Chapter 2

There were two sections to the prison; one three-story building dwarfed by a separate massive structure behind it. The smaller building held the administrative offices, whereas the other contained the actual prison blocks. Joe found it difficult to feign interest in George Carmichael’s guided tour of the long, wide hallways within the Administration Building. It reminded him of every prison he had worked in.

Each plain, brightly lit hallway gave way to another that was just as bland. Joe nodded and added an occasional “Really?” as George paused or told brief bits of trivia concerning certain rooms. His thoughts were focused on other things. Maybe it was in anticipation or morbid curiosity, like the kind that drives people to slow down to observe bad traffic accidents, that kept his mind preoccupied on the oncoming meeting with Grady.

When they rounded the corner to the hallway Joe would be most familiar with over the course of his visits, George captured his undivided attention.

“I want to sit in on the first meeting, if for nothing else, then to serve as a mediator.” His words were short and he refused to look directly at his younger associate. Instead, he stared at his hands.

“George, I don’t know. This is my first interaction with him and I wouldn’t want your established relationship to taint that. I prefer to work alone. I think better that way,” Joe protested while he stared at the profile of the large man.

“I can understand that. Many of us feel the same way. It’s just that…you don’t have any idea of the deterioration that has occurred in Grady’s thoughts. I don’t even know that yet. I think it would be for your own good.”

Joe thought for a few seconds about whether or not he should humor the warden’s request. He had been hired by Mr. Carmichael and was at his mercy. Out of respect, he shrugged and smiled. “Then I don’t have a problem with it.”

George returned the smile and added a short nod as he twisted the knob of the large metal door beside him. A bronze plaque rested in the door’s center, with the words “Meeting Room” etched in large block letters. The warden pushed the door open and motioned for Joe to enter.

The first thing Joe noticed as he stepped through the open doorway was the large two-way mirror that engulfed the entire upper portion of the wall to his right. He gazed at his reflection as he stepped toward the large oak table that sat centered on the white carpeted floor. He turned to his left, back to center, then to his right, holding his attention on the mirror as the image followed his every motion. He chuckled and caught George’s reflection shaking his head behind him.

“Will anyone be observing?,” he asked without turning to face the warden.

“That’s up to you. I’ll respect your professional privacy enough to stay out of the observation room unless you feel its necessary.”

“Sounds good,” Joe combed his fingers through his short, blonde hair while maintaining his stare  on his reflection. The motion made him feel bordered on the edge of vanity and he dropped his hand by his side to try and restore his professional image. He turned to the large table and took a seat at its far end, on the side that faced the door’s wall. George followed and sat in the chair to his immediate left, crossing his arms in front of him as he grunted.

“He should be here shortly.”

“Good,” Joe nodded.

In the distance, he heard the rattling of chains long before he would meet their wearer. As the soft jingle drew nearer, Joe shifted in his seat. He could distinguish the approaching melody of a man’s deep humming. The song seemed familiar, but a lapse of memory blocked all hopes of discerning the exact tune. The rhythmic, slow rustle of the prisoner’s chains added soft harmony to the eerie ballad and created a cruel, dark mood to Joe’s tingling nerves. He felt as if he were an athlete about to face the big game. It had been years since he had interviewed a prisoner, much less a violent one, and he feared that corporate workers and failed parents had made his interview methods soft.

“That’s him,” George whispered as he turned to face Joe. “House of the Rising Sun. It’s Jess’s favorite. This must be your lucky day.”

Joe felt a delicate chill run the length of his spine as the large metal door opened. The bulky shape of the man in chains filled the frame of the doorway and Joe quickly prayed it was a dream from which he would soon be waking. The sheer monstrosity of the man’s size would have been enough to evoke the darkest shade of disbelief from Joe’s eyes.

Grady stood a few inches taller than the psychologist, somewhere between the height of six and six and a half feet. He was larger than the warden and his girth was composed of solid muscle. The sleeves of his faded blue coveralls had been rolled back to expose several deep, twisting scars that trailed pinkish-white over the length of his long, piston forearms. His skin was a pale grayish white.

