Monday - Chapter 2

Joe Richards, a visiting psychologist with ties to Pine Haven, arrives at Starks Prison to interview a potential patient.

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“Shit.”

The first fat drops dive-bombed the windshield of the dark green Cherokee, the storm blurring the front of Starks Prison a second later.

Joe Richards took the umbrella from his glove compartment, but the wind made it useless. The water curved underneath, speckling his pants wet to the belt as he hurried across the parking lot, his leather loafers slipping on the wet asphalt. He’d been in Pine Haven ten minutes and already regretted coming back.

In the lobby, Joe showed his driver’s license to the corrections officer at the desk. “Warden Carmichael is expecting me.”

The officer studied the license and handed Joe a visitor’s badge, pointing down a short hallway to the elevator. When he reached the top floor, a receptionist aimed her hard frown at three molded plastic chairs at the wall and called the warden.

Joe waited by the window, staring out over the prison yard to the flailing green needles of the tall swaying pines.

Being back didn’t hurt as bad as Joe expected. At the county line, a plain sign read Now Entering Starks County with a smaller one beneath saying This Highway Adopted by the First Baptist Church of Pine Haven. Fast food cups scattered the ground around it, half of a discarded rocking chair leaning against the pole. He’d laughed, the dread of his miles down I-95 melting away. Pine Haven was just another hick town in the middle of nowhere—easy to hate because he could without any real emotional investment.

Fathers were another story.

According to Joe’s wristwatch, he waited five minutes before glancing at the receptionist. The scowl she sent back dared him to ask how much longer it’d be. With a polite smile, he returned his attention to the storm.

The warden eventually emerged, a man with graying hair and dark eyes in constant consideration of some nagging problem. When he spotted Joe, he flashed a broad smile and shook his hand.

“Thanks for coming, Dr. Richards.”

“Joe.”

“Sure. Call me George.”

George ushered Joe into his office and closed the door. Two squat leather armchairs sat before a large mahogany desk, the top cluttered with papers and folders in a leaning stack against an empty inbox. The warden cleared his throat and offered a seat.

Joe took the small voice recorder from his pocket. “Do you mind if I record this?”

“I don’t see why not. This will be your show, so I’ll trust you to manage it however you want.”

Clicking the button, Joe stood the device on the desk. “What can you tell me about Grady Perlson?”

George shuffled the stack of folders and pulled one to the top. “Grady transferred here from a military prison in Kansas six months ago. He came in quiet and calm, but his first night, another prisoner tried to rape him. We ended up with four prisoners dead, three in the hospital, and five guards looking for another line of work. I thought isolation would limit his damage so put him in the old Death Row block in the basement.”

“Why is he in prison?”

“He joined the Army and committed a crime. If he tells you more, you’ll be the first person here to know. The file they sent with him was so redacted it would have been easier to paint black paper with White Out.”

“You told Dr. Phillips you think he has multiple personalities.”

George’s expression went distant. “He’s got something. You watch him long enough, you’ll see the light vanish from his eyes. That happens, make sure you’re as far away as possible.”

“Does he remember anything when the episodes are over?”

“He doesn’t act like it. Most of the time, he’s the one who looks scared, like the guards were trying to get at him instead of the other way around. I can’t imagine what it’s like inside his head.”

“Have you ever been on a long drive and realized you can’t remember the last ten miles? Or missed minutes of a conversation without any idea of what distracted you?”

“Sure.”

“Imagine when that happens, another version of you is waiting to take over. Maybe that George rents a movie and you can’t remember how it got in the player. Maybe he robs a bank and you have no idea why the police have your house surrounded.”

“That sounds like a nightmare. What can you do with someone like that?”

“Talk to him. Test him. See if I get lucky and witness this other Grady myself. If it doesn’t happen, I’ll have to decide whether or not he’s legitimate.”

“You think he might be making it up?”

“It happens. Some inmates think a psychiatric hospital is one step below the Holiday Inn.”

“You see many of those?”

Joe reclaimed his recorder and clicked it off before returning it to his pocket. “Enough to keep me busy. Can I see him today?”

George opened a drawer and grabbed a small key ring. “I’ll have Betsy call down to the block. They’ll need time to move him, but I can give you a tour of the prison while we wait.”

The warden didn’t say much as he led Joe around the prison. Past the main cell blocks, Joe peeked in on inmates gathered in the common area. A few sat in the cafeteria as they passed through on the way to the current Death Row block. There, a bald, bearded inmate with a swastika tattooed on his neck sat at a table with a tattered Bible in his rough hands. Joe nodded and the man nodded back, like they were passing on a sidewalk. Down the hallway, the floor angled in a long ramp leading back down to the lobby.

