Carved in Stone Page 3

  She lifted a brow. “You haven’t? But wasn’t that because you were caught? Carlton, you must be aware of what triggers you. You can’t lie to yourself. That’s all I’m trying to say. I want this to work out for you. I want you to be successful out there. There are certain triggers that lead you down a broken path: whiskey for one, and beer for another: two of the things you should avoid at all costs. You were an addict once, when we first met each other, and just now, when I asked what freedom meant to you, the first two things that came to mind were whiskey and beer.” With a sigh, she rubbed her temples, as if the words pained her. “Carlton, understand, I’m just trying to help. I need you be smart, and to remember the things that got you here in the first place. Take heed of what provokes and excites you. Remember those things, and steer clear of them. And when the time comes for you to leave this palace, don’t forget how it feels to walk out.” Glancing at him quickly, she added, “And when you leave that cell, make sure you leave that awful ghost behind.”

  “You mean him,” he said. “You’re talking about Sm—”

  “No,” she snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t say his name. Don’t think it. Don’t speak it. You’re past that now. You’re leaving this place. Promise me you’ll leave him behind when you do.” After sipping from her mug, she set it rattling to its saucer. “Carlton, what you said before is right—but only to a point. You never technically killed anyone. You never truly crossed that line. And don’t get me wrong: that’s a good thing, I know. But it’s not everything. It’s not the entire story. Had you not been captured, how far would you have gone? What would have happened if you’d never been stopped? How far down that crooked path would escalation have eventually taken you?” When she leaned forward, he caught his breath. “Think about it, Carlton. Remember what it was like. Weren’t you actually on a path that led to murder? Wasn’t it you who said Meghan got lucky? Those were your exact words. Don’t you remember? Meghan could have been your first kill, Carlton. And if she were, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  Meghan Newton. He suddenly felt sick. She’d had the nerve to mention that name. She’d probably been steering the conversation the entire time, but he’d been too damned stupid to realize it. Meghan newton—the crime that had inspired his stupid nickname.

  Trailside Skinner.

  He frowned.

  When the media started using the term, he’d wondered how long it would stick. With a huff, he stared at the wandering protestors below. It had stuck for over a decade now, and would likely stick for the rest of his life. The people outside had been yelling it out. It was written on their signs and placards.

  Holding his hands in front of his face, he reached for the memories of that day, long ago. He remembered the weight of the knife in his fingers, the smoothness of its curved bone handle, and the blood that had glistened on the blade when he cut her.

  “Carlton,” Dr. Waite had said, “I like to think I’ve gotten to know you, probably better than most. Wouldn’t you say?” He nodded, but hadn’t answered the question. He hated giving her that kind of power. “I’m not trying to upset you. I just want you to answer these questions for yourself. I’m not interested in what I believe. This is about you and your beliefs. I want you to be honest with yourself. Please try. You’re crime against Meghan was as close to murder as a person can get, without actually having committing the act. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”

  Actually, he’d thought about that many times before, about the act itself, about the brutality of it. He remembered the swift kick to Meghan’s lower back, and the way she went tumbling down the hill into that rocky ravine. It was true. Sandy was right. It was as close to murder as a person could get. In truth—and though he’d never said so aloud—he hadn’t expected Meghan to live, a fact he’d been sure to keep private.

  “Like I said,” he began, “I didn’t kill Meghan. I didn’t strangle her, stab her, or shoot her in the face.”

  “No,” Dr. Waite said. “You didn’t do any of those things. Instead, you skinned her left foot. And after that, you cut off her right foot with a hatchet. Is that somehow better than murder? Carlton, you skinned Meghan’s foot from heel to toe. What does that say about intent? With one injured foot, and absent the other, she certainly wasn’t able to stand up and walk away. How else would the crime have ended, other than death?”

  His stomach had fluttered beneath her appraising gaze. He couldn’t deny it—not a single word she’d said.

