With speed and certainty, Swann marked a series of dots on the table:
'It's not really a mystery, you know,' Swann said.
'Anybody who's computer literate can do it. Does that prove I wrote the messages by myself?'
Becker sat opposite Swann once more.
'I'm going to say this very carefully,' Becker said, 'because I want you to hear the specifics of what I have to say and not just the emotion.
But if you have half as much sense as you seem to think you do, and if you believe any part of the stories you've heard about me, you'll realize that I mean exactly what I say. All right?'
'Of course.'
'I never want to hear from you again. I do not want communication of any kind, in any form. What's more, if I receive communication from anyone else in this place, I will assume that it came from you. Is that clear?'
'That's not fair, you can't hold me responsible..
'Fuck fair. Is it clear?'
'Yes.'
'Good. If you are stupid enough to disregard what I've just told you, if I ever even hear your name again, I will personally deliver you to that pack of howling hard-ons in there and I will tell them what you have done. Is that clear?'
'They would kill me.'
'Is it clear?'
'Yes.'
'Good.'
Becker stood and shoved his chair neatly in place under the table.
'Is that all?' Swann asked.
'That's all I wanted to say.'
'What about what I told you? Aren't you going to do anything about it?'
'What is there to do? He's out, he's gone.'
'You can find him, I can help you find him.'
'How?'
'I know where he said he was going. I know where he is now.'
'How?'
Swann looked around the room once more, craning his neck to see that the window in the door was empty.
'I need to be safe. I have to be safe before I can talk freely. Can you promise me I'll be safe, Mr. Becker?'
'Me? I just made my promise to you. You didn't seem to like it.'
'He's a homocidal maniac. He kills people, he tortures and kills them. I can give him to you, isn't that worth something?'
'It might be to some people. What's it worth to you?'
Swann closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of himself again.
Will you please help me, Mr. Becker?' he asked, his eyes still closed.
'I am dying in here. I don't deserve to die, Christ has forgiven me for my sins, I've served three years… if no one helps me, I will never survive until my parole. Am I so loathsome that I deserve to die in this place?' He fell to his knees in front of Becker. 'Do you know what it's like in here? The monsters are fighting over me. They put their hands on you, you hate it, it disgusts you-and then you feel yourself getting aroused.
You hate yourself for it, but they won't let you just receive, they want you to participate, they want you to cooperate. They want you to make up things to do, things that will make them feel good. And you know what you do? You remember what feels good to you, you remember what you liked to have your girlfriend do to you, and you do it to them, you remember how it feels on yourself and you get excited as they're getting excited. They don't care about you, they don't even know who you are, but they still make you act as if you like it… and you get so you do.
Swann put his hands on Becker's knees and Becker stood abruptly, stepping away from the man.
'What do you want, Swann?'
'Will you at least tell someone at the FBI what I have to offer? Will you tell them you met with me and you know that I have valuable information?' He reached again for Becker's knee and again Becker stepped away.
More than anything, Becker wanted to leave. He felt the oppression of the prison clinging like a film to his skin and he wanted to run from the room and hurl himself into sunlight and water, to stand under a waterfall and have the obscenity of the prison scoured and flushed from his body. Swann's supplications held him back as surely as if the man were clinging to his leg.
'All right,' he said.
'Bless you!' Swann cried. He reached for Becker's hand. Becker stepped around him and pounded on the door for the guard.
'Praise Jesus,' Swann said, rising to his feet.
Swann stood next to Becker at the door, his body nearly touching Becker's. Becker could feel the heat of the other man's presence. He turned his head away.
'You've saved me,' Swann said. 'You've saved my life.'
Swann touched Becker's arm and Becker jerked away but Swann held on to his shirt. 'I can't thank you, I can never thank you.'
'Stand away,' Becker said. He felt the closeness of the man like a great weight pressing down on him.
Swann slid his hands down Becker's arm until he was clutching Becker's wrist. Becker tried to pull away as Swann raised his hand to kiss it.
Swann's grip was surprisingly strong and Becker could not wrest his hand free as Swann placed his lips on Becker's palm.
'No,' Becker said. Swann muttered something into Becker's skin, and it sounded like more prayer, but Becker was unsure if the man was praying to Jesus or to him.
'You let go of me, damn it.
Swann was kissing Becker's hand, peppering it with little pecks of his lips, working down the length of it to the fingers. His lips touched a fingertip and opened and took one of Becker's fingers into his mouth. He rolled his eyes up to look Becker in the face.
With a cry of disgust, Becker yanked his hand away at the same time that Swann released his wrist. His knuckles flew upwards, hitting Swann in the mouth and the nose.
'I only wanted to thank you,' Swann said reproachfully.
Becker did not look at him as he pounded again on the door.
Despite the blow to the face, Swann had still not backed away. He stood too close, so that Becker put a hand on his chest and pushed him back.
Swann's fingers touched Becker's hand again before Becker yanked it away.
'Keep your hands off me,' Becker said.
'You didn't have to hit me,' Swann said.
'Sorry,' Becker muttered. He stared anxiously out the window in the door, looking for the guard. Surely he wasn't locked in here; he didn't have to stay in here any longer with this man. The air seemed heavier still, as if weighed down on him; the walls seemed unbearably close.
'I was only thanking you.'
'Just keep your distance,' Becker said.
'Are you frightened of me?' Swann asked softly.
There was a taunting in his voice, the first recognition by a chronic victim who suddenly realizes he has an advantage. 'You seem frightened.
You don't need to be.' His voice became softer, gentler with each sentence as his sense of control grew. 'I'm your friend, you know. I want to be your friend.'
Becker turned and looked at him for the first time since he had hit him.
Swann's face was wet with tears, and blood trickled from his nose onto his lips. He had not wiped it since
