River’s End

station. He caught a glimpse of a paved trail which he assumed led down to the water, and what might have been a little park, though he wondered why anyone would want to loiter or picnic in the shadow of those forbidding walls. The visitors’ parking lot skirted a small, attractive beach, with the waters a dull iron gray beyond. He’d considered a tape recorder, or at least a notebook, but had decided to go in cold. Just impressions, this time. He didn’t want to give Tanner the idea he was making a commitment.
    The visitors’ entrance was a long hall with a side door halfway down. The single window was covered with notices, preventing views from either side. There was a sign on the door that had a chill sliding down his spine even as his lips quirked in wry amusement:
    PLEASE DO NOT KNOCK. WE KNOW YOU ARE OUT THERE. WE WILL GET TO YOU AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
    So he stood, alone in the empty hallway with the wind whistling stridently, waiting for those who knew he was there to get to him.
    When they did, he relayed his business, gave his ID, filled out the required forms. There was no small talk, no polite smiles.
    He’d been the route before—in New York, in Florida. He’d been on death row and felt the ice slick through his gut at the sound of doors sliding shut and footsteps echoing. He’d spoken to lifers, the condemned and already damned. He’d smelled the hate, the fear and the calculation, as much a stink in the air as sweat and piss and hand-rolled cigarettes.
    He was taken down a hallway, bypassing the main visitors’ area, and shown into a small, cheerless room with a table and two chairs. The door was thick with a single window of reinforced glass.
    And there, Noah had his first look at what had become of Sam Tanner. Gone was the pampered screen idol with the million-dollar smile. This was a hard man, body and face. Noah wondered how much his mind had toughened as well. He sat, one hand chained, the bright orange prison jumpsuit baggy and stark. His hair was cut brutally short and had gone a nearly uniform ash gray. The lines dug deep into his face gave him the look of a man well beyond his age of fifty-eight. And Noah remembered another inmate once telling him prison years were long dog years. Every one behind bars was the equal of seven out in the world. The eyes were a sharp and cold blue that took their time studying Noah, barely flicked toward the guard when they were told they had thirty minutes.
    “Glad you could make it, Mr. Brady.”
    That hadn’t changed, Noah realized. The voice was as smooth and rich and potent as it had been in his last movie. Noah sat as the door closed and the locked snicked into place at his back.
    “How did you get my home address, Mr. Tanner?”
    A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “I still have some connections. How’s your father?”
    Noah kept his eyes level and ignored the jolt in his gut. “My father’s fine. I can’t say he sends his best.”
    Sam’s teeth bared in a fleeting grin. “A straight-up cop, Frank Bradv. I see him and Jamie . . . now and again. She’s still a pretty woman, my former sister-in-law. I wonder just how close her and your old man are.”
    “Did you get me all the way up here to annoy me, Tanner, with speculations on my father’s personal life?”
    The smile came back, small and sly. “I haven’t had much interesting conversation lately. Got any reals?”
    Noah lifted a brow. He knew most of the basic prison terms. “No, sorry. I don’t smoke.”
    “Fucking California.” With his free hand, Sam reached inside his jumpsuit, carefully removed the tape that affixed a single hand-rolled cigarette and wooden match to his chest. “Making prisons nonsmoking facilities. Where do they come up with this shit?”
    He lighted the match with his thumbnail, then puffed the cigarette to life. “Used to be I had the resources for a full brick a day. A couple packs of reals is decent currency inside. Now I’m lucky to get a carton a month.”
    “It’s lousy the way they treat murderers these days.”
    Those hard blue eyes only glimmered—amusement or disdain, Noah couldn’t be sure. “Are you interested in crime and punishment, Brady, or are you interested in the story?”
    “One goes with the other.”
    “Does it?” Sam blew out a stream of ugly-smelling smoke. “I’ve had a long time to think about that. You know, I can’t remember the taste of good scotch, or the smell of a beautiful woman. You can deal with