  “Carlton, taking ownership of our mistakes is an important part of the healing process—arguably the most important part, in my opinion. When we accept blame, we stop the cycle, but when we deny the truth, we’re doomed to repeat it. So to answer your question, my answer is ‘yes’: I believe you’ve taken excellent steps to better yourself. Your readiness to own your mistakes has given you character. But one thing still bothers me, and it’s something I want you to consider very carefully. That day, with Meghan, you didn’t wear a mask. It was the reason you were eventually caught. Have you thought about why that was? Don’t you think it’s significant? Don’t you think it says something about your true intentions? You made no effort to hide yourself. Why didn’t you care if she saw your face?” Her gaze was piercing, and it made him fidget. “Carlton, you know the right answer to that question. Deep down, in your soul, you do. Don’t be afraid to say the words out loud. The truth can give you power and strength.” She paused, letting him consider the question, and when he didn’t respond, she answered it for him. “It’s because you didn’t expect her to live. Meghan lived because you made a mistake. Isn’t that right?”

  Hands trembling against the windowsill, he remembered how his anger had stirred, and then exploded. By then, he’d learned the idiosyncrasies of therapy: the laws of Sandra’s profession were binding. She couldn’t betray him to the parole board, or anyone else. The oath she had taken as a doctor was enforceable. It was a code she lived by; she wouldn’t ever break it. Besides, his release papers had already been signed and filed. The deed was done. He was being set free. So in the grand scheme of things, this session mattered little. In the state of California, at the time of his sentencing, his felonies had carried a maximum term. He’d fulfilled that term. He’d been let out on good behavior. There was little reason to avoid the truth now.

  He’d raised his head and challenged her gaze.

  “What you say is true,” he admitted in a low voice. “I can’t say for sure what my intentions were that day, but there must be a reason why I didn’t hide my face. Doc, there are certain things I can’t share—even with you. There are certain things I’ll take to my grave. But there’s one thing I know for sure: I’m never coming back to this shit-hole again, and if that means I have to change my ways, so be it. I will. I’ll figure it out. If that means I have to control my sick fantasies, then that’s exactly what I intend to do.” He stood abruptly. “We’re done here, Sandy.”

  She’d risen to her feet, her brow creased with something that seemed like concern. “Carlton, please don’t go. We still have twenty minutes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want you to make it out there. And more importantly, I don’t want you harming someone else. I know you too well. I know the man you really are, but I also know the man you want to be. What you did with Meghan was unspeakable, but in my heart, I believe you feel remorse. You’ve led a terrible life, Carlton. You’ve known little nurturing, and littler kindness. Please, sit down. I’m asking you nicely. There’s only one thing left to say. And if you face this truth, you might make it out there.”

  His eyes had thrown daggers in her face. “What?” he’d hissed. “What one final truth must I face?” As much as he’d hated to admit it, she’d piqued his interest.

  She swallowed, her throat working like it had suddenly gone dry. “What you said to Meghan at the trial: do you remember? What you said when you were handcuffed and dragged from the court room.”

  He’d frozen on his feet, swayed, then caught himself on the
arm of the chair. Of course he remembered. He’d never forget it. He remembered every moment of that trial, every word. He remembered how it felt to see Meghan up close, how it felt to sit across from her, and see her tears, and hear her sniffles. He remembered how it felt to smell the scent of her fear. It was heady. He wouldn’t lie to himself. The combination had been strangely exhilarating.

  Her testimony, that day, had buried him. All innocence and purity, she’d crossed the room while balanced on crutches, taken her seat at the witness stand, and then named her offender amid chokes and sobs. She’d lifted her hand and pointed to Carlton.

  After that, things had gone downhill quickly.

  The prosecution took the jury on a visual journey of jaw-dropping photos: pictures of the bottom of her skinned left foot, of raw flesh, exposed muscle, and the bloody cloth she’d wrapped around her right stump. She’d bared her wrists, and the little white scars, the places where the zip-ties had scored her delicate skin. Meghan told a harrowing tale of heroism and courage that day, of clawing her way up that fifteen-foot ravine, and of stumbled through traffic and waving down cars, of falling to pieces in the arms of a Good Samaritan. The hammer of justice, after that, had been swift. The case was “open and closed”, so to speak. The only thing left to deliberate was Carlton’s sentence.

