Lauren grabs her belongings and exits the chamber. She finds an empty bench in the corridor. Seven hundred thousand dollars … they spend that much on resurfacing their damn faculty parking lots. Maybe I can convince Sam to turn pro. His bonus check alone could buy a hundred GOPHERs …

Professor Laubin joins her in the corridor. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer, did you really think those scare tactics would work?’

‘I can’t help it if the facts are scary.’

‘Yes, well you certainly have a flair for the dramatic.’ He grins, extending his hand. ‘You also have yourself a research grant. Congratulations.’

Lauren leaps off the bench and hugs him around the neck.

‘Okay, okay. Now go save the world.’

Belle Glade, Florida

Virgil Robinson tucks his new white dress shirt into his new khaki pants and slips his bare feet into the secondhand brown suede loafers.

‘Ready, Virge?’

‘Been ready for twenty damn years.’

Virgil follows the armed guard past the seemingly endless corridor of cells. He nods to a few well-wishers, avoids eye contact with others.

His heart beats faster as they exit the cellblock.

‘You are required to contact your probation officer within twenty-four hours.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Open up.’

The cellblock door rolls open, and a second guard joins them on their walk.

‘You may not leave Florida while on probation, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You will be required to submit and pass a random urine test every month while on probation.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They approach a solid steel door. ‘Open up.’

Virgil squints at the afternoon sun as it peeks between the razor wire and perimeter fencing. A supervisor hands him two envelopes, one containing a three-hundred-dollar credit, the other a plastic bag holding his personal belongings.

Virgil follows the two guards and supervisor outside, the men leading him down fifty yards of fenced-in sidewalk, dead-ending at another gate.

‘One for release. Open the gate.’

The steel door slides open.

‘Prisoner F-344278-B, you have been granted parole by the State of Florida Correctional Systems. Will there be someone meeting you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Stay on the straight and narrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Asshole … Virgil walks out of the shadow of the penitentiary and into the light.

The white limousine is parked along the side of the road. The back door opens.

Out steps a paunchy Caucasian man in rose-colored glasses, dressed in a tropical silk shirt and cream-colored slacks. ‘Virgil Robinson?’ The man’s voice—a heavy Louisiana drawl.

‘Yeah?’

‘The name’s Ben Merchant. I work for your daughter. You did receive her letter?’

‘Got it right here.’ Virgil pats his pocket, his shirt already spotting with perspiration.

‘Come on, partner, let’s get you out of the heat.’

*

The limousine turns south on Smart Highway 95.

‘So, uh—’

‘Call me Ben.’

‘Right. So Ben, you say this Mabus fella died yesterday?’

‘And so young. Doctor says it was a heart attack.’

‘And my Lilith—’