Home for the Haunting(73)

“Of course.”

“Do you have skills?”

He gave me a crooked grin. “Oh, baby, you have no idea.”

“Cute. Tell you what—we’re going to finish up the project this weekend. Care to join us?”

“Oh . . . this weekend? I’m not sure I can make it this weekend.”

“I see how it is. All good intentions until I actually call you on it. How about this afternoon, then? I’m going to pick up Caleb after school and go over there to finish up a wheelchair ramp.”

“Sure, why not? It’s been ages since I’ve built a wheelchair ramp. Could I wear your coveralls?”

San Quentin sits at the base of the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, right on the bay, with views of the bay and the Bay Bridge. Tens of thousands of commuters, I was sure, must daily share the thought that this was a prison set on some prime real estate. In fact, I kept expecting the place to be moved out to the central valley somewhere and the old Art Deco buildings to be converted to condos.

Decidedly eerie but expensive condos.

I was willing to bet there was a ghost or two—or hundreds—within those walls.

The tiny town of San Quentin had a little post office, an ice cream shop, and a few dozen cute little homes, right on the bay. If it weren’t for some of the most violent offenders in the state living through the massive gates right down the street, one might convince oneself they were transported to a bayside version of Mayberry R.F.D.

Etta Lee had contacted Dave for me and helped me put my name on the visitor’s list. So when I pulled up to the gates, I explained we were here for visiting hours and gave them Zach’s name to add to the list. We were told where to park, then went through metal detectors and a quick check of our driver’s licenses. We then joined dozens of people, mostly women and children, in a cavernous beige room, until our names were called and we were escorted into a room with glass separating us from the prisoners. We spoke by telephone.

I told Dave who I was, but apparently he and Etta had shared a lengthy discussion—he knew all about me.

“Yeah, of course I remember that girl. She was a kid, really, but then so was I. Older than her, but still a kid.”

Dave was good-looking in a rugged way. His face was acne-scarred, his blue eyes intense in a dusky face. I studied him, trying to figure out what to say, how to ask the questions I needed answered.

“Did you . . . sell drugs to her?”

“Nah.” His headshake was immediate, and he didn’t break eye contact. “Like I said, she was just a kid, and to tell you the truth, I sort of had, like, admiration for her family. I would never have screwed around with those kids.”

“What do you mean by admiration?”

I was surprised to see what looked like flags of red bloom high on his cheeks. Was this convict blushing?

“It was just that they were like . . . I mean the Lawrences were, like, practically Leave It to Beaver; you know what I mean? I mean, I never even seen that show, but I swear those Lawrences were like that, wholesome and loving and all that. I tell you what—it blew my mind when I heard what happened. I never would have believed it . . . I mean, I guess it just goes to show you never know what’s going on behind closed doors, right?”

“So you never thought maybe they had something to do with the fire at your house?”

He waved me off, jerking back with a disgusted look on his face. “Oh, please. You’re listening to neighborhood gossip? What was it, thirty years ago now? That house burned down because my dad fell asleep on the couch with a butt in his hand. Classic example of why you shouldn’t smoke if you’re a dumbass.”

“Sounds like a great slogan for a new public health campaign.”

He smiled. “That fire was probably the best thing could have happened to me—got me out of the neighborhood before I screwed it up for everyone. In fact, that kid, Linda? She’s the one who saw the smoke that night. She probably saved our lives. She was always a special kid, real brave, sensitive.”

“But you never supplied her with drugs?”

“I may have passed her a dime bag or two, maybe a joint now and then. Tell the truth, I can’t really remember; it was so long ago. Her father was real uptight about it, not that I can blame him, looking back. But I never felt like he was the type to do something like that; he might call the cops—he did call the cops—and try to talk to my dad, that sort of thing. That was more his style. But I thought I was a tough guy back then; I ruled the neighborhood.” He laughed and shook his head. “What a pathetic little nobody.”

“Do you remember your, um . . . your people, knocking on the Lawrences’ door?”