  He blinked. His sentence was the reason the protesters were angry. They’d been outraged then, and still were now. “Fifteen years?” they’d gasped from the back of the courtroom, while Meghan cried quietly in the corner. “Fifteen years?” They’d risen to their feet and shaken their fists. To them, it wasn’t much of a punishment, but to a nineteen-year-old boy, it was a lifetime sentence.

  “We’re done here, Sandy,” he’d said, extending a hand. She’d accepted it, held it, and then dropped it with a sigh. The moment had been significant—at least it was to him, like a rite of passage or a baptism. “Thank you for your help, but I can take things from here. I’ve faced the things I needed to face, and I’m done. I want to move on with my life. I’ll be fine out there. No need to worry about me.”

  He remembered her sharp intake of breath when he spoke. It was as if she had finally accepted the truth. He was leaving prison. They were setting him free. He wondered if she thought they were making a mistake.

  “Very well, Carlton. I respect your wishes. From here on out, you’re on your own. But I hope you’ll remember the time we spent together. Remember, Carlton, you control your thoughts. It’s not the other way around. Don’t let them take control of you. There’s no one living inside your head. Stay away from things that trigger you. Steer clear of alcohol, porn, and prostitutes. Be one of the success stories we all hear about, and remember: I’ll always be rooting for you.”

  Peering once more at the trees in the distance, he caught sight of the strange dark figure in the shadows. It was as if the man could see him from down there, like he was staring into Carlton’s window.

  But that was impossible. Carlton’s room was too high.

  When the man turned, and stepped behind a building, Carlton’s skin crawled. He wrapped his arms around his body. What would he do in that big, wide world? And more importantly, who would be waiting? Would people try to levy the kind of justice California law had failed to deliver? Or would he be waiting, with his arms open wide, ready to pick things up where they last had dropped?

  Carton would watch his back. He’d be vigilant and alert. And yes, just like that cop had suggested, he’d leave California—sooner, rather than later. It was time to make a new start of things.

  When he let the hotel drapes fall closed, darkness veiled the room. It was jarring. Shadows clustered in the shapes of low furniture, crouching in the corners, just waited to pounce. Turning on his heel, he approached the small desk, and sitting in the chair, eyed the whiskey, and beer. They beckoned him, their scents alluring and seductive. It had been nine years since he’d last indulged himself. But he deserved it, right? It was a day to celebrate. He had the rest of his life to walk the path of sobriety. He’d memorialize the importance of today with a drink, and tomorrow, get back to the plan. He smiled. Life was easier when one had control.

  Lifting the glass, he swirled the liquid in the wan light. Things would work out better this time. He was ready. He wouldn’t fall prey to the urges again. He could handle himself; he had total control. All the old voices were silent. It didn’t matter what Sandy believed, or what anyone else did, for that matter. It was all up to him. She’d said so herself. And besides, he’d accepted responsibility for his crimes—the ones she knew about, and the secret ones he would take to his grave. He knew his limits, his weaknesses, and boundaries. He’d be smart this time, steer clear of his triggers, create a quiet life for himself, and be happy. The whispering voices were part of his past. They were dead and buried, along with his childhood pain. He could finally be normal, self-sustaining, even productive.

  Lifting the glass, he threw back his head, savoring the burn of the liquid in his belly. This, he thought, was the taste of freedom, something only an ex-con could appreciate. He lifted the second glass, and holding it gently, settled himself into the cushioned chair. The sun had set and the shadows had gathered, and for a moment, the room’s empty corners made him uncomfortable. But despite his efforts to focus on the future, he found himself back in that courtroom again.

  He hadn’t forgotten his last words to Meghan. He’d meant them at the time, and for many years after. The guards had been so stupid that day. They’d cuffed his hands and secured his feet, but hadn’t protected her from his final assault.