Joe was certain that the hulk could have squeezed his head from his own body if the urge moved him. The black, greasy curls that covered his head to the base of his neck spread a thin veil over his eyes. Joe felt relieved for that much. The uncovered portion of his face appeared twisted and distorted with a devilish expression of sadistic pleasure. His cheeks were drawn and sallow, but not from any apparent illness or lack of nourishment. Across his chin, a dark field of stubble spread in sporadic patches. A light snarl curled Grady’s upper lip as he stood in the doorway and stared at Joe through the scattered mess of his hair.

With a quick, intentional motion, one large hand raised and pulled the mass of curls from his face to reveal Grady’s eyes. The deep orbs were nothing more than two dark openings that were absent of a single hint of color—just two black pits sunken into the thick folds of the blue-black bags that hung underneath his eyelids.

Joe shuddered for a brief instant and cleared his throat. He had worked with insane prisoners over the years, many of whom he had known to possess the ability to kill him in a blink. His personal worst had been a man who had suffered from schizophrenia for many years. Whenever the client grew tired of the sessions, he would gnaw his own arm, softly at first, but with more force as his anxiety grew. Eventually, he would bite down so hard that he would have to be sent to the infirmary to be treated for the punctures. He had one glass eye and half of his left ear was missing. Before coming to Shady Oaks Joe would have said, hands down, that he had been the most disturbing person he had ever been around based on looks alone. If Grady’s looks were any indication of the prisoner’s capabilities, he had a reason to believe every word that George had said about him.

“Hello, Grady,” he began and paused to wait for a response. His face held a clever false grin that exemplified the patience he had perfected over the years. He was answered with silence. “If you could please have a seat, we can begin.”

The figure stood in the doorway without a word or movement. Joe was about to speak again when a deep, guttural boom erupted from the man’s throat. Joe fell silent once more.

“Warden,” the lips moved and forced a grotesque expression to spread across the face of the speaker. It seemed like a chore for the prisoner to speak and the entire face strained around his mouth. His eyes drew into two black slits under his concentrated efforts. The voice was like the roar of a lion growling in deep hunger or stern warning. It locked Joe’s body at the joints to freeze him in his chair with his eyes staring wide. “Who is this man, warden?”

“Dr. Joseph Richards. He is here to ask you some questions, Jess. He’s a psychologist from Washington and has an interest in speaking with you.” The warden answered him without a single tremor. If he had any fear of the prisoner, he hid it well.

“Well, warden, I suggest you tell him to call me by my right fucking name. I wouldn’t want to have to break him in half.” His voice remained monotonous as he made the threat without the slightest inclination of a lack of control.

“I apologize, Jess,” Joe bowed his head. The motion helped him to regain some of his composure. “Would you like to have a seat here with us?” He motioned his hand towards the chair across from him. The prisoner cocked his head to the side, then down at the chair. He walked to the table and sat down.

“Wise move,” he snarled as he stared into Joe’s face. “Very wise.”

George started to speak, but Joe lifted a finger to stop him. Those were the exact reasons why Joe hadn’t wanted him along. He knew it would be natural for the prison’s warden to try and take charge and it would get in the way of his interview. George closed his mouth and listened as Joe started again.

“I understand you have an acquaintance named Grady.” Joe felt a smile of clever pride creep up on him as he spoke. It was a smile that took every effort to stifle back down. Pride was a dangerous thing in his current situation. The large inmate continued to stare into the speaker’s eyes, baring his teeth as he let a short smile emerge on his lips. “Is he around?”

A mad laugh erupted from the prisoner’s thick belly as he ran his thick tongue over the front of his teeth.

“I like this one, warden,” he grinned. “No, he is not around. I put that sad sack of shit to bed. I’m what you got right now. I suggest you learn to enjoy my company while you have it.”

Joe smiled to hide the growing disappointment as his opening met a sudden dead end. He gripped his pen between two of his fingers and tapped it against the top of the table. He thought for a few minutes to regroup before he spoke again. With a final decision, he explored another option.

