BooksBarbecue
Back We Were Killers Once
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

Maybe it was how Beaufort said that, or maybe it was that the warden was too young to know the television program. He lifted his chin and looked at the freed man with different eyes, half shaded by his lids. If he had been about to ask whether Beaufort needed a ride to the bus station, now he didn’t bother.

“See you soon,” the warden said, as he said to all the departing cons.

Beaufort went from the office to a holding area where he could pick up his stuff and change into the clothes his transport had brought him. Thinking about his last interview. What did those bastards expect, that you’d lick their hand gratefully? You put a guy behind bars and take care of him like a zoo animal, three hots and a cot for years on end, fresh sheets you didn’t have to wash yourself unless you’re assigned to the laundry. They did everything but hold a guy’s dick while he pissed. Then they let you out and say you have to be a human being now, lead a responsible life. Beaufort didn’t know what he’d do if that was the life he had to look forward to, being grateful for a job bussing tables and sleeping in a cardboard box at the age of sixty-nine.

Beaufort walked out of Central Mississippi Correctional Facility. His transport had been provided via an old associate of his, a guy named Yanchak. The first time he was caught he didn’t snitch on Yanchak. It didn’t matter that Yanchak would have had him killed if he had, Yanchak owed him big-time.

The transport had brought him some civilian clothes to wear. He had put on real jeans for the first time in more than thirty years, nice if a little too big and too rough, and a shirt that didn’t smell of that harsh detergent that bit the inside of your nose. Also a little money, enough to get himself food during the four-hour bus trip to Pascagoula and whatever came after. He didn’t ask the transporter’s name, but asked him for a little more money, figuring the guy hadn’t given him all of it the first time.

“I have to buy a belt, too. You didn’t bring me a belt.”

The guy forked over the other ten-dollar bill he had held back. Beaufort took it, folded it, and put it with the rest in the breast pocket of his shirt. “Thank Yanchak for me,” he said.

It was quiet in the car for a while as they drove. His hearing dulled from the constant noise of the prison population at all times of the day and night, Beaufort could hear nothing but the air from the open window pass his ears.