Second Grave on the Left

someone might hear. “Do you know how crazy it sounds?”

We were headed to the door. “Wait, you can’t actually put me in solitary.”

“Watch me.”

“Neil!”

“Luann,” he said when he opened the door, “get the restraints.”

Cookie had been sitting in Luann’s office and glanced up from her laptop, frowned in mild interest, then went back to her research.

“Okay, I give.” I showed my palms in surrender. When he eased his grip, I jerked my arm out of his hand then said through gritted teeth, “But don’t blame me when you start wetting your bed at night.”

He smiled at Luann congenially, then closed the door. “You got one chance. If you don’t make it good, you will never see the light of day again.”

“Fine,” I said, jabbing his chest with an index finger, “you want to play it rough, we’ll play it rough. Reyes Farrow is the son of Satan.” The moment I said it, the moment the words slid through my lips, I went into a state of shock. My hands flew over my mouth, and I stood for a very long time staring into space.

Reyes was going to kill me for letting a secret like that slip out. He was going to slice me into tiny pieces with his shiny blade; I just knew it. No, wait. I could fix this. I let my horrified gaze land on Neil. He seemed undecided on the solitary thing.

I dropped my hands and laughed. Or tried to laugh. Unfortunately, I sounded like a drowning frog, but I was rattled, discombobulated. “Just kidding,” I said, my voice straining under the pressure of certain death. I socked him on the arm. “You know how it is when you’re facing solitary confinement. You’ll say the craziest things.”

As I turned to sit back down — and to drop my jaw open to gawk at my own stupidity without him seeing — he said, “You’re not kidding.”

“Pffft,” I pfffted, turning back to him. “I was so kidding. Really? The son of Satan? Pffft.” I chuckled again and sat down. “So, where were we?”

“How is that possible?” He walked back to his desk in a daze. “I mean, how?”

Damn it. I totally gave myself away by floundering like a carp on dry land. I stood again and leaned over his desk. “Neil, really, you can’t tell anyone.”

The desperation in my voice brought him back to me. He blinked up and furrowed his brows in question.

“If there was ever anything in your life that you could not tell another living soul, Neil, this is it. I don’t know what Reyes would do if he found out that you knew. I mean—” I turned and paced away from him in thought. “—I don’t think he would hurt you. I really don’t, but there’s just no way to be certain. His behavior has been … erratic lately.”

“How is that possible?” he asked again.

“Well, he’s been under a lot of stress. And torture.”

“The son of Satan?”

“Are you listening to me?” I asked. Holy cow, talk about screwing the pooch. I screwed the whole litter. “You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” I’d already made the mistake of telling Cookie before I even considered the consequences. And now Neil? Why not just take out an ad in The New York Times? Put up a billboard on I-40? Have it tattooed on my ass?

“Charley,” Neil said, coming to his senses before me. “I understand. Not a word. I know what he can do, remember? I’m not about to incur his wrath. I promise you.”

With a huge sigh of relief, I sank back into the chair.

“But how is that possible?” he asked for the third time.

I offered a helpless shrug. “Even I don’t have all the details, Neil. I’m so sorry I told you. It’s not as bad as it sounds, really.”

“Bad?” he said, astonished. “How is that bad?”

“Ummm—” I gave it a moment’s thought. “—is that a trick question?”

“I happen to know he’s a good person, Charley. Just because his father is, well, broiled evil on toast. Do you know what true evil is?” he asked.

I shrugged my brows.

“When Americans talk of evil, they mean it in a malicious way, cruel and brutal. But that’s not what evil is. That’s simply our take on it.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Evil is simply the absence of good, the absence of God.”

I’d never thought of it that way. “So, you know that Reyes is not evil? That he’s a good person.”

“Of course.” He said it like I was a nincompoop. “But, seriously, he really is? You know, his son?”

“Yes,” I said, regret filling me. “He really is.”

“That is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Cool?”

Neil grinned. “Yes, cool.”

“I don’t understand. How is that cool?”

He reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers. “From the moment you arrived last week … No, I take that back. From the moment Reyes arrived in my life ten years ago, I’ve questioned things. I’ve asked myself if there really is a higher power. If heaven exists. If God exists. Part of that, I’ll admit, is seeing day after day the atrocities man is capable of. But then knowing, having a glimpse of this other world, this other reality and not knowing what it was, where it came from. But now…” He fixed an appreciative gaze on me. “In a word, you have reaffirmed my belief in God, Charley. I mean, think about it. If there’s a son of Satan, you can be damned certain there’s a Son of God.”

I shook my head. “You’re absolutely right. I’m just a little surprised at how well you’re taking all of this.”

“Think about it. Jesus loves me.”

Chuckling in relief, I leaned forward and whispered, “Jesus may love you, but I’m his favorite.”

He started to laugh, then paused. He studied me. For, like, a really long time.

“What?” I said, becoming self-conscious.

“If Farrow is the son of Satan, then what are you?”

“Uh-uh,” I said, wagging a finger. “You gave me one; I gave you one.”

He continued to study me, suddenly very curious, when Luann knocked. “Come in.”

She walked in and handed him some papers.

“This is it?” Neil said in astonishment as he settled a pair of glasses on his nose.

Luann had brought him the visitation records he’d asked for. “Yes, sir. He refuses all the others.”

“Thank you, Luann.” After she left, he said, “Farrow has only one person on his approved-visitors list. No attorney. No advocate. Just one guy.”

“Let me guess: Amador Sanchez.”

“That’s right. They were cellmates for four years.”

“They were friends in high school as well.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised. “How the hell did they end up cellmates? And remain cellmates for four years?”

How did Reyes manage that? He grew more intriguing by the heartbeat. “What did Luann mean, he refuses all the others?”

“Oh, the women, you know.” He waved the idea off with a hand as he studied the records. “Okay, Amador Sanchez visited him the week before he was shot. He seemed to visit fairly regularly.”

“What women?” I asked as he flipped through the pages.

“The women,” he said without looking up. “He doesn’t allow any of them to visit, so we probably don’t have any records. But God knows they try. At least one or two a month.” He glanced at the ceiling in thought. “Come to think of it, they usually fill out an application, try to see him regardless. We might still have copies. I’ll have to check.” He refocused on the papers.

“Yes, you said that. What women?” I asked again, trying to rein in the hot streak of jealousy that ripped through me.

After a long moment that had me plotting his assassination in various ways — I was up to seventeen — he glanced over the rim of his glasses. “All those women from the Web sites.” His tone successfully conveyed the fact