Slim, tall Jon Merritt was dressed in a dark suit—the deepest shade of navy blue, good for job interviews and funerals. It was a size too big. A complementing white shirt too, frayed where frays happen. The last time he had worn this outfit was more than ten months ago. In the interim his garb, not of his choosing, had been bright orange.
“You’re looking like an ace,” the guard said. Larkin was a large Black man whose uniform was much the same shade as Merritt’s suit.
“Oh, I just shine, don’t I?”
The guard paused, maybe wondering how stinging the sarcasm was meant to be. “Here you go.”
Merritt took the envelope that contained his wallet, watch and wedding ring. The ring went into his pocket, the watch onto his wrist. The battery had behaved and the instrument showed the correct time: 9:02 a.m.
Looking through the wallet. The bills—$140—were still there, but the envelope no longer contained the coins he’d had. A credit card and an ATM card were present too. He was surprised.
“I had a phone, a book, paperback. Socks. A pen.”
The pen he’d used to jot notes to his attorney at the hearing. It was a nice one, the sort you put a refill in, not threw out.
Larkin looked through more envelopes and a cardboard box. “That’s all that’s here.” He lifted a huge hand. “Stuff disappears. You know.”
More important: “And some work I did in the shop. William said I could keep it.”
The screw consulted a sheet. “There’s a box outside the door. On the rack. You didn’t come in with it so you don’t gotta sign.” He prowled through more paperwork. Found two envelopes, business size, and pushed them through.
“What’s that?”
“Discharge documents. Sign the receipt.”
Merritt did and put the envelopes in his pocket fast, feeling that if he read them now, he’d see a mistake. The screw could catch it too and say, sorry, back inside.
“And these.” He slid Merritt a small business card. “Your parole officer. Be in touch in twenty-four hours. No excuses.” Another card made the short trip. It was a doctor’s appointment reminder. It was for eleven today.
“Take care, Merritt. And don’t come back.”
With not a single word he turned. The lock buzzed and snapped and the thick metal door opened. Merritt walked through it. Besidethe door, on the rack Larkin had mentioned, was a cardboard box, about one by two feet,j. merritton the side. He picked it up and walked to the exit gate in the chain-link. The barricade clattered as it crawled sideways.
Then Jon Merritt was outside, on the go-where-you-will sidewalk.
He felt odd, disoriented. Dizzy. This did not last long. It was like the time he and some cop friends went party boat fishing and it took him a little time to find his sea legs.
Then, steadying, he turned south. Inhaling deeply, wondering if the air outside tasted different from the air inside. Couldn’t tell.
His feet hurt already. Merritt had enough cash to buy shoes—he wasn’t sure if his cards still worked—but it was easier and cheaper to go to the U-Store facility, where his possessions resided.
Supposedly.
The light changed and Merritt started across the asphalt, shoulders slumped, in his tight shoes and baggy, somber suit. On his way to a job interview.
Or a funeral.
3
Wait. There’s something I—”
Colter Shaw’s words were interrupted by a loud bang from one of the drums that had tumbled to the floor. A huge, dense cloud of yellow gas poured from it and filled the room. In seconds it was impossible to see a foot ahead.
The men began choking.
“Poison!”
“What is it?”