“Warden Carmichael informed me that you served in the United States Army. I’d love to hear about it. I’m sure that you have some pretty interesting stories.”

Nothing but the dark, hollow stare met Joe as he looked across the table at his client. He continued to tap the table with the tip of his pen. As the taps grew quicker, Grady let a soft moan escape his mouth, surprising Joe enough to shift his attention from the pen to Grady’s face. It was not a noise he expected to come from that figure. It was almost painful to hear, but at the same time echoed of innocence.

“How sick a mind would you say you have, doctor?” Joe felt his joints lock again as the words rang with the same deep intensity.

“I mean, if someone were to tell you that everything you’ve learned was complete horse shit, could you entertain the idea? Even for a second? What if I were to say to you that I have found the very secrets of Hell and could create such a place in anyone and everyone’s mind? Would you think I was completely insane? I can tell you two things, doctor. I can tell you what you want to hear, all kinds of shit about why Grady created me and how bad his childhood was, or me and you can sit here and have ourselves a pow-wow. All I will offer you is the truth.”

Joe felt suddenly uncomfortable. He wanted to get out of the room and away from the absurdity that poured from Grady-Jess’s tongue, but his professional image prevented him from reacting. He moved his hand rapidly, which caused the light taps to grow louder and faster. A cough erupted from his mouth and burned in his throat as the deep, rasping sound echoed off of the solid walls of the meeting room. The prisoner’s face twisted in anger as the taps increased.

Suddenly and without warning, Grady’s large hand slammed over Joe’s and sent the pen skittering across the floor. With quick pressure, the hand tightened with the strength of a vice grip and sent a sharp bolt of pain through his arm as he squirmed in his seat. He knew, without a doubt, that at any second his hand would break and waited for the dry snap to come. It never did. Instead, he found the prisoner’s face inching closer to his with a leering grin stamped across his mouth. It stopped a short space from his own.

“Now, listen to me, you little shit,” the voice growled at him. “Listen to me closely. I’ve been around a lot longer than you and will be here many years after you’re dead and buried in the ground. You can keep your theories and your psychological evaluations because they mean nothing to me. Just let me tell you one thing—don’t fuck with me. I may allow you to live after all of this is through, but I may not. That’s for me to decide. One thing is sure, I will teach you everything that you need to know about me. Don’t you worry about that.”

As the voice stopped, Joe came to the realization that George had been yelling. Seven guards entered the room from where they must have been waiting outside the door and added their own voices to the warden’s shouts. Two of them flanked the prisoner on either side and drove long-needled syringes into both shoulders. Jess did not resist them, but held his intense gaze on Joe’s face as the guards pressed the sedative-filled plungers down to their bases.

“Let him go, Jess. NOW!”

Suddenly, the large hand released his own. Joe fell back in his chair and rubbed his bruised knuckles with the palm of his other hand. The guard grabbed a firm hold of the chains that hung between the prisoner’s arms and led him back through the door. Jess stopped as he passed through the entrance and smiled into Joe’s eyes. In the next instant he was gone, his deep rendition of “House of the Rising Sun” trailing away as the chains clanked in rhythm. Joe didn’t feel comfortable again until the song had faded to silence.

                                                                                          *             *             *

“How’s the hand?,” George asked with a sympathetic squint in his eye.

“It hurts, but I’ll live.” Joe shrugged as his attention shifted from the cigarette that hung from his fingers.

“Well, I guess you know what you’re doing, Joe. I just hope you’ve learned your less from today’s little incident. You should not underestimate Jess. If I were you, I would do some heavy praying that the rest of your visits are Jess-free.” George spoke in a solemn tone, his face set in stone as he stared across the desk at Joe.

They were back in the warden’s office, three floors away from the meeting room where Joe figured he had been the closest since his infant days to pissing his pants. The storm had gained momentum outside as the dull, far away rumbles of the approaching thunder came in multiple crashes, one after another. The steady patter of rain against the large, plate-glass window kept a thick, droning beat that seemed appropriate after the day’s disturbing events.

