As the moon hovered in the brilliant midnight-blue sky, I peeled back the covers and inched my way over the loft to the window. Dad sat there, asleep, overlooking the cold, still gaol. It reminded me of the night I first saw Frank and Jimmy climbing over the outer wall. I almost wish they were there.
I turned to look at my father's belt, where I saw his silver keys glimmering in the pale moonlight. Slowly, I reached for them, eyeing the tightly fastened clip. I grabbed the keys in one hand, careful to keep them still and quiet, and gently unfastened them from his belt. Dad stirred and my body froze. I watched him carefully, his closed eyes twitching, as if he was peering into a dream. Then, thankfully, he settled and I snatched up the keys easily.
As I headed for the stairs, I paused for just a minute and looked over at Billy. His long, lean body was sprawled across the mattress and his mouth was open in a snore. I contemplated taking him with me, or at least telling him where I was going, but quickly decided against it. Frank didn't really like him at the best of times, so I headed down the stairs alone.
I slunk along the pathway between the inner and outer wall, watching for the guards who were making their rounds. The keys were tucked in my pocket and my light footsteps barely made a sound, so I carried on with a sense of foolish confidence flickering in the back of my mind.
I ducked into the East Wing, which had a doorway facing the path. The dark, quiet hallways never failed to unsettle me, especially now they were so crowded, with West Wing looking like a structure made of charcoal. The soft – but sometimes violent – sounds of sleep drifted past me, and through the darkness, I searched for Frank's cell.
I reached out in front of me, not daring to touch the cell bars as I walked through the blackness. I hoped that my mental image of the wing compared accurately with the reality in which I was standing.
It should be close, I thought to myself. A few more steps.
"Adeline."
The voice was so sudden and loud that my knees almost gave way in fright. With tense muscles and a breath caught in my throat, I straightened myself.
"What are you doing here?" Frank asked.
I peered into the dark cell, barely distinguishing his broad silhouette.
"I-I came to talk to you," I said.
"I told you. I want to be alone before I die."
"But you don't have to die," I insisted. "Why won't you just tell me what you know?"
Silence.
"Please, Adeline. Just go."
His tone was as flat and lifeless as the first time he'd said those words, but this time I wouldn't listen. The fire that burned in my gut wouldn't let me give up so easily.
"No," I said, stepping closer to the bars. "I've dug up bodies for you, almost been shot because of you, been inside meth labs and watched my brother almost die because of you!" I threw my hands at the bars, the dark anger turning my cheeks red. "And now you just want to give up? On Jimmy, on... on me?"
A stone-cold silence perched itself between us, and Frank gave nothing away. My own words began to filter in my brain, and I loosened my grip on the bars.
"That's what it is, isn't it?" I asked. "You're protecting him, even though he's gone, you're still protecting him."
"You could never understand – "
"I understand perfectly," I said. "More than anybody else. You forget that I have a little brother, too. One that I practically raised for ten years of my life."
"All this world has left of Jimmy is his memory," Frank said sternly, "and I won't taint that for anybody. Not even for myself."
"You're missing the point. Jimmy isn't here anymore. He's dead and gone. And all he wanted was for me to find out the truth and set you free so you could go on living. It was his dying wish, Frank. And you not telling me what you know is... it's an injustice to him and to his memory."
My heart raced in my chest, pumping in my ears. The desperation in my voice rang throughout the building, and my fingers were in tight, angry fists. Frank remained silent and still, his silhouette never shifting, and I felt my breathing slow and my heartrate ease.
"Let me out of here," Frank said calmly. "And I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"I can't just – "
"Not to escape," he clarified. "Just... take me to him. To his grave. You can return me within the hour."
I hesitated, the logical part of my brain wondering if this was a trick, but then something in me – the illogical part, no doubt – told me he was telling the truth. Billy's face flashed behind my eyes – what if he'd died the day he was shot? What if someone had told me I couldn't see his grave?
I reached forward and slid the key into the lock. After a slight pause, I turned it, and the cell popped open. Frank moved forward and slid open the door. It let out a great creak, and he stepped into the hallway.
I looked up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, sweat pooling under my arms. I'd never been so close to him without a barrier, without protection, while he was healthy. I'd never paid so much attention to his lean, muscular body, his enormous height, his weight, the sheer power of his size and stature. I'd never thought so much of all those people he killed – the women he murdered. Oh, god. What had I done?
"Don't be afraid," he whispered in the darkness. "If I'd wanted to hurt you, I would've done it already."
"Why don't you?" I murmured. "You could escape now, if you wanted. You could kill me and take the keys."
"And what would be the point of that?"
He reached out, extended his arm, pointed me in the direction of the graves.
"Shall we?"
