Free Cold Shot to the Heart by Wallace Stroby Page A

worked with before, both of them in Federal Express uniforms. But a clerk with a concealed weapon had gone cowboy in the office, shot Wayne through the shoulder, winged the owner by accident.
    Larry Black had gotten Wayne out of there, but two blocks away their driver misjudged a turn, took out a fire hydrant and park bench, and put himself through the windshield. Larry Black got away, but Wayne and the driver went down for armed robbery and conspiracy, ten to fifteen each. She’d been in the courtroom for the sentencing. He’d flashed a smile at her as they led him away in shackles.
    Don’t ever work in Texas if you don’t have to, he’d told her once. That’s one state it takes too goddamn long to get out of.
    She got her suitcase at baggage claim and walked out of the terminal into dry heat, the night air still and oppressive. She was sweating by the time she reached the rental garage. They gave her a big Chrysler 300, all they had left. She shucked off the leather jacket, settled into the cushioned seat, turned the air conditioner on high.
    She’d find a motel in the city tonight, head southeast on 181 tomorrow for the ride down to Kenedy. She knew the route well, made the drive five times a year. Halfway between Poth and Falls City, she’d pass Seven Tears, the town where she’d grown up. She never once had stopped.
    *   *   *
    The visiting room was decorated for the holidays, tinsel taped to cinder-block walls, an artificial Christmas tree in one corner. She knew the presents below it were just empty boxes in wrapping paper.
    Nine thirty in the morning and most of the tables were taken. The visitors were almost all women, the majority black or Mexican, with children in tow. She sat at a table in the far corner, as far from the guards as possible, the same spot she always chose for contact visits. Vending machines hummed. Bright sunlight slanted through the windows onto the checkerboard floor.
    The conversations at the tables were quiet, inmates in starched khakis with their hands in view at all times, two guards keeping watch. Cameras on all four walls.
    She looked up when the security door buzzed. A guard held it open, and Wayne came out, looked around, saw her, smiled. He limped slightly as he started toward her. His black hair was combed straight back, less of it now, streaked with silver above his ears. She stood.
    â€œHey, darlin’,” he said.
    â€œHey, babe.”
    She leaned toward him on impulse, stopped. They were allowed a fifteen-second embrace at the beginning and end of every visit, but he wouldn’t do it anymore. It made it too hard to say good-bye, he’d said.
    They sat, and he winced as he settled on the bench. She reached across, took his hand. On the inside of his left wrist was a faint blue tattoo, the Chinese character for “perseverance.” It was a mirror of the one on her own wrist.
    â€œYou look good,” he said. “How was the trip?”
    â€œSame as always.”
    She looked into his dark brown eyes. There were more lines around them this time, more deeply etched.
    â€œYou’re limping,” she said.
    â€œThis sciatica is kicking my tired old ass.”
    â€œIt won’t go away by itself. You need treatment.”
    â€œOnly thing left is an operation, and I’m not letting them do that here. I’ll end up in a wheelchair. Or worse.”
    â€œThey give you anything for it? Painkillers?”
    â€œIn here? Doesn’t happen, girl.”
    His khakis were loose, the shirt buttoned high, an inch of white T-shirt visible beneath. She wondered how much weight he’d lost.
    â€œYou had me worried,” she said. “No letters for a while.”
    â€œThey’re lockdown crazy up in here lately. Three times in the last two months. No phone, and no visits to the commissary for stamps. Not that there’s much to write about. Same old, same old, every day.”
    She