They rode the elevator up to a long hallway lined with doors. George opened the last on the right and flipped on the switch inside. Fluorescent strips flickered awake with a low hum and gleamed in the long, polished table in the room’s center. A large mirror covered the right wall, an observation room sure to be on the other side.

“There’s no one in there today,” George said. “I was hoping to sit in with you, but it’s fine if you’d rather I watch from behind the glass.”

“You can stay.”

Joe took a seat at the far end of the table and set his recorder in the middle. “I booked a room at the Hovington House. Is it as nice as I remember?”

“You’ve been here before?”

“I grew up here.”

Smiling, George sat beside Joe. “Welcome back. I’ve heard it’s nice but never been inside. Margie Finch still runs it, so I imagine much hasn’t changed.”

Down the hallway, a door slammed shut. Slow, heavy footsteps approached, each thump followed by rustling chains.

“He’s Grady today,” George said.

“How can you tell?”

“Wolgiss would be whistling.”

“He whistles?”

Before George answered, Grady Perlson passed through the doorway. His bright yellow jumpsuit strained at the seams, sleeves rolled back over thick muscle. A network of scars crossed from his elbow to his wrist and disappeared under the shackles. The chain between his legs bound his wrists to his ankles and forced him to lumber in short, unbalanced steps. Black, greasy curls veiled his face to the jaw, where dark, sporadic stubble spread over his cheeks. He glanced at the warden first, but his attention shifted to Joe.

“Who are you?”

George answered. “Grady, this is Dr. Richards. I’ve asked him to talk to you.”

Grady shuffled to the chair across from Joe. Behind him, a young corrections officer stood two feet shorter, his focus sharp on Grady’s back.

“Sergeant Muñoz has been in charge of Grady since I moved him to the basement,” George said.

The sergeant pulled Grady’s chair out and ordered him to sit. The chains slackened as Grady lowered, snapping tight again as he leaned back.

“Is there a way to make him more comfortable?” Joe asked.

Muñoz scowled. “Want me to bring him a pillow?”

“I’m just not sure what kind of progress I can make with him bent like a question mark.”

George nodded to Sergeant Muñoz, who gave him a minute to change his mind before sighing. He squatted to pull a short chain from beneath the table and secure it to Grady’s handcuffs, unclasping the one between his wrists and ankles.

Grady straightened.

“Before we begin,” Joe said, “I want to make sure it’s okay with you if I record our sessions.”

“What for?”

“To make sure everything stays in your words.”

“Fine by me. What you want to talk about?”

“That’s up to you. You can say whatever you want in here with me.”

“Like Dr. Jacobi?”

Joe checked with George, who nodded.

Grady furrowed his brow. “Why are you here?”

“The warden thinks you show signs of what people like me call dissociative identity disorder. Do you know what that is?”

Grady shook his head.

“Sometimes people create different versions of themselves to deal with bad things that happen. These other versions can take control without the real person knowing it. Does that sound like something you’ve experienced?”

Grady shook his head again. “I remember everything they’ve done.”

“They? How many are there?”

Grady studied the swirl of the wood grain on the tabletop. “Just one now. Sagin was first, but he’s dead. Wolgiss is the one you should worry about. He hurts people.”

“Do you know why?”

“For the stone. Everything comes back to it.”

“What is the stone?”

“They never told me that, but it’s got to be something important as long as they’ve been fighting over it.”

“How long?”

“A thousand years.”

“That is long.”

A ghost of a smile touched Grady’s mouth. “With all I’ve seen, I couldn’t make it another fifty.”

Without a trace of gray in his hair or wrinkles on his face, Grady could pass for thirty. Joe made a mental note to check the file for his real age later.

“I’d like to hear about some of the things you’ve seen, if you’re comfortable talking about them.”

Grady studied Joe’s face. “Did the stone send you to help me?”

“Help you what?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“You want to know why I burnt that village and killed them soldiers?”

George shifted in his seat to face Joe, but Joe refused to look away. “You can talk about that if you want, but right now I’d like to go back further.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Can you tell me about your family? Did you get along? Do you remember any violence?”

At Grady’s wince, Joe knew he’d found a nerve to prod. The longer the answer took, the more he feared he’d pushed too hard.

Grady’s grimace didn’t fade, but he leaned his forearms on the table and cleared his throat.

“Sometimes, I can’t remember anything else.

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