It was an unusually warm day for early February. The sky overhead was gray, but the temperature was at least in the sixties. It was a nice change from the dreary cold and piles of snow still covering the sidewalks.
I walked down the street towards Mama Rosa's, my hands shoved in my pockets, my stomach twisting with nerves.
Today was the day of all days. I didn't think Mom would take the news of my impending trip to Pennsylvania very well. When I'd been required to testify at my father's trial fifteen years ago I'd made myself promise that I would never even think about seeing him again.
But, desperate times called for desperate measures.
I wasn't exactly sure of what I was hoping to achieve visiting Canaan, but something had to be done. Ever since I decided that visiting St. Pierre was inevitable, I was overcome with the urge to go to Canaan simply to shout obscenities in the man's face and then beat the shit out of him.
I knew I had problems, but beating up someone in federal prison? Yeah, not exactly the smartest idea I'd ever had.
It was a three hour drive from the city down to Pennsylvania, and I intended to figure out a game plan of what I was going to say to pass the time.
Ask him why he abused my mother? Ask him why he got screwed up with drugs and alcohol? Ask him why he killed Chris?
The possibilities were endless. I just hoped I could handle the answers, God willing he gave me any.
I wrenched open the door of Mama Rosa's and stepped inside, breathed in the warm sent of coffee beans and freshly baked pastries.
"Archer!" June shot me a grin and waved at me as I made my way to the front counter, stood beside one very surly looking customer. "What's up, brosky? What're you doing here?"
"Looking for Ma," I said. "I need to talk to her."
June handed the man his change and his to-go cup of coffee and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. "In the back, baking. We ran out of cinnamon rolls right after opening."
Good. That meant business was going well.
"Thanks, little sis," I said, ruffling her hair as I passed her after jumping the front counter.
Sure enough, Mom was at one of the ovens when I walked into the kitchen, shoving in a new tray of cinnamon rolls. She looked up as I entered and gave a smile.
"Archer. What're you doing here?"
"I need to borrow the SUV," I said flatly, cutting straight to the point.
"You need to borrow the SUV," Mom repeated slowly, frowning. "Why?"
"I'm going on a little road trip."
"To where?"
"Pennsylvania."
"Pennsylvania? What're you doing in - oh."
A look of slight terror passed over Mom's face when she made the connection. She knew as well as I did that St. Pierre was being held in the penitentiary in Canaan, Pennsylvania.
She gripped the counter for support, her breathing shallow, her face draining of color.
"Why...you're going to see him?" She looked like she was about to drop to the floor in a dead faint. "Why are you going to see him?"
I had known from the beginning that Mom was going to ask that, and I still had no idea how to answer it.
Hell would freeze over before I told her the truth of the real reason I was going to visit St. Pierre. After everything that had just happened recently with telling the girls the truth of what happened to Chris I was in no position to lie to Mom, either.
"This is something I have to do," I said slowly, deliberating. "I just...I can't have this hanging over my head anymore. I have to do this."
"Archer..." Mom sucked in a breath and covered her face with her hands, collecting herself. It was several moments before she spoke again. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
No. Absolutely not.
"Yes, Mom, I do. Trust me."
"Okay." She dropped her hands from her face and heaved a heavy sigh, looked up at me with shimmering eyes. "Okay. If you're positive, Archer."
"I'm positive."
I reached out and pulled Mom into my arms, hugged her tightly for a few moments. When I pulled away, she gave me a small smile and patted my cheek in a maternal sort of way.
"Be safe, okay, moroso? Don't let whatever he says worm its way into your mind, alright? He's not worth it and you're better than that."
Mom was right. I just had to convince myself that I would be able to do that. Words had been affecting me more than I would've liked lately.
"Thanks, Mom," I murmured. "A lot."
"Keys are on the counter upstairs. And, Archer? Let me know what happens."
"I will."
I left the coffee house half an hour later, armed with a bag of fresh pastries and other goodies and a mind slightly more at ease. Sort of. I was glad that Mom hadn't gotten hysterical when I told her I was visiting St. Pierre. But she might be hysterical if I tell her the pleasant conversation bound to happen between St. Pierre and I.
I tossed the food into the passenger seat as I clambered in the SUV and took a moment to collect myself.
Was I doing the right thing?
Probably.
Was it going to turn out in my favor?
Definitely not.
I blew out a sigh and turned over the engine, pulled out of the alleyway and slipped into traffic. I had a long, long trip ahead of me. It was going to be a God given miracle if I managed to make it out of this alive.