  He lifted the whiskey to his lips and took a sip. How thoughtless they had been. How insensitive—to her. They’d dragged him, shackled, past the chair she’d been sitting in, without considering what would happen when they did. Carlton, of course, had taken advantage of the moment. Capturing her gaze, he’d held it steady, and then murmured the first words that came into his head. He’d been angry that day, about the fifteen-year sentence, and had wanted to lash out at the woman who was responsible for it.

  Those were the things he told himself, at least. Those were the excuses he gave for his behavior. But the truth, he knew, ran deeper. Seeing her again had revived some of the original lust. The demon inside him had raised its head, sniffed the air, and delighted in the scent. It had hissed at her from between clenched teeth.

  “If it’s the last thing I do,” he’d spat with vehemence. “I’ll find you again, and I’ll finish the job.”

  And with those words, she had crumpled like a blade of grass. She’d sent him to prison, he remembered thinking: it was only fair that he send her there, too.

  It had been nine years since that fateful day in court, and he suddenly wondered how Meghan had fared. He let his head fall back to the chair, his mind pleasantly fuzzy from his first glass of whiskey. Had she changed since then? Had he? Was he capable of staying on this virtuous path? The intensity of his anger, over the years, had waned, and something more substantial had taken its place. He had no interest in Meghan anymore. He was concerned with creating a life for himself. Could he become a driver, or a deliveryman? Could he own a small home? Have a bank account, and credit card?

  Uncertainty chewed a hole through his belly. How long would it take for those voices to come calling? How long before one in particular whispered his name? Carlton had never known much about life. He’d never been a very smart man. He’d never tried. But one thing was certain: only time would tell.

  Chapter 4

  Twenty Years Later

  Sarasota, Florida

  For the third time in less than twenty minutes, I flooded the car with neon-green light.

  “They’re sleeping, Ness. Wanna give it a rest? It’s four o’clock in the damn morning. The only fools awake at this ungodly hour are cocaine addicts, hookers, and the two of us.”

  I sighed. Gil was right. A watched pot would never boil, so I set my phone aside and tried to concentrate on my surroundings. The night was deep and gloomy. With
out a coverlet of stars, it was a cloak that was draped across this quiet neighborhood.

  “It’s an ice box in here,” I said, my fingers stiff and wooden. Frosty air was gusting from the vents, and Destiny’s Child, shrieking loudly from the speakers.

  Way too early for that, I thought, leaning forward to tune in classic rock. Gil was a great partner—the best I’d ever had—but his taste in music left much to be desired.

  “If I have to wear a parka in spring, then you have to listen to adult-approved music. Destiny’s Child? What are you, Gil? An eleven-year old cheerleader? Now this,” I added, finding Fleetwood Mac. “This is real music. If I’m called to a crime scene at four o’clock in the morning, I expect decent coffee, and Fleetwood Mac.”

  Gil slurped from his cup. “I guess you’re out of luck then; this coffee sucks ass.” He eyed me sidelong. “Guess that leaves Fleetwood Mac.”

  I peered at my phone—again. I couldn’t help myself. It had only been a minute or two, but already, I wanted to jump out of my skin.

  “What’s wrong with you—burnt-coffee-sludge notwithstanding, of course.”

  Dropping my phone into the breast pocket of my parka, I rounded my shoulders. “It’s Danny. Today’s his birthday. Today,” I added, “as in several hours from now. I need to be home by the time he wakes up. I’m making chocolate chip pancakes and eggs, with smiley-faced patterns out of M&M’s or something.”

  “You? Cook? I’d like to see that.”

  I shrugged. “Who said anything about cooking? Who actually cooks pancakes anymore? Open box of pre-made powder. Add water. Place on stove. Where’s the part where I actually cook something?”

  “I don’t know,” he teased me, as he carefully balanced his steaming cup between his thighs. “That’s what you said at last year’s Christmas party, but your shortbread cookies nearly cracked my tooth. I’m still using the last one to level my desk.”