“I’m supposed to know about that kind of thing, aren’t I. I’m a minister. It’s more my business than yours . . .”

“No!” she cried, without thinking. “It’s not your business or his. It’s mine. Only mine . . .”

4

Chapter 4

Carver led Hawkins through one dismal corridor after another and left him in a small unused office on the fourth floor. There was a table in the room, a couple of molded plastic chairs, and locked files against the wall.

Hawkins went to the one window. The rain had stopped, the clouds were gone, and it had turned warm. He could see the river over the prison wall. It was bright blue under the sun and the wooded bank on the other side was already green. He saw other windows around him and thought of the men behind them looking out at the river and woods.

“Hey, boychik,” Meyer Garfield yelled from the door.

Hawkins thought some men looked like killers, but not Garfield. His face was sweet, almost pretty. He had thin, sandy hair, parted just off center, round pink cheeks, and large dark eyes. He rushed across the room and embraced Hawkins. Carver left them alone and Garfield went to the window. “Some day,” he said reverently. “Some gorgeous day. Shitty time of the year to be stuck in the can.” Then he turned to Hawkins. “Nu, boych,” he said, “what goes? This ain’t the sixth Sunday and I still got half a box of chocolate.”

“Meyer, I need a favor.”

Garfield raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Thank God,” he said, “I thought it would never happen.”

Hawkins had tried to save Garfield’s son’s life. He failed and David Garfield died in Vietnam, but Garfield thought he owed Hawkins anyway.