River’s End

sweat pooling in his armpits and his gut muscles twisted like thin rope. But beneath the fear had been a simple and steady hope. His time in hell was done, and life could begin again.
    Then he’d seen Jamie, and he’d seen Frank Brady, and he’d known they’d come to make certain the doors of hell stayed locked.
    She’d spoken of Julie, of her beauty and talent, her devotion to family. Of how one man had destroyed all that, out of jealousy and spite. How he had endangered and threatened his own child.
    She’d wept while she’d addressed the panel. Sam recalled, quiet tears that had trickled down her cheeks as she spoke.
    He’d wanted to leap to his feet when she’d finished, shouting, Cut! One-take wonder! A brilliant performance!
    But he’d recited poetry in his head and remained still, his face blank, his hands resting on his thighs.
    Then Frank had had his turn, the dedicated cop focused on justice. He’d described the scene of the murder, the condition of the body in the pitiless, formal detail of police-speak. Only when he’d talked of Olivia, of how he’d found her, did emotion slip into his voice.
    It had been all the more effective.
    Olivia had been nineteen then, Sam thought now. He’d tried to imagine her as a young woman—tall and slim with Julie’s eyes and that quick smile. But he’d only seen a little girl with hair as golden as dandelion who’d always wanted a story at bedtime.
    He’d known as Frank had looked at him, as their eyes had met and held, that parole wouldn’t be granted. He’d known that this same scene would be repeated year after year, like a film clip.
    The rage he’d felt wanted to spew from his mouth like vomit. In his head he’d found Robert Frost and gripped the lines like a weapon.
    I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. For the last five years he’d formed and refined those promises. Now, the son of the man who’d murdered his hope was going to help him keep them.
    That was justice.
    Over a month had passed since Noah had first come to see him. Sam had begun to worry that he wouldn’t come back, that the seeds he’d so carefully planted hadn’t taken root after all. Those plans, those hopes, those promises that had kept him alive and sane would shatter, leaving him only the sharp edges of failure. But he’d come back, was even now being led to this miserable little room. Interior scene, day. Sam thought as he heard the locks slide open. Action. Noah walked to the table, set down his briefcase. Sam could smell his shower on him, the hotel soap. He was dressed in jeans, a soft cotton shirt, black Converse high-tops. There was a small healing cut at the corner of his mouth. Sam wondered if he knew how young he was, how enviably young and fit and free. Noah took his tape recorder, a notebook and a pencil out of the briefcase. And when the door was shut and locked at his back, tossed a pack of Marlboros and a book of matches in front of Sam.
    “Didn’t know your brand.”
    Sam tapped a fingertip on the pack, and his smile was sly and wry. “One’s the same as the other in here. They’ll all kill you, but nobody lives forever.”
    “Most of us don’t know when or how it’s going to end for us. How does it feel being someone who does?”
    Sam continued to tap his finger on the pack. “It’s a kind of power, or would be if I were in the world. In here, one day’s the same as the next anyway.”
    “Regrets?”
    “About being in here, or dying?”
    “Either. Both.”
    With a short laugh, Sam opened the cigarettes. “Neither one of us has enough time for that list, Brady.”
    “Just hit the high points.”
    “I regret I won’t have the same choices you do when this hour’s up. I regret I can’t decide: you know, I’d think I’d like a steak tonight, medium rare and a glass of good wine to go with it and strong black coffee after. Ever had prison coffee?”
    “Yeah.” It was a small thing to sympathize with. “It’s worse than cop coffee. What else do you regret?”
    “I regret that when I’m finally able to make that choice again, have that steak, I’m not going to have much time to enjoy it.”
    “That seems fairly simple.”
    “No, there are those who have choices and those who don’t. It’s never simple to the ones who don’t. What choice have you made?” He slid a cigarette out of the pack, angled it toward the recorder. “With this. How far are you going to go with this?”
    “All the way.”
    Sam looked