Speak Ill of the Living Read Online Free PDF Page A

he felt the early rumblings of a caffeine withdrawal headache. His stomach filled with cold anticipation.
    Inside, a guard in a gray uniform gave Eddie a clipboard and a one-page form. Eddie stopped at the question: “Relationship to Inmate___________.” He felt his face flush with embarrassment.
    He printed: “None.”
    The guard gave the paperwork a nanosecond’s review, tossed the clipboard on a desk, and waved Eddie along.
    Security for a prison visitor was no worse than at the airport. A second guard ran a metal-detecting baton over Eddie, and then x-rayed his shoes. He led Eddie through a sliding steel door, six inches thick, like the hatch to a vault filled with gold, and then into a security airlock. There was a similar door on the other end. The door he had entered thundered shut behind him, and the other door opened.
    The visiting room was just like the movies. Ten chairs faced ten windows, which looked into a mirror image room on the other side of the glass. Telephones were mounted to the wall. The visiting area was beige and olive. The hard gray tile floor had been buffed to a wet shine and Eddie’s shoes squeaked against it.
    There were no other visitors here.
    â€œSit at number six,” the guard said, pointing to a chair. “It has the best phone.”
    Eddie nodded and slowly stepped to the chair. The guard left, letting the door slam. Eddie jumped, startled.
    He sat. The room was cold, like the frozen food aisle in the grocery. Eddie had worn a polo shirt and dress slacks. Gooseflesh roughened his bare arms. He rubbed the goosebumps away. The glass barrier between Eddie and the other side of the room, where the prisoners sat, was spotless. Eddie reached to it. Twice tapped a finger on. Felt the glass there. Heard the thump, thump.
    What will the face of a killer look like?
    A door opened on the other side of the glass. A man with a scarred face shuffled in. He was tall and broad, mountainous in the upper body, sharply tapered to a narrow waist, and then wide again in the thighs. He wore a tan jumpsuit, silver handcuffs and high-top canvas sneakers. His ankles were shackled. His head had been shaved recently, maybe two days ago; there was five o’clock shadow on his scalp.
    Eddie had prepared for an older version of himself, but this man was not his doppelganger. He had the same pointed French-Canadian features, and similar deep-set dark eyes. But Henry Bourque’s face was longer, his complexion lighter, his nose wider and slightly bent. His skin was deeply lined around the eyes. He had a familiar look, but not like a twin. More like an older uncle.
    Eddie’s eyes went to the scar on Henry’s face, an arresting, hook-shaped gash. It started at the left corner of his mouth and ran up his check, just outside his eye, then slashed up and across his forehead in a curve, ending above his right ear. The scar was muddy red, and no hair dared grow near it. How could a man survive such a wound? Goosebumps raised again on Eddie’s arms.
    Henry stood and looked Eddie over, too. His lips bent into a tiny smile. The crow’s feet around his eyes exposed themselves as laugh lines.
    Henry Bourque eased into the chair, and then nodded to the phone. They both picked up. Eddie listened. His brother’s voice was low and whispery, encrusted with nicotine: “Have you been to the mountains?”
    Not what Eddie had expected to hear. “Huh? I don’t…”
    Henry’s voice sank lower. “The mountains, man. Haven’t you been this summer?”
    â€œOnce, to the Whites in New Hampshire.”
    Henry smiled. “Ooooo, the White Mountains,” he moaned. “Tell me about them.”
    â€œI thought you wanted to tell me—”
    Henry’s eyes widened and Eddie stopped in mid-thought. Henry looked like a madman. Red veins squiggled through the whites of his eyes. He said, “The mountains, little brother, tell me about them.”