The board chair made a note on a legal pad set before him, then looked at the other board members. “Are we ready for the prisoner?”
The other board members either nodded or mumbled that they were. The chair nodded in turn to the prison guards who had stationed themselves on either side of the door. They left immediately to collect the prisoner.
Lucy Santos entered the room minutes later flanked by the two guards. She was dressed in an orange prison jump suit that hung loosely over a seemingly frail body. Her hair was heavily streaked with gray, and her dark eyes darted nervously around the room, passing over the board members, Meeks, and Morris, and settling on Harry. She stared at him intently, and when she seemed certain it was him, her eyes suddenly brightened and her mouth spread into a wide-and to Harry-near maniacal smile.
“Harry, Harry,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“The prisoner is to be seated,” the chairman said.
Lucy Santos glanced back at the chairman as though she didn’t understand what he had said. “It’s my boy. It’s my boy, Harry.” She looked back at Harry and again the smile returned.
“The prisoner will sit down, or the prisoner will leave the room,” the chairman said.
Lucy’s hands fluttered in front of her face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She hurriedly sat in the chair. “Forgive me. It’s just that I’ve been away from my boy for so long.”
Harry stared at his mother, his stomach tied in a twisting knot. She wasn’t the woman he remembered from childhood. She didn’t even seem to be the same woman he had seen two days ago, and he realized that his mind had been playing tricks on him during that short, angry visit. Now she just seemed old and even more badly worn by the years. Two days ago he had seen flashes of her as he remembered her, as she had been when he had last seen her as a boy, a pretty woman, young and lively at thirty-three. But the subsequent twenty years in prison had not been kind.
The chairman began speaking though Harry had difficulty filtering his words through his own thoughts, his own memories. He continued to stare at his mother, trying to see the woman he remembered standing in the kitchen of their home twenty years ago. She had been laughing then- laughing at Jimmy as he mimicked the small boy next door-and he could almost hear the rhyming words that came from his brother’s mouth, words that told the story of a spider climbing a water spout, his mother laughing at those words, laughing at her small son, all the time knowing that within minutes she would be dragging his drugged body into the garage so she could start the engine of her car and leave him there to die. And she did the same to you, Harry told himself. She did the same to you.
“… and your actions led to the death of your six-year-old son James, and your ten-year-old son Harry. Only the timely intervention by Tampa police allowed your son Harry to be resuscitated. Your son James, largely because of his age and small size, was not as fortunate.” The chairman stopped reading from the papers before him and stared down the long table at Lucy Santos. “You have served twenty years of a life sentence for murder and attempted murder. The prison administration has listed you eligible for parole, due to time served and your lack of disciplinary problems while in custody. Dr. Meeks has found you mentally fit.” The chairman glanced at the state psychologist and received a confirming nod. “The state’s attorney’s office has raised an objection based on the heinous nature of your crimes.” This time he looked at Calvin Morris and again received a confirming nod. It was little more than a pro forma objection, Harry noted. The chairman turned back to the prisoner. “At this time, can you offer us any reasons why your parole should be favorably considered?”
Lucy sat mute for several long moments. Gradually her lips began to move, although no sound came from them at first. Her hands twisted in her lap.
“I committed sins, very terrible sins,” she began. “At the time I thought I was doing good. But now I see that I was wrong. Now I want to make up for my sins.” Her eyes turned to Harry. “I want to make up to my son the terrible thing I did to him.” Her eyes then brightened, almost dancing with pleasure, and her face broke into a beaming smile. “As you can see, my son is here to support me.” She placed a hand over her breast. “This fills my heart with joy and hope. It is a gift from God.”
The chairman raised a hand, stopping her, and turned to Harry. He turned to Harry. “Normally we wait until the prisoner is finished until we hear from the victims. But your mother has raised a point I would like to clarify. Do you, indeed, support your mother’s parole, Detective Doyle?”
Harry peered at the man as though he was mad. “No,” he said. He stood abruptly and stepped toward the table the board was gathered around, and placed the box containing his mother’s letters at the chairman’s elbow. “These are letters the prisoner has written and mailed to me over the past twenty years-one each year on the anniversary of my brother Jimmy’s death. I only came here today to give you these letters. You read them and then tell me if she deserves to be on parole.” Harry stared at the board chair and then each board member in turn. Then he started for the door.
“Mr. Doyle, do you want these letters returned to you?”
Harry didn’t break stride. “I never wanted them in the first place.”
As he moved past his mother, Lucy’s hand shot out in a beseeching gesture, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt. Harry pulled back his arm as if something vile had touched him.
“Harry, Harry…” Her voice was plaintive and he knew he would hear that voice for a very long time. He pushed his way through the door and left the room.
C HAPTER TWENTY — SIX
A week had passed and the media coverage of Jim Morgan’s arrest had finally begun to fade. It was late evening and Harry was holding Jeanie’s hand as they strolled along the beach. It would be a good sunset with no cloud banks marring the horizon. Harry tried to remember when he last enjoyed a sunset. It was before Darlene Beckett’s body had been found, of that he was certain. He had visited Darlene’s grave earlier in the week, the mound of dirt that covered it still appearing fresh and recently turned. He wasn’t certain why he had gone. Perhaps because he had come to recognize that she was a victim too-a victim of her own illness, as well as a victim of someone who was even sicker than she. Perhaps he had gone to see if she would speak to him again. She did not.
“My husband came by to see me this morning,” Jeanie said, bringing him back.
“And…?”
“He wants to get back together. He said all the right things… that he was sorry… that he’d been a fool… that he realizes now how much I mean to him.”
“And…?”
“I told him it was too late.”
Harry looked at her and saw that she was smiling. Jeanie was not a truly beautiful woman… except when she smiled. “You sound proud of yourself.”
“I am,” she said.
Harry slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer as they continued walking. “You should be.”
They headed down to the beach for several minutes before Jeanie spoke again. “You never told me how Vicky is.”
“She’s got a week off to let her arm heel, two weeks if she needs it. She’s happy as a clam.”
“Are clams happy?”
“I never heard one crying,” Harry said.
“What’s going to happen to Jim Morgan?”
“Don’t know, but I suspect they’ll find him mentally unfit to stand trial, which will mean a hullabaloo in the media, probably a slew of editorials demanding that all cops get psychological evaluations.”
“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Jeanie teased.
“Except that it could put me out of work,” Harry came back.
“Did he ever explain why he killed those people, why he carved those words in their foreheads and covered their faces with masks?”
“In the end his explanations were all religious gibberish,” Harry said. “Lola Morofsky thinks it goes back to the
