Monday - Chapter 8

During Eric Vanger’s first shift at Starks Prison, he meets the sole inhabitant of its basement cell block.

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The old Death Row cell block in the basement of Starks Prison contained ten small cells and a door on each end: one steel and the other rusted iron. A brick archway a few feet from the stairwell door led into a small alcove where Eric Vanger sat in a metal folding chair in front of a desk, Jim Stucker behind it with his legs propped on the corner. Behind Jim, a tall locker stood open with riot gear hanging inside—a helmet, shield, and chest protector. Eric had stared at the equipment for the past five minutes.

Eyes glazed over, Jim showed his teeth as if he’d forgotten how to smile. “You know, they still got that old electric chair plugged in at the end of the block. The door is welded shut, but when it’s quiet, I swear you hear the buzz of some long-dead jackass getting fried.”

Before Eric could register what he’d said, Jim cackled as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

As soon as Bobby Cotton had his money, Eric swallowed the first pill. He remembered Bobby from their football days, a redneck defensive end who made the state all-star team three years in a row. Jim sat on Bobby’s couch, following a line of white powder across the coffee table with his nose. At the end, he sat up straight and announced it was time to go.

Eric’s head was hollow by the time they reached the prison, as if someone had scooped out his brain and blew in smoke to replace it. He followed the bouncing Jim down three flights of stairs to a door thick enough to hold a charging rhino. Their brief conversation with the sergeant, a short, stocky Mexican named Muñoz, reminded Eric of high school, faking sobriety as he talked to his parents.

If Sergeant Muñoz suspected anything, he hid it well. He checked on the prisoner one last time and then leaned into the archway to tell Eric he was responsible for keeping Jim in line. Jim answered with a sick smile that lingered after the sergeant left.

“Don’t get bored on me,” Jim said. “We ain’t past the first hour yet.”

Eric blinked hard through the narcotic fog wrapped snugly around his body.

Jim cooed as if Eric was a puppy. “Feeling good now, ain’t ya? I told you I’d take care of you.”

Fishing the baggie of cocaine from his pocket, Jim tapped out a bump on the desk. He ran a key through the pile to separate a thin line.

“Aren’t you worried someone will catch you?” Eric asked.

“Down here? You won’t see anybody until our shift’s over. People stay away from the basement, even when they’re not sure why. Know what I mean?”

Eric’s lazy smile evolved into a laugh. “I’m not even sure what you said.”

Jim pointed at the desk with his key, powder clogging the groove along its side. “Want some? It’ll wake you up.”

“No.” After he answered, Eric worried it sounded judgmental. If not for Jim’s habits, he’d be in agony like all his other attempts at a new job. He might last another hour before calling Maribeth, who’d come as always and drive him home without a word. With his most convincing smile, he added, “I could go for some coffee though.”

Jim took down the second line and wiped his nostril. “Break room’s next floor up. We don’t get that kind of luxury down here.”

“Not even a coffee maker? That’s extreme. I don’t care how big this guy is, he’s just a man. Ya’ll act like you’ve got the antichrist down in that cell.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed. “You ain’t met him, so don’t think you know anything about this block. That’d be a mistake you won’t walk away from.”

Walk away. With anyone else, Eric would shrug it off as a slip of the tongue, but Jim chose those words. Some people called him a dumb hick, but he was smart and cruel, digging under a person’s skin until he found their sore spots. The only surprise was that he didn’t say “limp away.”

Jim smiled and dropped his feet like dead weight to the floor. “Tell you what. I need to walk off some of this energy, so I’ll go get you a cup. But you’ve gotta do something for me. Go check on Mr. Perlson while I’m gone.”

With a shrug and a short nod, Eric said, “Sure.”

Jim brushed the remnants of white powder back into the baggie and then stood to stretch, inspecting his uniform on his way through the alcove. When the heavy door didn’t open, Eric glanced over his shoulder to find him lingering in the archway’s shadow.

“Don’t go halfway down and think that’s enough. You gotta stand at his cell door and look him in the eyes. You can’t do that, I’ll call Maribeth and let her know you ain’t the man she thought you was. She can go on and pick out a better one whenever she’s ready.”

Jim chuckled his way to the stairwell door and let it slam behind him.

Eric’s lips tightened as he dragged his brace to stand and took his first stiff steps into the alcove. On the other side, he pivoted onto the block toward the rusted iron door, aware of the constant scrape of his right foot. Halfway down, he glimpsed the yellow jumpsuit between the bars, the man wearing it big with a dark-stubbled jaw and long, greasy hair.

Grady Perlson sat on his bunk with his feet on the floor and elbows on his knees. “You the new guard?”

“I am.”

“I figured. The old ones don’t come all the way anymore. They tell themselves distance keeps them safe, but they know these bars are nothing. Your father-in-law tell you that?”

“How do you know who he is to me?” Eric asked.

“Before you hurt your leg, you were a big deal in this town, but that limp makes it hard for people to look at you. You remind them of the last time this town had something good. It worries you to think how you’ll protect your daughter from this world, as if you’d be a better man if you never got hurt. But life made you who you are for a reason. Ready to find out what that is?”

A bitter taste rose in Eric’s mouth as he wrapped his hand around a cell bar. “If you’re about to start preaching, I ain’t had much use for God in a long time.”

Grady focused on Eric’s hand. “I’ll give you the advice Jim Stucker should have. The last person who touched those bars found out what his eyeball looked like outside his head.”

Jerking his hand away, Eric backed to the wall.

Grady’s eyes followed. “God didn’t do that to your leg, but I know what did. Even better, I can give you back what it took, if you’re willing to help me.”

Eric didn’t know why Grady was in prison. Before the cocaine sent Jim’s attention in infinite directions at impossible speeds, he said no one at the prison did. In one short conversation, it was clear this was all some big joke. Refusing to give Jim the satisfaction of making him look stupid, Eric decided to do his job. His next words came in a growl.

“No more of that crazy shit while I’m down here. You got that?”

With a chuckle, Grady closed his eyes and opened them again on two black orbs, vacant as a starless sky.

Eric pivoted and scrambled long bouncing steps to the alcove. In the silence behind him, he imagined the demon slipping through the bars and stalking him down the walkway—one short step for each of his scraping hops. Turning through the brick arch, he banged his bad knee on the brick and cried out, grabbing his leg on the last two steps to the desk. Sweat dripped over his face as he dropped into the folding chair, panting as he searched his pocket for the other Oxy. The pill would make him useless for the rest of the shift, but Jim owed him.

As soon as Eric swallowed the drug, the stairwell door opened and clanged shut. Jim whistled through the arch and set a paper coffee cup in front of Eric, rounding the desk to plop down and return his crossed ankles to their corner. With a long slurp of his coffee, Jim smiled.

“So what do you think of Grady Perlson now?”

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