In the week that followed his first visit to the Shady Oaks Correctional Facility, Joe spent the majority of his afternoons exploring the large boarding house where he had taken residence. His eyes wandered across the dozens of paintings that lined the walls of the hallways, most done by local artists, with the antique furniture beneath them adding a touch of age to the beautiful works of art. He toured hall after hall of the old boarding house—from the top floor to the stairwell outside of the basement bar. The strong aroma of the various liquors flowed with heavy flavor into his nose and lingered for a still moment. Joe reached for the door handle, but shook his head as he forced himself back through the long, dim hallway. Stepping up the short, steep staircase, he recalled the last drink that he had taken.

 

It had been a cold day in December when he received the call. He had been sitting in front of the TV with his wife and infant son on either side of him when the phone warbled from the table in the front hall. He could remember cursing under his breath as he left his wife laughing hysterically as Kramer burst through the swinging door of Jerry’s apartment with a crazed expression on his face on the latest episode of Seinfeld. Snatching the handset from the receiver, he had barked something—his actual words he could not remember. His older brother’s voice on the other end of the line stammered for a moment, regained its composure, then informed him that their father was dead.

 

At the funeral two days later, he had stared into the open grave while Elaine bawled her hot, wet tears into the crook of his neck. She had always had a rough time with funerals. An outsider would have thought that it was her own father in the coffin. The truth was that she had barely known him. Joe figured that she had grieved more for him and his detachment. He didn’t speak to his brother when he approached him. Instead, he nodded in silent recognition and walked away. He hadn’t known where he was going or how he would get there. One thing was sure—he was going alone.

 

An hour later, he had wandered into a small bar off of a back road two miles from the cemetery. The sign had flashed the name Still’s Bar in blue neon letters. The only other thing he could remember of the rest of that night was when he, in the middle of a drunken stupor, snatched the bottle from the counter and started his long walk back to the cemetery. He stumbled to his father’s grave, the dirt still loose and in contrast to the dark green grass around it, reopened the half-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, and proceeded to pour the light brown liquor over the headstone and soil. It was the ground that would serve as his father’s home for the rest of eternity. “Take it all, dad. You’ve earned it.”

 

It was the last time that he had taken a drink. Elaine had made him promise that he wouldn’t follow his father’s lead. He had eventually agreed. Now, as he reached the top of the stairs, he turned to look back on the bar’s padded door.

 

Never again, he thought to himself as he turned to face the young girl who sat behind the front desk as she looked over the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. She seemed to be sixteen at the oldest, her hair pulled into a tight pony tail behind her head with one thin mess of strands hanging over the outline of her face. Her small, plump lips smacked at the gum that floated from one side of her mouth to the other, guided by the skilled precision of her thin, pink tongue. She raised her eyes from the magazine and met Joe’s with a sly smile.

 

“Hey Dr. Richards. Enjoying your visit?,” the soft Southern drawl inquired as her voice rolled in a thick wave from her mouth.

 

“Yeah. Actually, I was just taking a tour of your hotel. It’s beautiful.” Joe returned her smile as he leaned against the wooden bannister that followed the stairs up to his room.

 

“I like it here too. It’s inviting.” She closed the magazine and shifted in her seat. “Say doctor, you want me to come up and fluff your pillow? I’m a very good housekeeper.”

 

Joe nearly stumbled backwards on the staircase as her mouth widened and exposed her white pearl teeth. He froze for a moment and let a hefty chuckle rumble from his gut. “No thanks. I think I can manage it on my own.”

 

“Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me.”

 

“I sure do. You have a good night.” He waved and turned to walk up the curved staircase to his room. She offered no response as he disappeared onto the next floor. Joe paused by the door of room 231 for a brief second, debated his decision about getting that drink, and entered his room.

 

                                                     *             *             *

 

The view from the balcony of room 231 at the Hovington House took Joe’s breath away. He could see very little land over the many acres of the hotel’s back lawn, which rolled in sloping hills before it disappeared into the surrounding forest, but it wasn’t the landscape that snatched the air from his lungs with an uneasy jolt.

 

The clouds that swirled over his head ranged from a light, smoky gray to a deep, brooding black. The rain spewed forth over the small town of Pine Haven to create a wall over his vision that confined him to the small space of roof that hung over the back half of the ledge. Thunder claps barked and shouted their quick judgments down on the hotel, while the lightning that preceded each roar streaked currents of electric blue across the sky.

 

Joe flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette and watched the thick mass of gray fall into a small puddle that formed at his feet. The smoke rose in a quick spurt before rising further to disappear into the sky above. From far away, a quick, loud bang echoed and died as a blown transformer shouted its final curse to the sky before falling idle. The noise caused Joe to jolt backwards as the small hairs on the back of his neck tingled and stood on end. He raised the cigarette to his lips one final time and savored the draw of nicotine-enriched smoke that filled his throat and lungs, then pitched it over the side railing. Letting the smoke drift from his mouth and nose, he turned and reentered the room. With a rough exhale, the remainder of the smoke disappeared as he walked through the sliding glass door.

