The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(95)

The drumming started straightaway, metal against metal. If the jail had a soul, that was what it sounded like. Officer Miller braced himself against it and escorted his charge out of D Wing.


Nathan Quinn ran a fingertip against the rough grain of the table. The visiting room in KCJC was Spartan, and, like everyone else there, the furniture was serving its own life sentence.

He was wearing a suit and tie for the occasion—the first time since the night in the forest. His client, Quinn knew, couldn’t have cared less one way or the other; however, the job had its duties and its uniform. His client. Quinn did not know what weeks of incarceration had done to John Cameron, how far back into himself he’d had to retreat to survive. Even though Nathan had been expecting this moment for most of his life, he didn’t know how they would navigate what was coming. This was uncharted territory. It was their first meeting since he had uttered the name of Timothy Gilman on television, since Cameron had found out that Quinn knew, and had always known, about his first kill and about its reasons. And it was the first time since Quinn had seen with his own eyes just what Cameron was capable of: the photographs of Harry Salinger’s injuries should not—must not—be seen by a jury. It was Quinn’s job to make sure that the case was pleaded out of court, and he might have just received the best news he’d had for months.

He heard the lock clang open, and he stood up: it was a small thing, but he wanted his friend to see him standing, even if his walking stick was leaning against a chair.

John Cameron walked into the room flanked by two guards and saw Nathan by the table. Cameron blinked: it was maybe the only show of emotion he was ever going to allow himself in KCJC, and the guards missed it. Quinn didn’t. He knew all too well where they were and the boundaries that the drab room imposed on their communications.

He extended his hand. “Mr. Cameron,” he said.

“Counselor,” his friend replied as he shook it, “it’s good to see you back to work.”

“I’m a medical miracle.”

Cameron gave the smallest of smiles. “You certainly are,” he said, and Quinn was aware that his friend was watching him and evaluating the price he had paid in the forest.

A look passed between them, and they both knew that, had Cameron been aware at the time of what Harry Salinger had had in store for Quinn, he would now be facing a charge of murder in the first instead of attempted murder, and Quinn’s job would be that much harder. Not impossible, just trickier.

“I’m still part of the prosecution case against Salinger as a victim and a witness, but I am consulting in the case against you, and our side has had some rather good news today: three independent experts have declared Harry Salinger legally insane.”

“Is that his defense?”

“No,” Quinn replied. “He has pleaded guilty to four counts of murder, one of kidnapping of a minor in the first degree, and two counts of attempted murder.”

“How long will it take for my appeal?”

“The hearing for the bail appeal will be in a few days, and I’m negotiating with Scott Newton about the plea. Salinger’s insanity status is a very bad hit for them, and there’s nothing they can do about it. He absolutely doesn’t want to go to trial with it: their plaintiff would not look good in court.”

“A trial could be a long way away,” Cameron said, and it hung between them as the statement of intent that it was.

If it was going to go to trial, Cameron would have to hang around in jail waiting for more bleach vials to break over his head or perhaps a time-honored “shiv in the showers” assault. Quinn nodded—message received.

“The hearing will be in a few days,” he repeated, his tone terse and allowing no argument. You will manage a few more days in jail, and I promise I will get you out of here. You will not look for trouble or conjure it out of nowhere.

Cameron acknowledged Quinn’s unspoken promise. He would do his best.

There was too much that could not be discussed in a visiting room—the cogs and gears of the Department of Corrections were whirring around them all the time. Still, there was one subject that could not be avoided.

“Your TV appeal,” Cameron said. “Timothy Gilman?”

“Yes,” Quinn replied, and his gaze never left his friend’s. “A violent man who found a suitable death in a hunter’s trapping pit.”

“How long have you known?”

“A very long time.”

“You didn’t share that knowledge.”

“No.”

“Until now.”

“Now the case is moving forward.”

Cameron missed nothing. Quinn wasn’t talking in general; there were specifics there—names, facts, and case numbers. “What can you tell me?”