c h a p t e r  2 :

The digital clock that sat on the empty bookcase blinked insistently in the dim room. It was an hour and thirty-five minutes off, but Gaspard had never bothered to reset it, he just did the maths to calculate the time. However, his head felt too swollen this morning—the little white trashcan filled to its rim with empty glass liquor bottles could behold an answer.

He twisted underneath the sheets, hand raising up, rubbing across his bare chest. Fingertips caught on the white raised, yarn-width, scars that decorate him. Those four jagged letters stretched into her name. It was a gift, a free reminder from the woman who claimed to love him. Love, he thought belittled.

K–his fingers played along its edges–A–then slide to another–T–that one was slanted–E–this one curved up his side. He could still feel where the knife caught his jutted out rib, the one he had broken as a child. A subtle vibration disturbed his thoughts.

What was today, Tuesday? He was suppose to see Kate today. It would be the last time too, at least the last time alive. Her execution was scheduled in days—then blissful freedom awaited him. Or so Gaspard thought.

Hauling his weight forward he sat up, blindly searching for his cell within his bed blankets. The screen was lit with a number that use to be familiar. Lips pursed he listened to the little drunk voice that told him he didn't need that, and he agreed. Call rejected.

The telly came on with a flick of his finger from the slim remote. A red band braced the screens bottom reading, "Breaking News." Brows furrowed, he swung his legs over the bed's side squinting in the female voices direction. It was hard to concentrate, what was the woman saying?

"—Cross, where she was a professor of literature. So far, four guards are confirmed dead."

Gaspard's finger pressed onward to the next news channel catching another bit.

"Escaped from prison early this morning. As you may recall, Cross was convicted in 2009, for the murders of seven young college students. Eight, including her husband. We warn—"

There it was again, his phone. He did not hesitate a moment further catching it before the second ring, standing from the bed.

"Hello?" He said.

"Hello, Gaspard. It's Director Richard, FBI. It's been a while."

"Yeah. What can I do for you, sir?"

"We need you in Pennsylvania, Gaspard."

"I'm not," he pressed the phone harder against his skin. "I'm not an Agent anymore."

"I know things didn't end well with the bureau, but you caught Cross."

He argued, "She turned herself-"

"No one knows her like you do." Richard interrupted.

I've got good Agents on it, the Director had gone on his lengthy role to tempt him to rejoin. Gaspard stood palms pressed into the showers tiles as water fell, consuming him. Go consult, educate them. He twisted away from the showerhead lifting a hand to pinch his eyes. He never looked down, he couldn't. Those words—there was more than one—were carved on every surface.

We have to find her fast.... Soaping his skin, his palm ran across another lump, a needed lump, on his chest. A pacemaker. He could already feel the tension that fisted his heart. It squeezed and strained the tiny blood-filled muscled organ. We have to find her fast. If only he could melt into the drain like water and be done with this blasted world.

Her face filled his tv. It was the photo they had taken when she was brought in and being processed. She had aged in the last six years. There were subtle differences. Her hair wasn't as blonde, natural brunette roots had grown. Then there were the small creases in her skin from stress and a darkening in her eyes. If Gaspard was to be honest, he had aged too. He wasn't a mere twenty-one year old any longer. Kate had ruined him, his relationships, his entire existence. Until now.

Wind swirled from the blades of the helicopter, it caused him to instinctively duck as he climbed out. Black suits were there to greet him, he use to be one of those. Fitted forms, slick shaved hair, tie nice and tight. However, his suit was now worn, and his hair was longer than usual—and tie? Well, those could get a man strangled.

Within the prison walls two Agents gave him a rundown of what he needed to know. "Just keep your head down," Agent Wyatt had grunted. He reminded Gaspard of a water buffalo, dark skinned, thick from head to toes. The female on the other hand, Agent Jennifer, was one of those know-it-all's. God, how I hate them, he thought.

They had passed a maze of white and gray washed walls. Right, left, another left, up a stairwell, then down two more. Were they trying to intimidate him? Did they not trust him? Although he knew these walls too. Ignoring the shouting profanity from inmates they passed, Wyatt nodded to a crowded hall before them. This is where Kate had done her deed.

Cameras flashed, in the small booth. Gaspard stepped in first ignoring the few stares he earned from their forensic team. In the six years of his departure he had shoved the reek of death so far aside that he had forgotten it even could smell. Blood—that lovely red liquid was splattered so high it reached the ceiling panels above. His eyes strained to follow every patterned stroke. A body was slumped in his chair, black pitless eye-sockets stared helplessly at him. Another two held open throats, and multiple stab wounds. He didn't even want to see the fourth. Raising a hand he pinched the bridge of his nose until a man spoke in his direction. "So he decided to come, huh? Then he's your problem Agent."

"Come on, there's more for you to see." Agent Jennifer's hands pried his feet from where they stood, steering him towards the death row cell block. Part of him felt relieved, seeing those bodies ... it only reminded him of how close he had come to death himself. "The room she stayed in." Jennifer allowed him in. "Just the way she left it. Forensics swept. Nothing. She's scheduled to be executed next week."

"The tenth." He rubbed his hand over that familiar wad that kept his heart beating, it was starting to ache. There wasn't much to see. A cot size bed, braced the small wall with untouched sheets crisp and folded. Her small toilet accompanied by the metal sink gleamed silver. Gaspard knelt down, lifting the sheets edge to glance underneath the bed. He didn't know if he expected to find anything, but there wasn't, just dust bunnies staring back. Lifting his head an end table covered in papers caught his eye.

He grabbed the papers tossing them aside revealing his book. The one he had written about his short time as a profiler ... a book about her. Hardcover, not a page unbent. "Who let her have this?" Lifting it in his hands he flipped to the first page, coming face to face with a personal handwritten note.

"Anyone could have. 'To my Gaspard, I enjoyed your book. Have you ever considered a sequel? Your love, Kate.'"

Eyes lifted to the thin raven haired Agent, she had read this—no she had it memorized down to the exact word. An un-loyal piece of him felt betrayed. That was for him and him alone. He shook his head and closed the book with a loud, slap. What was he thinking? It wasn't some love note, he shouldn't feel so gratified.

"You never said anything about a note."

Jennifer had a look of contempt smeared across her long face, "Any idea why she left that for you?"

"She enjoyed my book. She said so." He shrugged, forcing a smile in humor.

"I think she's letting us know that she plans to kill again, Gaspard."

"Yeah. Yeah." He moved out of the cramped cell pressing the novel into her hands. "That's probably it."

"Look. I read your file." She latched onto his upper arm. "And I know you don't tend to play well with others."

"You read my file?" Narrowed eyes and a mouth scoffed.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"So what, you know me, is that what it is?"

She released his arm, "Forget it."

He paused, turning back to the Agent. "Rachel. Her sister. Has anyone been in touch with her?"

"She's being questioned," Jennifer said in distaste. "But, we have her under protection, as well. Don't worry too much, lover boy. I read your file. Remember?"

She shoved his hard covered novel into him, rattling his chest. If he didn't know any better, Gaspard would think the Agent was taunting his disability mistaking it for a weakness. A frown pressed on his face, he needed to get his hands on her file too.