 

While he slid the door closed on its track, a bright flash slashed the sky with a pale, jagged streak. Joe’s eyes shot up before he turned to the small table that sat two feet away and was empty except for the thick manila folder sitting in its center.

 

He fell into the thick wooden chair and winced as he brushed the side of the table against one of the large blue-black bruises on his right hand. Lifting the hand to his face, he inspected his injury with a grimace. Two of the bruises mirrored Grady’s long, thick fingers. Opening and closing the hand, he flipped the folder open with his left hand and returned the other to its resting place on the table in front of him. With nothing else to occupy his attention, he turned his focus to the puzzle of records that collaborated the story of Grady Perlson.

 

The majority of Grady’s file was comprised of various guard reports. Joe lifted the first one from the pile and read it with a soft whisper.

 

“Grady shows no signs of trouble. He spends most of his time sitting on his bed quietly. When he does speak, he is courteous and polite. It is my recommendation that he be moved into General Population.”

 

Joe paused and pulled a small note pad from his pocket. Scrawling a short summary of the report across the page, he flipped to the next page. The follow up had been the same as the initial report. It was the same guard and the same content. He flipped through sheets that spanned over the next year and came to one page with a thick, brown coffee stain smeared on its upper left corner in the distinct circle of the bottom of a mug.

 

“I am attaching to this report a request for transfer from this facility. Why such a malicious beast was allowed into General Population, I could never imagine. But then again, I could never have imagined seeing another man’s eye ripped from its socket right before my very eyes, but that happened. It is my personal recommendation that he be returned to the basement cells as soon as possible.”

 

The report had been dated a year later than the first one, during Grady’s second year in prison. There were no notations of any problems before.

 

“So where did Jess come from?” Joe muttered as he flipped through the reports.

 

Coming to rest on the last few forms, he clicked his tongue and stopped. Every psychological evaluation Grady had received since the military had been compiled in the last pages of the file. Each of them pronounced him legally sane except for the last one.

 

“There is something about Grady Perlson that I cannot put my finger on,” Joe read from the report. “Grady exhibits symptoms of schizophrenia, but until now has not seemed delusional or paranoid. He mutters to himself and freezes when asked to repeat what he has said. He stares at me with empty eyes for what seems like hours then resumes his incoherent mumbling. I would like to put in a request to see him twice a week so that I may better evaluate his condition.” It was signed “Dr. Benjamin Deily” and was the last page of the file. The prison psychologist had never gotten his follow up evaluations. Joe stared at the elegant handwriting that brushed over the report and dropped the page back into the folder.

 

Pushing a deep breath from his lungs, Joe rolled his neck from one shoulder to the other to create a muffled series of pops. Closing his eyes, he let his hands fall into his lap. He felt drained. A few minutes with his eyes closed and he knew that he would fall asleep. There would not be any such luck, though. As he felt the heavy shade of drowsiness wash over him, he was jolted upright by the loud whine of the room’s telephone. He looked at the half-rolled sleeve of his left arm and the silver watch that hung at his wrist. Six-thirty. It was still early.

 

Joe picked up the handset from the receiver and raised it to his ear. The muffled silence from the other end greeted him as he pressed the hard plastic deep into his shoulder.

 

“This is Dr. Richards,” he muttered into the phone in his familiar “office voice”.

 

“Joseph, this is George Carmichael.” The deep boom of the warden’s voice nearly forced Joe to drop the phone. He pulled the handset from his ear and answered back.

 

“George! It’s a good thing you called. I have some questions about this file that you gave me. Is it possible that anything is missing from it?”

 

“I’m sure there isn’t. But why don’t you come over and join me and my wife for dinner and we’ll look over it together. Hopefully I can answer some of your questions.”

 

Joe fell silent for a moment to debate his decision. His choices were either to work on the case or sleep. The hardest part of it was resisting the idea of a home-cooked meal. Getting out would help him clear his mind.

 

“Sounds good, George. What time should I come?”

 

“Between seven-thirty and eight should be good. My house is easy to find. From Hovington House, just pass the prison and it will be the first house that you see on the right. I’d say it’s around three or four miles past it. Make sure that you bring that file.”

 

“I’ll be there. Thank you, George.”

 

“Not a problem, Joe. I’ll see you around eight.” A few seconds later a soft click echoed from the ear piece of the phone. Joe let the handset drop in his palm and returned it to its receiver.

 

Picking up the thick manila folder, Joe kicked his briefcase open with his right foot. The Grady file fell with a quick thud against the leather interior as he tossed it into the open case. Standing up with a groan, he pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket with his left hand. With the other, he slid the silver chrome lighter from the table.

 

Shoving a smoke in the corner of his mouth, he walked to the sliding glass door. Pausing to bring the large orange flame to his cigarette, Joe stared into the chaotic mess of the growing storm. The rain raged across the dark horizon while the quick, sudden bursts of light and sound flashed  harsh warnings across the dark sky. Joe sighed and expelled a thick, gray cloud of smoke against the clear glass before him. It was going to be a long night.