The Chamber (Page 86)

"You think he’s out there?"

"Could be. Or he might be driving a cab in Montreal. Or maybe he never existed."

Adam glanced over both shoulders with exaggerated looks of fear.

"I know it sounds crazy," Lettner said.

"John Doe is safe. Sam ain’t talking."

"There’s a potential danger, Adam. I just wanted you to know."

"I’m not scared. If Sam gave me John Doe’s name right now, I’d scream it in the streets and file motions by the truckload. And it wouldn’t do -any good. It’s too late for new theories of guilt or innocence."

"What about the governor?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, I want you to be careful."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Let’s get a beer."

I’ve got to keep this guy away from Lee, Adam thought. "It’s five minutes before noon. Surely you don’t start this early."

"Oh, sometimes I start with breakfast."

John Doe sat on a park bench with a newspaper in front of his face and pigeons around his feet. He was eighty feet away, so he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He thought he recognized the old man with Adam as an FBI agent whose face had appeared in the newspapers years ago: He would follow the guy and find out who he was and where he lived.

Wedge was getting bored with Memphis, and this suited him fine. The kid worked at the office and drove to Parchman and slept at the condo, and seemed to be spinning his wheels. Wedge followed the news carefully. His name had not been mentioned. No one knew about him.

The note on the counter was dated properly. She had given the time as 7:15 P.m. It was Lee’s handwriting, which was not neat to begin with but was even sloppier now. She said she was in bed with what appeared to be the flu. Please

don’t disturb. She’d been to the doctor who told her to sleep it off. For added effect, a prescription bottle from a local pharmacy was sitting nearby next to a half-empty glass of water. It had today’s date on it.

Adam quickly checked the wastebasket under the sink – no sign of booze.

He quietly put a frozen pizza in the microwave and went to the patio to watch the barges on the river.

Chapter 32

THE first kite of the morning arrived shortly after breakfast, as Sam stood in his baggy boxer shorts and leaned through the bars with a cigarette. It was from Preacher Boy, and it brought bad news. It read:

Dear Sam:

The dream is finished. The Lord worked on me last night and finally showed me the rest of it. I wish he hadn’t done it. There’s a lot to it, and I’ll explain it all if you want. Bottom line is that you’ll be with him shortly. He told me to tell you to get things right with him. He’s waiting. The journey will be rough, but the rewards will be worth it. I love you.

Brother Randy

Bon voyage, Sam mumbled to himself as he crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. The kid was slowly deteriorating, and there was no way to help him. Sam had already prepared a series of motions to be filed at some uncertain point in the future when Brother Randy was thoroughly insane.

He saw Gullitt’s hands come through the bars next door.

"How you doin’, Sam?" Gullitt finally asked. "God’s upset with me," Sam said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Preacher Boy finished his dream last night."

"Thank God for that."

"It was more like a nightmare."

"I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Crazy bastard has dreams when he’s wide awake. They said yesterday he’s been crying for a week."

"Can you hear him?"

"No. Thank God."

"Poor kid. I’ve done some motions for him, just in case I leave this place. I want to leave them with you."

"I don’t know what to do with them."

"I’ll leave instructions. They’re to be sent to his lawyer."

Gullitt whistled softly. "Man oh man, Sam. What am I gonna do if you leave? I ain’t talked to my lawyer in a year."

"Your lawyer is a moron."

"Then help me fire him, Sam. Please. You just fired yours. Help me fire mine. I don’t know how to do it."

"Then who’ll represent you?"

"Your grandson. Tell him he can have my case."

Sam smiled, then he chuckled. And then he laughed at the idea of rounding up his buddies on the Row and delivering their hopeless cases to Adam.

"What’s-so damned funny?" Gullitt demanded.

"You. What makes you think he’ll want your case?"

"Come on, Sam. Talk to the kid for me. He must be smart if he’s your grandson."

"What if they gas me? Do you want a lawyer who’s just lost his first death row client?"

"Hell, I can’t be particular right now."

"Relax, J.B. You have years to go."

"How many years?"

"At least five, maybe more."

"You swear?"

"You have my word. I’ll put it in writing. If I’m wrong, you can sue me."

"Real funny, Sam. Real funny."

A door clicked open at the end of the hall, and heavy footsteps came their way. It was Packer, and he stopped in front of number six. "Mornin’, Sam," he said.

"Mornin’, Packer."

"Put your reds on. You have a visitor."

"Who is it?"

"Somebody who wants to talk to you."

"Who is it?" Sam repeated as he quickly slipped into his red jumpsuit. He grabbed his cigarettes. He didn’t care who the visitor was or what he wanted. A visit by anyone was a welcome relief from his cell.

"Hurry up, Sam," Packer said.

"Is it my lawyer?" Sam asked as he slid his feet into the rubber shower shoes.

"No." Packer handcuffed him through the bars, and the door to his cell opened. They left Tier A and headed for the same little room where the lawyers always waited.

Packer removed the handcuffs and slammed the door behind Sam, who focused on the heavy-set woman seated on the other side of the screen. He rubbed his wrists for her benefit and took a few steps to the seat opposite her. He did not recognize the woman. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and glared at her.

She scooted forward in her chair, and nervously said, "Mr. Cayhall, my name is Dr. Stegall." She slipped a business card through the opening. "I’m the psychiatrist for the State Department of Corrections."

Sam studied the card on the counter in front of him. He picked it up and examined it suspiciously. "Says here your name is N. Stegall. Dr. N. Stegall."

"That’s correct."

"That’s a strange name, N. I’ve never met a woman named N. before."

The small, anxious grin disappeared from her face, and her spine stiffened. "It’s just an initial, okay. There are reasons for it."

"What’s it stand for?"

"That’s really none of your business."

"Nancy? Nelda? Nona?"

"If I wanted you to know, I would’ve put it on the card, now wouldn’t I?"

"I don’t know. Must be something horrible, whatever it is. Nick? Ned? I can’t imagine hiding behind an initial."

"I’m not hiding, Mr. Cayhall."

"Just call me S., okay?"

Her jaws clenched and she scowled through the screen. "I’m here to help you."

"You’re too late, N."

"Please call me Dr. Stegall."

"Oh, well, in that case you can call me Lawyer Cayhall."

"Lawyer Cayhall?"

"Yes. I know more law than most of the clowns who sit over there where you are."

She managed a slight, patronizing smile, then said, "I’m supposed to consult you at this stage of the proceedings to see if I can be of any assistance. You don’t have to cooperate if you don’t want."