I found myself slipping into an apathetic mood as I drove. It was hard to keep my attention on the road. My thoughts kept drifting to the last time I'd seen St. Pierre.
It had been at his trial fifteen years ago, right after I'd been forced to take the stand to testify. It had been a miracle in itself that I'd even managed to speak with the way he had stared at me with those soulless black eyes.
Oh, I really hoped I was going to be able to handle this.
It was nearing two in the afternoon by the time I reached USP Canaan. I was ordered to show my ID at the station at the front gates, announcing that I was here to visit my father, and that yes, I was on St. Pierre's list of approved visitors.
I parked as far away as possible from the main facility and walked up to the front doors, hands shoved in my pockets, head bowed.
My heart was pounding erratically against my chest as I stepped through the main doors. I thought I was going to break out in a nervous sweat at any moment.
Was I absolutely positive I could do this?
No. No, I wasn't. But I didn't really have a choice, did I?
I could feel the hardened stares of every guard on duty watching me as I walked up to the service desk, like I was some sort of criminal myself.
The woman in uniform behind the front desk looked up from her computer as I approached and gave me a bland look.
"Can I help you?"
I swallowed back a string of obscenities I really wanted shout, about why I had no desire to be here, and instead said, "I'm here to see Patrick St. Pierre."
The woman blew out a sigh and tapped around on her computer for a moment.
"Patrick St. Pierre?" she repeated with a low whistle. "His file here says he was placed in solitary confinement last year for assaulting a guard. Not a nice guy."
Why didn't that surprise me?
"Yeah, well," I said. "I kinda have no choice."
"And you are?"
"Archer Morales."
A surprised look crossed the woman's face as she examined her computer screen again.
"St. Pierre has a son?"
I felt a wave of disgust rise up in me and had to fight back the urge to throw up.
"Not exactly something I'm proud of."
The woman shrugged in agreement.
"Well, I'll need to see ID and then I'll have a guard come and escort you to the visitation area."
I handed over my ID again and then took a seat in an area marked off with chairs.
There were old magazines sitting on a small table off to the side, so I grabbed one and flipped through it, skimming through the pages. Celebrity gossip really didn't do much for me, so I tossed it aside barely a moment later.
How long was I going to have to wait?
I doubted I could wait another minute before I went ballistic.
"Excuse me. Archer Morales?"
I looked up from picking at my fingernails and saw some burly, bald man standing in front of me.
"Yeah."
"Come with me," the guy said, bored, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.
I stood quickly and followed after the guard, who lead me through a set of double doors off to the right. The guard forced me to stop after stepping through the doors and turned to me.
"Please remove your jacket, roll up your sleeves, and surrender any weapons you may be carrying."
That stopped me for a moment. What was I, a douche? Who in their right mind would try to smuggle weapons into a federal prison?
I yanked off my jacket, handed it over and then rolled up my shirt sleeves.
"Turn out your pockets."
I handed over my wallet, cell phone and car keys next. What else were they going to ask for, my soul?
"Alright. Come with me."
I fought back an exasperated sigh and followed after the guard down a white hallway that smelt strongly of bleach cleanser.
"You only have ten minutes," the guard told me as we walked. "Make it short, okay? I've got better things to do than babysit a dick like St. Pierre."
I was annoyed and amused by the guard's words at the same time. It was just a testament that my father really was a huge dick if prison guards agreed with that, as well.
"Fine by me," I muttered, more to myself. "Why do you think I haven't visited the bastard in fifteen years?"
The guard grunted, which might have been a laugh, and stopped short outside a room with a large window that I immediately forced myself not to look in.
The guard opened the door and stepped to the side, allowing me to pass through first. I was surprised I even managed to walk through the doors on steady legs. And I was even more surprised that I managed to look St. Pierre in the face without collapsing on the floor.
In fifteen years the man had not changed one bit, except for the effects of aging everyone experienced. His hair, the same color and probably the same texture as mine, was shot with gray, along with his scruff of beard. His eyes were just as dead and hollow as I remembered them to be, if not hardened by years of incarceration.
I had most certainly not missed anything by severing all contact with this man.
"You have ten minutes," the guard reminded me, shutting the door.
St. Pierre regarded me with slight confusion for a moment and then recognition flashed across his face.
"Archer." His voice was harsh and raspy, damaged from years of smoking. "It's been awhile."
"You could say that," I answered briskly, taking the seat across from him.
"How long's it been?"
"Fifteen years."
"Damn."
This wasn't exactly starting off the way I'd pictured. It was as if we were talking about the weather, not ignoring the fact that the last time we'd seen each other had been before he was sent to prison.
