case you flew to Rio and danced the samba till dawn, or you got caught and spent the rest of your life behind bars. Either way, it was usually a one-shot crime.
So when Carella went to the computer that Tuesday morning, he accessed the state’s prison records by typing in first his name and then his password, but once he was cleared, he did not type in the key word KIDNAP because he didn’t think that would bear any fruit. In fact, he didn’t specify any crime at all. What he was looking for was a left-handed con who limped. In fact, what he was looking for was a left-handed con who’d limped his way out of jail and straight onto the deck of the
He called for a statewide search, but he limited it to just the past five years, otherwise he’d be here for the
Got a menu asking him to choose among HEAD, TRUNK, or EXTREMITIES.
Hit EXTREMITIES.
Was asked to choose between ARMS or LEGS.
Hit LEGS.
Knew what he was going to be asked before it popped up on the screen, and was not surprised.
He hit RIGHT.
Got a list as long as a prison night.
He’d be here all next week looking through all these records, maybe five or six hundred of them. Who’d have dreamt there were so many cons with injuries to the right leg, and how in hell was he supposed to find the man among them who’d…
Wait a minute, he was looking in the wrong place.
In this state, a term of post-release supervision was mandatory for every determinate sentence. For example, a Class B felony was punishable by an incarceration period of five to twenty-five years. If you were paroled, you had to be supervised on the outside for a period of from two and a half to five years. On the other hand, for a Class E felony, you could be sent up for a term of a year and a half to four years, but after parole, you had to report to your parole officer for at least a year and a half or as long as three years. The message was the same one it had always been: If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.
Carella logged off the prison system, clicked on DIVISION OF PAROLE, was asked for his online name and password, gave them STEPHEN L. CARELLA and then his shield number, 714-5632, and waited for clearance. When he was online, he asked for a search going back five years.
When prompted for the NAME of the parolee, he typed UNKNOWN.
OFFENSE?
He typed UNKNOWN.
SCARS, TATTOOS, OTHER DISTINGUISHING MARKS?
He typed LEFTHANDED.
DISABILITIES OR INFIRMITIES?
He typed INJURY TO RIGHT LEG, and got INVALID ANSWER and the same question again: DISABILITIES OR INFIRMITIES?
This time he typed LIMP, and hit the jackpot.
There were currently seven left-handed cons on parole from various prisons around the state, all of them with leg injuries. Four of these were injuries to the left leg. The remaining three were injuries to the right leg.
One of these injuries was sustained in the machine shop at Castleview State Penitentiary, when the heavy metal die for manufacturing license plates fell on the inmate’s foot, fracturing his ankle bone. The inmate had subsequently sued the state, Carella noticed. And lost, by the way. He’d been released from prison two years ago, and had since got hit by a bus that fractured his skull and caused his untimely demise. Carella figured some guys were just born losers.
The other two men were still alive.
Carella hit the PRINT button.
SHE ACTUALLYheard the key being inserted in the lock.
Heard the tiny click of the key being turned.
Heard some fumbling outside the door, and then the door opened and standing in the door frame was Saddam Hussein.
Carrying the big rifle.
None of them came into the room without a weapon. Must have thought she was extremely dangerous, handcuffed to the radiator this way. Maybe they’d caught a glimpse of “Bandersnatch” before they came down the stairs all macho-men, “Don’t nobody fucking
Hussein closed the door behind him, came limping across the floor towards her, dragging his right foot.
She could still remember him slapping her.
She almost flinched as he approached.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, and stopped just a few feet away from her.
She said nothing.
Realized she was cowering, tried to straighten her shoulders, realized this emphasized the thrust of her breasts, hunched over again. Behind the Hussein mask, his eyes were bright and blue. He held the AK-47 in his left hand.
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” he said.
I’ll bet, she thought.
“For hitting you the other night.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “Forget it.”
“No, really,” he said, and knelt beside her on the floor. “I got a little excited, is all.”
He’s sitting too close, she thought. Watch it, Tamar.
“What can I do for you? To make you more comfortable,” he said, and put his right hand on her exposed knee.
“No, don’t,” she said, and turned her body away, into the radiator.
“
How about unlocking this handcuff? she thought.
Only way out of here is to get hold of the gun, she thought.
Any one of the guns.
They all have guns around here.
“My wrist hurts,” she said.
“Ahh,” he said. “Want me to rub it for you?”
“Be better if you took off the handcuff,” she said.
“But I don’t have a key,” he said, and put his hand on her knee again.
This time, she did not tell him to stop.
“Why don’t you go get the key?” she asked. “It’s very uncomfortable this way.”
“Avery has the key,” he said.
Avery, she thought. A name.
He did not seem to realize he’d slipped.
“Go ask him for it,” she said.
His hand slid onto her thigh.
“No, don’t,” she said. “Not now. Go get the key first. Take off this damn handcuff,” she said, and smiled.
“How does it feel to be dancing in front of people half-naked that way?” he asked. His eyes were shining bright in the holes of the mask. His hand on her thigh was trembling.
