Keep the Ghost

8. Cell

“Dinner time,” a guard says, unlocking the cell where I’m caged. Once the bolt is released, he walks past. 

I move hesitantly to the gate, but can’t see anything other than the gray brick wall in front of me. With the bars in hand, I pull; they slide back, opening. I step outside, into the stone and cement passage. 

A line of men in orange uniforms march toward me, heading from their cells down the hallway. 

“Hey!” one of them shouts. “White boy!” 

I freeze, not sure what to do. Act tough? Be friendly? The only thing I know about jail comes from television. 

The four men approach; I press against the wall so they can pass. Each are Hispanic, necks marked with tattoos. 

When the second man passes, he pivots suddenly, and pain wracks my skull; I’m blinded by flashing lights. He’s thrown a haymaker, punched me in the side of the head.

I slide down to the ground as the world recombobulates, pieces of sight returning at a time—first simple contrast, then shapes and colors. The men laugh as they continue past, shouting something at me in Spanish before disappearing down the hall.

Shit. My whole skull hurts; I climb to my feet, scared someone else will find me and attack. I pull my cell back open, walk inside, and close the door.

It’s becoming abundantly clear to me that a skinny eighteen year old foreigner will not be welcome in a South Texas jail. If I even make it to a court date, it’ll be luck getting me there.

Trap a rabbit in a cage, and he wants out. Put that cage in a lion’s den, and he wants to stay in. 

*

I do not sleep so much as keep watch. Sometime in the night—late enough that it may be morning—I hear footsteps. A man appears in front of my cell. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of a tan windbreaker, and he clutches this to his body like a bat wraps itself in its wings. His gut is outlined by the synthetic fabric, and shielded partly by a faded gold plate of a belt buckle.

“Are you Sean Reilly?” he asks in a whisper. 

Curled brown hair peels back from his scalp. Coffee eyes squint at me, wrinkles twisting in on themselves. 

“Yeah?” I ask. “That’s me.”

“My name is Sheriff Cole Durham. I’m from Sonoma County, California. We can’t talk long, so listen careful. I believe Jack Vickery is real.”

I study him. His forehead shines in the yellow light, the result of a reflective sheen of sweat that he rubs back from his eyes with the back of his hand. He smells stale, breath and body odor a foul alchemy. 

“Well, go talk to the detective! No one else believes me.”

“They don’t believe me either, not anymore. I’ve chased the son of a bitch for three years. He killed my wife, same way he killed Kayla. Convinced her to fake her death, then took her out. Listen, I’m going to give you a piece of paper with my number, put it in your sock. Call me when you get out.” 

 He glances down the hall, eyes sweeping the corridor. Cole sniffs, then scratches at his nose. “They’re about to send the consul in here to talk with you. Listen, this is real important: When you met Jack, was there a woman with him?”

Morgan?

I hesitate, words shaken by my tremoring jaw, still sore from getting punched. 

The sound of a door opening. Cole glances to his left, then faces me. “Take this, I have to go. Now, take it.”