eyes. His wrists thrust backward through a slot in the door, as though schooled by habit. Then the guard unsnapped the cuffs.
Rennell flinched. 'Hi, Rennell,' Terri said. 'It's good to see you.'
* * *
In the next few moments, Carlo tried to absorb as much about Rennell Price as his senses allowed.
The big man settled across from them with painful deliberation, as though he had to think hard about the act of sitting. Carlo flashed on his maternal grandfather after his first stroke; Carlo Carelli had never again trusted his body, and to move his hand, or take a step, had seemed a willful act of memory. But this man's face, younger than his years, lacked all emotion—except that his gaze was so fixed on Terri that Carlo felt invisible.
'This is Carlo,' she told Rennell. 'My stepson. He's also a lawyer, and he's going to help us.'
Smiling, Carlo held out his hand. It took Rennell a few seconds to grasp it, his grip as lifeless as his fleeting look at Carlo.
'How's your television working?' Terri asked. 'Okay, I hope.'
'Good.'
The deep voice conveyed far less emotion than the word. 'How's Hawkman doing?' she asked.
Rennell's brief glance at Carlo conveyed discomfort with his presence, perhaps distrust. 'Good. Like I told you. But mostly same is same.'
That much, Carlo believed. 'What else have you been up to?' Terri asked.
Still Rennell did not look at Carlo. 'I've started making a book,' he said in an oddly stubborn tone. 'Of my life.'
Carlo heard this as a kind of narcissism, reminding him of an odd fact recalled by his father: that Lee Harvey Oswald's mother had once proposed to write a book entitled 'A Mother's Place in History.' But perhaps, Carlo amended, beneath this was a sad hope that his life mattered to anyone at all.
'What kind of book?' Terri asked.
'With pictures, for Grandma. Next time I want you to bring a camera.'
The demand, both childish and peremptory, bemused Carlo further. He found nothing in Rennell's eyes to give him any clues as to whether his client suffered from a poverty of thought, feeling, or both.
'She wants to come see you,' Terri said in a sympathetic voice. 'But she's way too sick.'
For the first time, Rennell's expression became probing. 'Is she dead?'
Terri shook her head. 'No,' she answered softly. 'Just old and sad and worried for you.'
Rennell laughed softly. 'Worry,' he said. 'Like she always done.'
Carlo could not tell whether he heard disdain or merely fact. But Terri nodded her understanding. 'That's because she loves you.' She cocked her head, eyes expressing curiosity. 'What else do you remember about her?'
'Chicken dinners.'
What about the time she lost her house for you? Carlo wondered. But Terri smiled. 'Did Payton like those, too?'
'Guess so.'
'How's he doing, by the way?'
Rennell shrugged. 'He say follow the rules and you be all right.'
'Sounds like good advice, Rennell.'
'Guess so.' His stubborn tone returned. 'Long as Payton be here, they don't give me no trouble in the yard.'
At this, Carlo glanced at Terri: Payton's execution date was twenty-five days away, and his lawyers now had little hope—whatever else, no one believed Payton Price to be retarded.
'He say they going to kill him,' Rennell continued softly. 'Say he in a race with Grandma for the grave. Won't see him in the yard no more, he say. I got to keep my head down when he be gone.'
Terri considered him. 'When you were kids,' she ventured, 'I guess Payton looked after you.'
For the first time, Rennell seemed to smile, the slightest change in his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth. 'Yeah, he done that. Took me to school, maybe sometimes to the store.'
'What else did he do?'
Rennell's eyes clouded. 'Sometimes, if things was bad, he'd take me out to hide.'
Once more, Terri cocked her head. 'Hide from what?'
Rennell folded his arms.
'Your father?' Terri asked.
Rennell's shoulders hunched. 'Sometimes he'd take a belt to me.'
'Your daddy? Or Payton?'
Rennell shook his head. 'Sometimes he'd hit me a lick, keep me in line. But mostly he'd look out for me.'
