Chapter 1 (p3)
Shadow was not superstitious. He did not believe in anything he could not see. Still, he could feel disaster hovering above the prison in those final weeks, just as he had felt it in the days before the robbery. There was a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, which he told himself was simply a fear of going back to the world on the outside. But he could not be sure. He was more paranoid than usual, and in prison usual is very, and is a survival skill. Shadow became more quiet, more shadowy, than ever. He found himself watching the body language of the guards, of the other inmates, searching for a clue to the bad thing that was going to happen, as he was certain that it would.
A month before he was due to be released. Shadow sat in a chilly office, facing a short man with a port-wine birthmark on his forehead. They sat across a desk from each other; the man had Shadow's file open in front of him, and was holding a ballpoint pen. The end of the pen was badly chewed.
“You cold, Shadow?”
“Yes,” said Shadow. “A little.”
The man shrugged. “That's the system,” he said. “Furnaces don't go on until December the first. Then they go off March the first. I don't make the rules.” Social niceties done with, he ran his forefinger down the sheet of paper stapled to the inside-left of the folder. “You're thirty-two years old?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You look younger.”
“Clean living.”
“Says here you've been a model inmate.”
“I learned my lesson, sir.”
“Did you? Did you really?” He looked at Shadow intently, the birthmark on his forehead lowering. Shadow thought about telling the man some of his theories about prison, but he said nothing. He nodded, instead, and concentrated on appearing properly remorseful.
“Says here you've got a wife, Shadow.”
“Her name's Laura.”
“How's everything there?”
“Pretty good. She got kind of mad at me when I was arrested. But she's come down to see me as much as she could—it's a long way to travel. We write and I call her when I can.”
“What does your wife do?”
“She's a travel agent. Sends people all over the world.”
“How'd you meet her?”
Shadow could not decide why the man was asking. He considered telling him it was none of his business, then said, “She was my best buddy's wife's best friend. They set us up on a blind date. We hit it off.”
“And you've got a job waiting for you?”
“Yessir. My buddy, Robbie, the one I just told you about, he owns the Muscle Farm, the place I used to train. He says my old job is waiting for me.”
An eyebrow raised. “Really?”
“Says he figures I'll be a big draw. Bring back some old-timers, and pull in the tough crowd who want to be tougher.”
The man seemed satisfied. He chewed the end of his ballpoint pen, then turned over the sheet of paper.
“How do you feel about your offense?”
Shadow shrugged. “I was stupid,” he said, and meant it.
The man with the birthmark sighed. He ticked off a number of items on a checklist. Then he riffled through the papers in Shadow's file. “How're you getting home from here?” he asked. “Greyhound?”
“Flying home. It's good to have a wife who's a travel agent.”
The man frowned, and the birthmark creased. “She sent you a ticket?”
“Didn't need to. Just sent me a confirmation number. Electronic ticket. All I have to do is turn up at the airport in a month and show 'em my ID, and I'm outta here.” The man nodded, scribbled one final note, then he closed the file and put down the ballpoint pen. Two pale hands rested on the gray desk like pink animals. He brought his hands close together, made a steeple of his forefingers, and stared at Shadow with watery hazel eyes.
“You're lucky,” he said. “You have someone to go back to, you got a job waiting. You can put all this behind you. You got a second chance. Make the most of it.”
The man did not offer to shake Shadow's hand as he rose to leave, nor did Shadow expect him to
