Their long-term interdependence and mutual interests had merged into a closeness that, outside prison, might well have been mistaken for a kind of love. And in a way, it was. It had been a private joke between them that the universal presumption of physical intimacy between them had given Mitch Johnson a certain kind of protection from attack that he had very much appreciated. Originally that physical security had meant far more to Mitch than Andrew Carlisle's promised monetary legacy. Once the former professor was in the picture, no one ever again attempted to mess with Mitch Johnson, no one at all.
'Believe it or not, still no symptoms, if that's what you're looking for,' Mitch said, answering Quentin's unasked question.
Embarrassed, Quentin's eyes dodged away from Mitch's unflinching gaze. 'Sorry,' he mumbled.
'It's okay,' Mitch said.
For a time the two men were silent while Quentin stared moodily into his beer. 'I didn't mean to insult you…'
'Forget it,' Mitch said. 'It's nothing. I'm used to it by now.'
Quentin shook his head. 'You two were the only ones up there who ever helped me, you know,' he muttered. 'You and Andy. And of all the people there, you two should have been the very last ones. I mean, with everything my family did to you…'
'It's all water under the bridge, Quentin,' Mitch reassured him. 'That was then, and this is now.'
'But you don't know how bad it was for me,' Quentin continued, undeterred. 'That first year after I got sent up was a nightmare. I was young and stupid and the son of a sheriff, for God's sake, and I thought I was so tough. But I wasn't, not nearly tough enough. Everybody in the joint was after my ass, or worse. Those guys had me six ways to Sunday. They turned me into nothing but a piece of meat.' He shuddered, remembering.
'If you and Andy hadn't taken me under your wings, I don't know what would have happened to me. I'd probably be dead by now.'
'Don't give me any of the credit,' Mitch cautioned. 'It was Andy's idea, not mine.'
'But why did he do it? I've always wondered about that. All he had to do was put out the word that I belonged to him and that was it. After that nobody else ever touched me. I was scared shitless that he would… that someday he'd make a demand and I'd have to come across, but he never did.'
'No,' Mitch agreed. 'Andy wasn't like that. That's the part nobody understood about him.'
'Not even with you?' Quentin asked.
'No, not even with me.'
'So why then?' Quentin continued. 'Why did he protect me without demanding anything in return?'
'Because that's the way he was,' Mitch answered. 'Because Andrew Carlisle was a remarkable man.'
'It's the nicest thing anybody ever did for me.' Quentin Walker's blood alcohol level had taken him to the edge of maudlin. He ducked his head and swiped tears from his eyes.
Mitch looked away and pretended not to notice. 'He helped me the same way he did you,' he said quietly. 'He taught me how to survive, no matter what. In the end, he was the one who gave me a reason to go on living.'
'Hell of a guy,' Quentin murmured, raising his beer glass in a toast. 'Here's to Andy. May he rest in peace.'
Again they were both silent for a moment. 'I suppose you've read your stepmother's book about him?' Mitch said finally.
Quentin Walker scowled into his glass. 'Are you kidding? Whatever that bitch has to say about him, I'm not interested. Just because she had a problem with Andrew Carlisle doesn't mean I did, too.'
Mitch clicked his tongue. 'Your stepmother may be famous, but it doesn't sound as though she's one of your favorite people.'
Quentin shook his head. 'Are you kidding? She's got my dad wound so tight around her little finger, it's a wonder the man can even breathe on his own.'
'One of those blended families that isn't quite working,' Mitch Johnson observed.
Quentin Walker had come back to Tucson from prison to a kind of internal exile. He was right there in town with them, but he wanted nothing whatever to do with Brandon Walker and his 'second' family. He had seen his mother a few times, but the second time he hit Janie Walker Fellows Hitchcock up for a loan, Quentin's goody- goody half-brother, Brian Fellows, had barred the door. Now Quentin was only allowed to speak to his mother in person and in the presence of either her nurse or of Brian himself.
Working construction, Quentin had developed a reputation as a loner. He caught rides to and from work with various coworkers, but having discovered how people reacted to the news that he was fresh out of the slammer, he now kept that information strictly to himself. He resisted all suggestions of possible friendship and relied on various neighborhood bartenders when he needed a shoulder to cry on.
In all those lonely months, Mitch Johnson's was the first truly friendly face he had encountered. Here at last was someone who, however distant, qualified as a friend; someone who could be counted on to understand the depths of Quentin's own miserable existence. Here was a kindred spirit, an ex-con himself, who didn't automatically regard Quentin as some kind of repulsive monster. Grateful beyond measure, the younger man warmed to this prison acquaintance in the same boozy way he might have approached an old classmate at a high school reunion.
For months, for years, in fact, Quentin had kept his feelings locked behind a dam of self-pity. Now, as the floodgates opened, he spilled out his sad tale, wallowing in the injustice of it all.
'Tommy and me didn't get blended,' Quentin replied bitterly. 'Sliced and diced is more like it. Or else pureed right out of existence.'
'Tommy's your brother then?' Mitch Johnson asked.
Quentin considered for a moment before he answered. 'He was my little brother. The two of us always ended up taking a backseat to Davy, my stepmother's kid, and even to Lani, once she came along. They got everything, and we got nothing.'
'Lani's the Indian girl your dad and stepmother adopted?'
Quentin frowned. 'How did you know that?'
'It's in the book,' Mitch said quickly. 'In your stepmother's book. You're all in it. You said Tommy was your little brother. I don't remember the book saying anything about him being dead.'
'Tommy's missing,' Quentin answered firmly. 'He's been missing for years. He disappeared between his freshman and sophomore years in high school. After all this time, I suppose he's dead. Nobody's heard from him since.'
Quentin ducked his head and took another quick sip of beer. 'Sorry,' he added. 'I didn't mean to end up spilling out all this family crap.'
'It's okay,' Mitch returned. 'Families are like that, especially for people like us. All you have to do is screw up once and then you find out the whole idea of 'unconditional love' is a crock of shit. The people who are supposed to love you usually turn out to be the ones who break your heart. That's why friends are so important. A lot of times, friends are it. They're all you end up with.'
Once again Quentin gave Mitch a searching, sidelong look. 'You mean you're in the same boat?'
Mitch nodded. 'Pretty much,' he said. 'If it's any consolation, there's a whole lot of that going around.'
'As in misery loves company?'
'More or less.'
Quentin gave a bleak laugh and lifted his almost empty glass. 'Here's to friends, then,' he said.
'To friends,' Mitch agreed, touching his still almost full glass to Quentin's nearly empty one. Quentin raised one finger and called for another beer.
'So what are you up to these days?' Quentin asked as they waited for the bartender to deliver the order.
'For the last couple of months,' Mitch Johnson said quietly, 'I've been looking for you.'
'Looking for me?' Quentin asked, as though he couldn't quite believe it.
Mitch nodded. 'I probably wouldn't have found you now if it hadn't been for your mother.'
'Which one, my stepmother or my real mother?'
'Your biological mother,' Mitch answered.
'You mean you actually made it past the screen and talked to her?'
'What screen?'
'My brother, Brian. My half-brother. He doesn't let me anywhere near Mom if he can help it. He claims I upset
