All for the best. Barbara’s presence would unnerve Eliza, perhaps even make her suspicious. She probably shouldn’t have come down at all, but her trip was legitimate, and Bobby Ray looked forward to their visits. Why should he suffer? Besides, it was good karma, for Walter. She was putting her energy into the air, trying to create an aura.

She removed the bedspread-a friend who had attempted to organize Baltimore motel maids into a union had told her that motel bedspreads crawled with bacteria-and lay on the sheets, flipping through the channels to CNN, watching the crawl across the bottom of the screen. On Tuesday, one way or another, Walter’s name would be there. Actually, his name probably wouldn’t be used. He would be reduced to DEATH ROW INMATE or VIRGINIA SERIAL KILLER. The latter bothered her for several reasons. It wasn’t correct, for one thing. Was two even a serial? By temperament, Walter was more of a spree killer; the odious Jared Garrett had that much right. Based on what Walter had told her, she believed he had a psychological defect that had been triggered by something the two girls had said or done. A woman in Texas had claimed she went temporarily insane when her lover’s wife shushed her, and next thing she knew, the woman was lying on the floor of her garage, hacked to death by her own ax. That woman had been acquitted. But Barbara had never tried to draw Walter out on the killings. Such a discussion seemed prurient, distasteful to her. Besides, that Walter no longer existed. Like Bobby Ray, he was a different man in prison than he had been before.

Unlike Bobby Ray, he had no chance of testing that new persona in the world at large, yet he would probably be more successful. Walter had skills. Walter had really thought about what he had done.

But it was Barbara who, in her letters, had pointed out to him the glaring inconsistency of Elizabeth Lerner’s testimony, the hole that a more competent attorney could have driven the proverbial truck through. Why had no one else seen it, for all these years? Because no one wanted to see it, no one wanted to lean too hard on that brave young girl who had managed to survive the terrible rapist/killer. Even Walter had failed to notice.

She called for a mushroom-and-onion pizza from a nearby delivery place, made a pot of tea in the carafe, but only after washing it carefully. Her friend who had warned her about the bedspreads also had told her of seeing a hotel maid use a toilet brush to clean out a coffeemaker. Think about that. Think about all the little crimes against humanity, all the rudeness and unkindness, that go unchecked, day in and day out, things done by people who thought of themselves as good, the same people who cheered and posted nasty Internet comments when a man like Walter was killed. They used words like animal and monster, openly yearned for more painful, sadistic executions. They were killers, too, cowardly ones who contracted their bloodlust over to the state, telling themselves that their murders were in the service of justice.

43

WALTER WOKE UP THINKING about ketchup. Why was he thinking about ketchup? Oh, because he was remembering that advertisement for ketchup, the one that showed it quivering on the edge, with all the ceremony of a first kiss, and the song coming up under it. An-ti-ci-pa-a-a-a-a-shun. He had read recently that the song had, in fact, been written about a date, although he had a hunch that date meant sex in this particular case. In Walter’s experience, too much anticipation could wreck things, set you up to expect more and better than you got, then psych you out. He didn’t want to feel an-ti-ci-pa-a-a-shun, didn’t want to be dependent on gravity, or some other force of nature, to make things drop, unfold, happen. He wanted to be the one who made things happen. Again. Finally.

He reached for himself, but not because he was thinking of her. He didn’t feel that way about her, plain and simple. He had always wanted to apologize for that, but how, exactly? Talk about adding insult to injury. Even with her, he hadn’t been thinking about her. Maybe that had been the trick all along. Love the one you’re with, think about someone else.

But he liked her. He was looking forward to seeing her, talking to her face-to-face. Plus, word would get around that a woman had come to see him, and that would give him some real cachet, especially if people heard she was attractive. Not that she would show up in that green dress, hair slicked up and back, but she would probably look okay. He just hoped he got to stick around and enjoy the burnishing of his rep. Then again, if he did stick around, he would be famous for a lot more than getting a visit from a redheaded woman.

Barbara had wanted him to write a script, had even suggested they practice on one of their phone calls. Role play, she called it. A script! Role play! Barbara trying to be Elizabeth! That would never work. He needed to be loose, spontaneous. But he also had to be mindful of the clock. Time could and would run out on this game.

Just as he found his release, an all-too-familiar sound reverberated through Sussex I, the loudest, most dreaded sound in a place full of loud, dreaded sounds. No. No. Please, God, no. Don’t do this to me.

44

ELIZA AND VONNIE APPROACHED the prison gate with the kind of nervousness endemic to those who have seldom been in trouble, aware that they were entering a world where power was distributed quite differently from the one on the other side of the fence. They would have to do as they were told, go only where they were allowed, speak as permitted. It was a lot of freedom to relinquish, even for an hour, even in the name of a good cause. Eliza’s palms were sweating, and Vonnie looked tense.

So when the guard said, “Sorry, ma’am, no visiting hours today,” the instinct was not to fight or argue but plead confusion.

“This is a rather extraordinary circum-stance,” Eliza said. “If you check the list, I’m sure you’ll see my name.”

“Oh, I have your name. I have everybody’s name,” said the guard, not unkindly. “But no one’s going in today. They found something in Sussex II last night, and the whole prison went into lockdown. You’ll have to come back for the next scheduled visiting day, which should be in two weeks.”

“The man she’s visiting will be dead next week,” Vonnie put in, leaning across her.

“That a fact?” Bland, unmoved. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about anything. Nobody’s going into there today, I can tell you that much. And no one’s any happier about it than you are.”

“There has to be a way,” Vonnie continued. “There’s always a solution if-”

“Naw,” the guard said. “There doesn’t and there isn’t. No visiting hours today. Y’all can come back in two weeks.”

Eliza wanted to put her head on the steering wheel and weep. The only thing that stopped her was that she wasn’t sure if she would be crying for the families she had hoped to comfort, or for being thwarted in her own selfish desires. But she couldn’t help thinking that it was her own disingenuousness that had undone her, that this would never have happened if she had been completely honest about what she hoped to achieve. With Peter, with Vonnie. With herself.

“Buck up,” Vonnie hissed, and Eliza realized a tear was trickling down her cheek. “This is a roadblock, nothing more. Trust me, I will get you in to see him.”

VONNIE PROVED TO BE RIGHT, although she would never have the satisfaction of going back and flinging that knowledge into the face of the imperturbable guard. And Eliza knew she wanted to do just that. Her sister had never been a gracious winner.

But she was a shrewd strategist, with sound instincts. Her first decision was to extend their stay in Richmond, where she furiously worked her iPhone and MacBook all day Saturday and into Sunday, often simultaneously. Walter was to be moved to Jarratt, home of the so-called Death House, Sunday evening. Visits there were rare, even for lawyers, Jefferson Blanding warned them, and sure enough, Eliza’s request was turned down by every official at the Department of Corrections. A part of her was almost relieved. She wasn’t going to face Walter after all, but it wasn’t her fault. She had tried to do the right thing. Why not go home, content with that knowledge? She said as much to Vonnie, who had turned their B and B into her command center, cursing its unreliable Internet connection as she searched for numbers and e-mailed journalist friends who knew how to find people on the weekends.