Beneath Devil's Bridge(72)

Clay keeps his eyes aimed toward the screen. But he knows. There’s been a shift. He can feel it. Creeping. Rippling. Crackling. An invisible and silent energy. Something is happening.

The blonde reporter is saying, “Do you believe him?”

The camera zooms right in on Trinity’s face. “I do believe he’s a very sick man,” she says, eyes watering in the wind. “From all the evidence, from his own words, he was addicted to child pornography. The evidence found in his shed went to a federal task force, and it did help to crack an international pedophile ring being run out of Thailand but with most of its business in North America. But as to whether Clayton sexually assaulted and murdered Leena Rai, I’m still waiting to hear what else he says. For me, the jury is still out.”

Smart, Clay thinks. Trinity is using the newscast to do marketing for her podcast. She’s hooking viewers right there, whether she believes what she’s saying or not.

The reporter says, “Does he show remorse?”

“For the pornography, yes. For the rest, he claims he confessed to killing Leena Rai because he believes he should be behind bars. He says he did it to protect his wife and child.” Trinity wavers. “I . . . I think I believe him. I think he actually cared for, maybe loved, his wife and child.”

“Or you want to?”

“Maybe. Perhaps I want to believe that monsters can also be human. That a bad man can do things that are good. That he still has feelings for the people around him. If you’ve listened to my podcast, you’ll know he tried to get treatment for his paraphilia. He wanted it to stop. He knew it was wrong. But as research has shown, the recidivism rate for this kind of offender is high. Clay is safer inside.”

“Or rather, children are safer with him inside.”

“Yes,” says Trinity.

“Pedo,” someone whispers loudly in the room. Clay’s stomach tightens. He tries to swallow without showing his fear.

“Kiddie fiddler,” whispers someone else from the other side of the room.

Clay turns to look. All the men are now regarding him. Both the guards, too. Fear climbs higher inside his throat.

Ovid says, “Doing a fourteen-year-old who is going on fifteen is one thing, Pelley, but jacking off to a photo of a five-year-old? Fucking pedo. Children? Babies? You think you’re safer in here?”

The reporter says, “Is it difficult to talk to a man like him, when you know what sickness, what evil, lives inside him?”

“I don’t pretend to understand the deviance that can afflict people,” says Trinity. “But I think it can be useful to try. I think it can also be instructive. Understanding the enemy, knowing him, is always better than the unknown, the unseen.”

“Is he using you and your podcast, Trinity? Is he playing some kind of game because he’s bored?”

“I believe he has something he wants to say. He needs to get it off his chest. I’m the vehicle, the opportunity that presented itself for him to do so.”

“And what do you say to Leena Rai’s father, who is still alive, and to her little brother, and her cousin? What do you tell those who criticize you for exploiting their pain for your own gain, your own ratings?”

Trinity turns to the camera, and suddenly it’s like she’s looking right into the prison, right into Clay’s eyes.

“To Leena’s family, and to everyone listening, and to anyone who might be hurt or confused by this, if there has been a miscarriage of justice, I think you all deserve to know it. Truth is my driver. Only the truth. I want the truth of what happened to Leena Rai.”

The door of the guard’s cubicle opens, and the guard steps out. “Pelley, I need you to go collect a bucket and mop from the supply store. Someone threw up in one of the corridors.”

Clay stands, hesitates, glances at everyone watching him.

“Move it!” barks the guard.

He walks slowly toward the door and waits. The buzzer sounds as the door unlocks. He exits. The door shuts and locks automatically behind him. He makes his way down the corridor toward the caged storage area. He glances up at the CCTV cameras near the ceiling as he goes. It’s quiet. He’s alone. Too alone. He rounds the corner and makes his way to the end of the long corridor, where the supplies are kept behind a metal fence. Two of the fluorescent lights at the end of the corridor have gone out. A third is flickering and humming. He stops as he notices something else. A white substance has been smeared over the far camera near the gate to the supply area.

Clay takes a step backward, begins to turn. But a shadow comes fast, seemingly from nowhere. He tries to run, but another man rounds the corner and strides fast, purposefully, silently, toward him. His arms are out at his sides. Something in his right fist. It’s partially tucked up his sleeve.

Clay steps backward, in the other direction, and bumps into the man behind him. The inmate in front of him keeps coming. Clay recognizes him now. It’s Ovid. That’s when he knows the guard is in on it—the guard ordered Clay to come here to clean up the alleged puke. And Ovid was let out of the room right behind him. That’s also when he knows he’s done. Ovid is upon him, reaching forward like he’s going to give Clay a hug. The man behind him holds him in place. Clay feels the thrust of the blade in Ovid’s fist like a punch to his stomach. Shock explodes through his body. He doubles over, winded. His assailant withdraws the shank, pulls his arm back, and punches it in again. Right at Clay’s liver, and he angles the blade up. He yanks it out. And then the men are gone.