Francis had always been insecure, lost at times in Adrian’s shadow. That’s how it could be with cops. One was first through the door, and one was second. One got the media. One was the hero. But jealousy alone could not explain something as malignant as planted evidence. That required stronger emotions, the minting of a single coin, perhaps, with love bright on one side, and envy black on the other. Spin it fast enough, and what would you see?
A partner grown silent and strange?
A man who watched more than he should?
It still seemed possible, but there was no certainty on the roadside or under the high, dim stars. Nor did conviction present itself between the crumbled walls of his burned-out home. Adrian lit a fire as he’d done before and tried to pace the questions into ordered form. Who killed Julia, and why? Why the church? The linen? The violence that crushed her neck with such utter, irretrievable conviction?
Could someone else have planted the can?
In the end, such questions were voices lost in the throng. Adrian was not the same man, and he knew it. His thinking grew muddled, at times. Sometimes, he blanked out. That was a gift from the warden and the guards. Yet, clarity had not deserted him entirely. Open spaces and faces of good intent. These things made sense to him and offered hope of a sort. Liz was his friend—he believed that. So was the lawyer, this land, memories of what it meant to be determined and sure. Had that man gone? Adrian wondered. Had he been carved away in his entirety?
He paced another hour, then found a corner and sat. The night was dark and still, and then gone as if it too was only memory.
He was on a metal bed.
He was screaming.
* * *
“Hold him down. Get the arm!”
They got the free arm strapped again, cinched it down as he screamed into the gag, and edged metal flashed red. Adrian tasted blood; knew he was biting his tongue, the inside of his cheeks. The room smelled of bleach and sweat and copper. Blood streaked the warden’s face. The ceiling was rusted metal.
“Now, I’m going to ask you again.” The warden leaned close, his eyes like black glass as metal flashed once more, and a line of fire opened on Adrian’s chest. “Are you listening?” Another cut, blood pooling on the table. “Just nod when you’re ready to talk. Look at me when I’m speaking. Look at me!”
Adrian fought the straps; felt something tear.
“It’s too much,” someone said. “He’s bleeding out.”
“Hand me a needle. Hold his finger.” The needle slipped under the nail; Adrian screamed, and his back came off the table. “Give me another.” That one went in harder, deeper. “Will you talk to me, now? Look at me. Not at the ceiling. What did Eli tell you?” A hand slapped Adrian’s face. “Don’t pass out. We’ll have to start over. Prisoner Wall? Adrian? Hey. Eli Lawrence. What did he tell you?”
Two more blows, Adrian’s head rocking. After that, the warden sighed and lowered his voice as if they were friends.
“You were close to him, I understand. You feel loyalty for a friend, and I admire that. I really do. But, here’s the problem.” He smoothed a hand across Adrian’s soaking hair, left it on the forehead and leaned even closer. “That old man loved you like a son, and I doubt he would have died with such a secret unshared. Do you see my problem? I need to be sure, and this”—he patted Adrian’s forehead; ignored the blood on his own palm—“this is the only way. Will you nod for me now, so I know you understand?”
Adrian did.
“You don’t need to die.” The warden removed the gag, and Adrian turned his head to vomit. “This can end. Just give me what I want, and the pain goes away forever.”
Adrian moved his lips.
“What?” The warden leaned closer.
Eight inches away.
Six.
Adrian spit in the warden’s face, and after that things got ugly. Deeper cuts. Longer needles. A vision of Eli appeared the moment Adrian thought he would finally break. The old man was a shadow beyond the lights, the only man since childhood that Adrian had ever loved.
“Eli.”
The name was in his head, because all else was screams and blood and the warden’s question. Adrian focused on the yellow eyes, the paper skin. The old man nodded as if he