
She did not resist. Resistance was what they were prepared to document, and Mara had already lost enough years to other people’s wording.
The disciplinary wing stood beneath the oldest part of Red Creek. Its cells were narrow concrete boxes with steel bunks, combination sink-toilets, and slit windows placed too high to see through. A corrections officer inventoried Mara’s clothing, removed her shoelaces, and gave her a blanket thin enough to read through.
Kline watched from the doorway.
“You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”
“You should get that wrist checked.”
He looked down despite himself. The bruising had darkened overnight, five finger-shaped shadows crossing the skin.
“It’s nothing.”
“Then stop rubbing it.”
His hand dropped. “Enjoy the quiet.”
The door closed, leaving Mara with the hum of the ventilation system and the small sounds of unseen women confined along the corridor.
She sat on the bunk and pressed her palms together until the shaking stopped.
She had been twelve when Rose Reed died.
For eighteen years, Mara’s mother had refused to describe the fire in detail. She said only that a land-clearing crew had arrived before dawn, that county deputies had come with them, and that somebody had set the first trailer alight while families were still gathering children and medicine. Rose went back for a metal cashbox containing birth records, photographs, and the copper seals passed through their family.
The roof fell before she came out.
No one had ever told Mara the name of the deputy who held the flare.
At noon, a meal tray came through the slot. Mara ate the beans and left the slice of white bread for later. The heat in the cell weakened as afternoon faded, and she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.
Near dusk, a voice traveled through the vent.
“You the singer?”
Mara looked toward the metal grille above the sink.
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Della Moore. Two cells down, left side.”
The voice was roughened by cigarettes and age. Mara could hear the smile inside it.
“What are you doing in segregation, Della?”
“Refused to mop up a toilet that’s been leaking since Thanksgiving. They called it disobedience. I called it plumbing.”
Despite herself, Mara smiled.
Della coughed, then asked, “What’d you say to Garrison?”
“Why?”
“Because he came through here fifteen minutes ago, and that man hasn’t walked this tier after dark in twelve years.”
Mara stood and moved closer to the vent. “You saw him?”
“I saw his shoes. Heard him breathing. He’s waiting in the officers’ station like he forgot whether he came to punish somebody or ask a favor.”
“What do you know about his hand?”
The other cell went quiet.
When Della answered, the humor had left her voice. “Enough not to ask about it where cameras have sound.”
“These cameras don’t?”
“Half the cameras down here are decorations.”
Mara waited.
Della lowered her voice. “It started before he came to Red Creek. He wore a glove at his first staff orientation, even though it was August. Medical used to bring him injections after midnight. Nothing worked. He went to specialists, pain clinics, churches. There was talk he’d flown to Germany once, but that may have been prison gossip.”
“Did anybody say how it happened?”
“A few of the older officers knew. Most retired before Garrison became warden.”
Della coughed again, this time longer. When she caught her breath, she continued.
“He used to be a sheriff’s deputy in eastern Kentucky. Briar County. There was a fire on disputed land, maybe eighteen years ago. A developer wanted several families gone, and the county said they were trespassing. Garrison was part of the removal team.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Millstone Hollow?” she asked.
Della’s silence answered before her voice did.
“So you do know.”
“My family lived there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Keep talking.”
“The official report said everyone had cleared out before the fire. People who lived nearby said different. One woman died. Older woman. Some said she cursed the deputy who carried the flame.”
“Her name was Rose Reed.”
Della breathed out slowly. “Your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
The overhead light hummed. Mara could feel the missing pouch as an ache against her sternum, an absence with weight.
“Della, how do you know this?”
“I worked in the infirmary laundry for seven years. People talk when they think the woman collecting sheets has stopped being human. Garrison used to come in after midnight with his hand wrapped in towels. One nurse said the skin turned dark whenever he lied about the fire.”
“Where are my intake belongings kept?”
“Ordinary property goes to storage. Anything Garrison finds interesting goes into his office safe.”
“Interesting?”
“Religious medals. Roots. Prayer cloths. Once, a woman came in with a jar of graveyard dirt. He questioned her for three hours.”
“He’s been looking for a cure.”
“For a long time.”
Footsteps entered the segregation corridor.
Della stopped speaking. A key turned at the outer gate, followed by the measured approach of one person rather than the usual pair. The footsteps stopped outside Mara’s cell. The viewing panel slid open. Garrison’s face appeared beyond the reinforced glass. He had removed his uniform coat, but the black glove remained on his right hand. Pain had drawn deep lines around his mouth. “What did Rose Reed call me?” he asked…
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