Eyes Wide Open

And suddenly I heard my father, laughing-that same mocking tone with which he had humiliated Charlie with Phil. And I tried to warn him. “ Dad, ” I said, “ please, stop! ”

I screamed out loud: “ Stop! ”

But this time Houvnanian took out a blade.

And plunged it into my father’s gut. The laughing stopped. Lenny’s eyes bulged. He looked down. Blood ran into his hands.

And then Charlie was stabbing him too.

“Stop, stop! ” I cried. Over and over. “ Stop! ”

My father looked at me. Helpless. Like, Do something, Jay…

“Stop!”

I woke up, and I was sweating. Blinking and disoriented.

My cell phone was ringing.

I found it on the night table and looked. Sherwood was on the line. My heart beat like a metronome on speed. It took a second for me to regain my composure. To realize in relief that it had all been just a dream.

I put the phone to my ear and answered. “Yeah, Sherwood, it’s me.”

He didn’t even say hello. “You got a dollar on you, doc?”

“A dollar? You woke me up to ask me that?” I rolled over and dug into my khakis. “Is this a joke? Yeah, I have one here. Why? Things hurting that bad?”

“Flip it over,” the detective said without responding. “To the back.”

“Flip it over…?” I said, still a little fuzzy. I stared at the familiar words, In God We Trust. The bold, large “ONE,” spelled out. “Okay.”

“Now fold it in half. What do you see?”

“What do I see? An eagle. The seal of the United States. What am I supposed to see?”

“No,” he said, serious now. “The other half.”

Testily I blew out a breath and did what he asked me. “I’m really not into games like this. A pyramid,” I said. “A bunch of Latin…”

Then I saw it. What I was staring at. The metronome came to a stop. My whole body did.

“I see an eye!”

“That’s what the Vegas ME pulled out of Thomas Greenway’s stomach during his autopsy in 1988. A crumpled dollar bill. Or half a dollar. Like the one you’re looking at now.”

“Oh my God…”

“You were right, doc. All along. So what do you do when everything seems to point in one direction and you want to know how it all connects?”

“I don’t know. You’re playing games with me again, Sherwood. Go to the source?”

“Yeah, doc, let’s go to the source. Where it all connects. You’re not heading home on me again, are you?”

“No.” I sat up, my blood surging. “Of course not.”

“Good. You wanted your case reopened… I don’t know how the hell it happened or where in God’s name it’s going to lead, but consider it reopened. I’m in now, doc. I’m all in!”

I felt alive with validation.

“And the source is where?” I asked, the hair rising on my arms. But I already thought I knew.

“The source? And I figured you for a smart guy, doc. The source is Russell Houvnanian. I thought maybe after all these years you’d like to renew your acquaintance with him.”

PART III

Chapter Forty-Five

T he loud thwhack-thwhack-thwhack of the helicopter drummed in my ears as the aircraft descended over the dense redwood forest near the California-Oregon border.

Sherwood pointed out the window.

Cut into the sea of green was a patch of cleared land, with a group of interconnected white buildings, almost like an X carved out of the remote forest.

Pelican Bay.

My heart tightened from the anticipation of soon being face-to-face with the psychotic killer who had been a part of my youth.

Pelican Bay was California’s most remote and secure prison, housing only Level Four offenders, the worst of the worst. To be sent there you had to either be convicted of a particularly violent crime or have earned your way through habitually violent behavior at the state’s other penal facilities.

The centerpiece of Pelican Bay was the pod of four intersecting two-story halls known as the SHU, the Security Housing Unit, the giant X that I spotted from the sky. Russell Houvnanian was the SHU’s most celebrated resident. It had essentially been built for him. He had been transferred there, to the isolation of the remote forest, in 1989, after spending his first fourteen years incarcerated at San Quentin.

The copter came down on a landing pad on the prison grounds. The propeller whirred loudly and came to a stop. The landing steps dropped down and we stepped out, squinting into the bright sun.

“Detective Sherwood,” someone yelled. A guard in a khaki uniform came up as we stepped onto the tarmac. “Sergeant Ray Tobin. I’m supposed to escort you over to the admin center. To Assistant Warden Hutchins.”

“Thanks.”

We stepped into a large golf cart-like vehicle, the guard hopping in at the wheel, and it was only a short drive over to the white, two-story administration building. We went in through the main entrance, where we were directed through a law-enforcement security checkpoint and put through a metal detector.

Sherwood checked his weapon with a clerk there.

“The AW is up here,” Sergeant Tobin said, leading us up a flight of stairs, past a grid of offices and the secretarial desks.

A nameplate that read ROBERT HUTCHINS, ASSISTANT WARDEN was affixed to the door.