"And how old are you now?" St. Pierre continued, completely casual.
"Twenty-six."
"Damn." His eyes narrowed in on my left hand as he glanced me over and he gave a bark of a laugh. "You're married? Poor bastard.”
Why, because his marriage with my mother had turned out so fantastic?
"Okay, look." My temper had just flared to life on the spot. "I didn't come here to shoot the shit with you."
"Oh, I figured that one out on my own," St. Pierre said humorously. "Why else would you just suddenly decide to drop in for a visit after fifteen years? Doubt it's because you really wanted to. Must be because you want something."
"Alright," I said, shrugging. "If you want to get straight to the point, I'll tell you. I'm here because I need answers."
"Answers?" He raised an eyebrow, a bemused expression on his face. "Answers to what?"
"I think you know what.
St. Pierre leaned forward in his seat, causing the guard to immediately step forward behind me.
"I think you're going to have to refresh my memory, son," St. Pierre said, his voice low and sarcastic. "Fifteen years is a long time."
Hadley had warned me time and time again to keep my temper under control and to not make a scene, to not make this any harder than it needed to be. I'd known that was impossible from the start, but I never thought I would literally have to fight myself to keep from snapping and beating this piece of shit to a pulp.
This man really was the lowest scum of the Earth.
"Why'd you do it?"
That was as good as any question to start with, wasn't it? Why had he killed Chris?
St. Pierre blew out a sigh and tipped back his head, staring up at the ceiling. "To what are you referring to? I'm forty-six, son. I've done lots of things."
That was for damn sure.
"Okay, then, why did you kill Chris?"
My hands were clenched into fists on my thighs and I was having difficulties keeping from shaking my leg. And St. Pierre was just sitting there all nonchalantly, like nothing ever bothered him?
St. Pierre rested his head in his hands as he propped his elbows up on the table and gave me an indulgent grin. "Is this an interrogation? Are you interrogating me, Archer? Do I need my lawyer present?"
He laughed then, as if that thought was highly amusing.
And he honestly got off this way? Disgusting.
"If you want to look at it that way," I said as casually as I could manage. "I just figured it'd be nice for you to talk to someone other than inmates after being in solitary confinement for so long."
"Oh, ouch." He pretended to recoil, like I'd just struck him across the face. "That one hurt, Archer. When I was your age I remember sons were still respectful towards their fathers."
"Sons were still respectful to their fathers?" My voice rose considerably as I repeated those words, my hands starting to shake. "That's real rich coming from you, St. Pierre."
"St. Pierre?" He gasped in faux-horror, a hand flying to his mouth. "What? I don't even get to be called dad anymore? Now that one really hurts."
"Spare me the bullshit, won't you? It is absolutely astonishing to me that you are still this much of a jackass after fifteen years."
"Now what would your mother say to all of this, young man? I know she never would've been okay with you having such a foul mouth."
"No. No, no, no. Just no." There was a loud clanging noise as I shoved back from the table and my chair hit the floor. "You do not get to talk about my mother. You don't even get to think about my mother."
"Alright, sir, I think you should - "
"Oh, but why not?" St. Pierre said, suddenly looking depressed. "I loved Regina so much."
"Go fuck yourself."
"Okay, enough. That's it." The guard gripped my arm like a vice and pulled me away from the table. "I think we're done here."
"Well, that's disappointing," St. Pierre said before I could respond. "I was so looking forward to spending some more quality time with my son."
"Okay, you know what?" I managed to slip my arm out of the guard's grasp, standing by the door. "I am not your son, and you are most certainly not my father. You killed my father fifteen years ago."
"Shouldn'ta done it," the guard muttered, leading me out of the room. "Told you St. Pierre was a dick."
"Yeah, well, I - "
"Looks like you turned out like your old man after all, eh, Archer?"
I stopped dead in my tracks and almost rammed into a guard walking down the hallway in the opposite direction.
Looks like you turned out like your old man. Looks like you turned out like your old man.
I broke out in a nervous sweat, my heart started to pound against my chest. It felt as if my airways were beginning to constrict and I couldn't breathe properly.
The words St. Pierre had just shouted after me ran through my mind over and over again.
Looks like you turned out like your old man. Looks like you turned out like your old man. Looks like you turned out like your old man.
"Are you alright? Kid?" Someone, I didn't know who, was tugging at my arm. "Kid? Can you hear me?"
I couldn't speak. My tongue was coated in sandpaper and I couldn't speak.
The hallway shifted and blurred and a loud ringing noise started in my ears.
Looks like you turned out like your old man.
And then everything went black.