Joe sat with his eyes down-set and his spirit broken, drawing the deep, gray smoke of his cigarette into his lungs before expelling it into the haze of the office. His right hand still shook from its brush with the crushing power of Jess’s mighty bulk. He was sure that when he arrived back at the hotel he would take a long shower and an even longer nap. His head drooped as he gave a quick nod to the warden’s advice and dropped the file from his lap to the brown leather briefcase at his feet. With his right foot, he pushed the case closed and latched it with his quivering hand. Returning his attention to the steady gaze across from him, he pressed his cigarette into the small, glass ashtray and proceeded to stand.

Stretching his left hand across the cluttered desk, he forced a weak smile onto his lips. “Thank you, George. I will keep you posted.”

George gave a slight nod as he grasped the psychologist’s uninjured hand in his own and shook it firmly. “I would appreciate that. If you need my advice or have any questions…”

“I’ll be sure to call you. Should I come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll let you know. Jess could be present for the entire week or Grady may be back as we speak. We’ll make constant checks and when Grady returns to us, we’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Thanks again, George.” Joe’s voice was calming as he found his thoughts resettling themselves.

“Don’t mention it,” the warden replied as his mouth spread with a warm smile.

Joe turned on his heels with his briefcase in his hand and left the office. As he exited the elevator on the first floor, his eyes caught a quick glimpse of the door that led out to the parking lot. All he could see past the glass frame were the large constant drops of water that hammered over the sidewalk. Puddles were forming around the door. It would be a long walk to his car and Joe had forgotten his umbrella.

                                                                                          *             *             *

Deep within the basement of the prison, Grady Perlson sat with his back pressed against the wall. His face was free from the twisted scowl that had caused a shiver in Joe’s spine as he had first eyed the prisoner. Instead, his cheeks sagged and his head hung low.

He had been pumped with enough Thorazine to cause men twice his size to sleep for weeks, but Jess made him resist it. He could have struggled with them until they gave him too much sedation, but even after an overdose, Jess would not let him die. Tears streamed from Grady’s eyelids and caused wet streaks that puffed red to his chin. The eyes, hiding behind the water wells, darted from side to side as he moaned into the ceiling. His knees were drawn to his chest with his arms wrapped around them. He rocked, forward then backward, looking the part of a lost and terrified child rather than an inmate whose heinous crimes had earned him the privilege of dying in prison. He wondered if they would bury him in the yard, at least until his sentence was up. He hoped that they wouldn’t. He wanted to go home.

Grady could feel the breath of the one inside him—that dark presence that always lurked around the corner. It was a weight on his chest like a thousand boulders stacked one by one. It was a dark, twisted hand on his shoulder that he could never shake away. He was a container, a jar built to fit one soul, that had strained under the pressure of having another forced in. The deep, evil voice never let him sleep. Then there were the visions. They had always been the worst. Scenes of indescribable malice and torture, all swirling around his mind in a stream of dizzying thoughts. Nothing stopped them. Nothing calmed them. They were always in control of his mind and his soul.

Another moan welled within him like a spring and lingered in his throat for a long moment before it escaped into the damp air of his cell. More tears fell from his cheek, spilling across his hands and spattering to the floor.

“Leave me alone,” he whispered into the night as the voices surged inside him, forcing him to close his eyes. They were the voices of his brothers and all of the men he had seen die. Sometimes they were child-like; other times much deeper.

An intense, defeated laughter sprung from Grady’s belly as his muscles tensed and his rocking grew slower and drawn out. Forced laughter was usually the only way he could gain any relief. Leaning forward, he pressed his chin against his collarbone. His lip trembled as he rocked away from the wall. With a swift, jerking motion, he propelled himself toward the concrete and snapped his neck back as he neared the solid structure. Causing a heavy thud, the back of his skull cracked against the stone to leave a small red dot on the gray surface.

Grady crumpled over on his stomach and fell still. His only movement was the slow, occasional rise and fall of his chest. He was asleep. It was a sleep that, in itself, was a form of torture. For now, he would have the nightmares.