I turned, walking beside him towards the graves, his heavy footsteps echoing down the long hallway. We approached the East Wing door and I pushed it open, letting the pale moonlight spill through. Frank stepped past me and onto the pathway, arms outstretched, eyes closed. I eyed him, watched him breathe in deep, saw the small smile that played on his lips. I also noticed the extent of his burns.
His left cheek was marred, the flesh melted and healing. The faded tattoos that had crawled up his neck were also affected, with some of them looking like a grey tar, half-liquefied and running down to his chest. I gulped, bit my lip.
"Do you know how long it has been since I've seen the night?" He asked me, looking at me with eyes that were no longer cunning and ruthless, but instead warm and trusting.
I offered a smile.
"Come on," I said.
I led him further down the path, where the graves resided on either side. I read the names, engraved onto bronze plaques – C. Stanton, H. Pike, S. Williams – they went on and on. Eventually, I found Jimmy's: J. Dawson.
Frank paused and I studied his face – sad, haunted eyes and sunken cheeks. He carefully lowered onto his knees, running his rough, tattooed hand gently across the grass.
"We have no more family," he said, eyes never leaving the green. "Our parents died when we were young, and I don't have any other relatives."
I sat beside him, listened carefully.
"I raised him," he continued, "from the time he was a little boy. Once our mother passed, I had no choice. I did everything I could for him – stole, assaulted, murdered – but it wasn't enough. We still ended up here. He still ended up dead."
His painful words leaked into me, and I reached out and took his calloused hand in mine. He tensed, looked at me in surprise.
"You gave him the best life he could've asked for," I said. "You gave him a home to live in, a beautiful daughter to raise. You gave him purpose, and that's no small thing."
Frank's eyebrows furrowed.
"Why are you so kind to me?"
I smiled.
"Because you deserve it."
Frank, with that surprise still shining in his features, looked away from me and back at his brother's grave. Then, he closed his eyes.
"It was warm the night it happened. Balmy, humid. I was at home with Susie. We were playing cards. I'd taught her how to gamble the day before, and she wanted to practice. Jimmy wasn't home. He was out with his girlfriend, Lisa – a reporter for the local newspaper. She never liked me, never trusted me, especially after I brought Susie home, about five years before. But I tolerated her for Jimmy's sake.
"He called me. I answered. He was hysterical. He was screaming all sorts of things about Lisa and how a terrible thing had happened. So, I left Susie with a neighbour and I drove to the highway, about a mile down, where I found them. Jimmy was crying, hands covered in blood and Lisa was dead on the road, gunshot to the back of the head. He said he killed her because she knew about what I'd been doing. The killings, the hits, the money and the mobsters. She'd been researching me for years, digging up all my dirty secrets. Only, she didn't think that Jimmy knew about my profession. So, she confronted him. Told him about what she'd found and said that they needed to take Susie and run far, far away. He said that he knew, and that she couldn't tell a soul about me. She refused, said that she'd turn both of us in. Jimmy panicked, grabbed the Glock out of the glove box, and fired."
I paused, pressed my lips together.
"He killed his girlfriend?"
Frank nodded.
"Yes, because he knew that she would ruin both of us and Susie would be put into foster care or abandoned at some orphanage. He did it for me. For our family."
I gulped.
"What did you do?"
"I did what I do best: I cleaned it up. Made it look like a drive by, cleaned away all the evidence that pointed at Jimmy. Then, we disappeared. Moved cities, changed our names, got new jobs and a new house. I made damn sure that nobody could track us down, but... well, I was younger then. I may have made an error, somewhere along the way. Something that could tie us to the murder. You say that you've looked at every angle except this one, so I assume that somebody must have caught up to us after all these years."
"Did she have any family or friends that would do this?"
"The only family I knew of hers was a brother. I don't remember his name but he was only a boy then. Maybe sixteen or seventeen."
"What was their last name? Or a description? Surely you must remember something."
Frank pondered on the question for a long moment.
"He was a scrawny little thing. Tall as the Empire State Building. Blond hair. Blue eyes. First name was something like Timothy or Terry."
"Do you know where he is now?"
"Sweetheart, I haven't laid eyes on him in years, and I only met him once or twice."
"I need something. There isn't enough time left to track him down."
"Adeline," Frank said, "please, just relax. I know how hard you've worked, what you've gone through. But perhaps it's time to let that all go now."
"But they'll kill you – "
"And I have deserved that fate many times over. I'm prepared to die, Adeline. What have I got to live for, anyhow? My family is all gone, I don't have any friends on the outside, and I'm an old, used-up hitman with no job prospects."
"But what about what Jimmy said? How he wanted you to go free?"
"You tried," he said with a soft smile. "That's all either of us could've asked for."
I turned away from him, frustrated tears in my eyes. Then, I leaned over and wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight as I buried my head into his red jumpsuit. Breathing in the scent of contraband and sweat, I felt him tense again, unsure what to do, until his heavy, tattooed arms curl around me and held me tightly in return.
© A.G. Travers 2018