Page 2 of One Night Years Ago

A guard stood by impassively. “It’s time, Fowler. Show me your hands.”

Hunter put his hands through the slot in the bars and watched as the handcuffs went against his wrists. Tight. He swallowed his panic and turned to Mac.

“I’m glad you’re getting out, Hunter.” It was one of the few times Mac had called him anything other than boy.

“I’ll come visit you, Mac,” he said.

Mac pulled Hunter in for a hug, his strength surprising. He brought his mouth close to Hunter’s ear. “No,” he whispered. “You get out of here and you don’t ever look back. You go back to that farm and take care of your family. That’s what you do.”

“Move back, Mac,” the guard warned, but his tone when he addressed the old man was kinder than the one he used on Hunter.

Hunter felt something heavy behind his eyelids. There was so much he wanted to say to Mac. He thought back to those first few weeks and how he might not have survived prison if it hadn’t been for the old man. But the guard was still staring at them, rapping his baton softly against the bars of their cell like he was playing an instrument, so Hunter swallowed his words.

“Bye, Mac,” he said, knowing it was probably the last time he would see the old man alive.

“Don’t forget your things,” the guard said, his voice dripping in sarcasm. Hunter didn’t have things. There was a book on his corner of the shelf, but that one came from the library. He looked at his toothbrush, which had seen better days. He dropped it in the small trash can.

“Walk, Fowler,” the guard ordered. His voice was full of venom now. They walked in silence down the long corridor. Hunter ignored the jeers from some of the other inmates. He hadn’t made many friends in prison.

The guard signaled to one of his colleagues and the door opened. Hunter expected to keep going straight, but the guard opened another door to the right and directed Hunter that way. Hunter looked at the empty corridor, trying not to let his apprehension show. That corridor did not lead to the exit.

“Let’s take a little walk, Fowler,” the guard said, his voice almost amiable again.

“Where are we going? That’s not the exit, man. I have my walking papers.” Hunter lowered his voice an octave to keep it from shaking.

“Get in there, Fowler. Don’t mess with me,” the guard said, his pale hand going to the baton by his side.

In his mind, Hunter could see himself headbutting the guard. He shook the image away and did as he was told. It was what it was, and there was no point in making things worse for himself.

That was why hope was such a dangerous companion. The moment you had it, they could use it to beat you down again. He wondered if it was all a dark joke.

The guard pushed Hunter through an open doorway and closed the door, staying on the other side. Hunter almost lost his balance but straightened himself at the last minute, his manacled hands coming up to defend himself.

The room was empty except for Sheriff Bowmann, who waited by the window. Not Sheriff Bowmann anymore, Hunter remembered. A new inmate had told him the sheriff had retired several years earlier. The man looked older, saggier and sadder than Hunter remembered him. He swallowed the guilt of knowing this might be largely his fault. He locked the thought in a corner of his mind before it could progress to the next logical thought, knowing nothing good could come of that.

Hunter’s gaze was drawn to ex-Sheriff Bowmann’s hand and the revolver pointed in his direction.

Hunter lowered his manacled wrists in front of him and stood with his feet shoulder width apart, trying to project a calm he didn’t feel. Bringing his fists to a gunfight wasn’t the answer. If Bowmann wanted to blow his head off, he would.

The sheriff looked him up and down. “You’ve been working out. You look more dangerous now than when you came in here, Fowler. And you were already a mean son of a bitch.”

I was barely a man.

Hunter put on a bored expression. “What do you want, Bowmann? I’ve done my time.”

“I want to warn you. The parole board may believe you no longer pose a danger to society, but I know what you’re capable of. I know you’re a beast.”

The older man’s hand didn’t shake as he raised the revolver to point straight at Hunter’s heart. Hunter stood very still.

“So what, you’re going to kill me?” he said in a low voice.

Bowmann’s eyes burned with blue fire.

“You can do your parole anywhere in the state. If you have any decency left, don’t come back to Sharp’s Cove.”

More than the gun pointed in his direction, Hunter hated that he understood the man. But he couldn’t do as he asked. He steeled his spine and raised himself to his full height.

“This isn’t a place that caters to decent men, Sheriff Bowmann.”