Page 27 of The Chain House

“I don’t know,” Sam said, watching Warden Wren frantically write something on a ripped piece of paper. “But he looked shocked by something.”

Sam figured the ultimate punishment for Batise would have been to cancel the interview. This had all been Sal’s doing anyway. He’d turned down interview requests for years before asking for this moment. And whether you were in the camp that believed Sal had changed and had finally stopped fighting and delaying his imminent death and this was truly some type of parting swan song, or if you believed like so many that this was just another publicity stunt and stall tactic because the man had proven time and time again he was willing to do and try anything to stay alive, everyone could get on board with the fact that Sal Batise was a narcissistic showman who had never settled for anything other than the spotlight. What was happening now shouldn’t have shocked anyone.

But the warden hadn’t pulled the plug. He’d given the man ten more minutes, and Sam couldn’t help wondering why.

Warden Wren finished writing whatever note he’d been working on, and before he allowed the camera to start rolling again, his eyes homed in on his “dead man walking.”

Sal must have gotten the clue, because he then turned to Jennifer Daley and said, “Miss Daley. I do apologize for my outlandish behavior and blundering vulgarity. I do hope you can find it in your lovely heart to forgive me.”

Jennifer nodded but said nothing.

And from behind them, the cameraman said, “We’re rolling again in five, four …

Warden Wren took those few seconds to hand Sam the note he’d written.

He claims to have the whereabouts of another buried body, so I’m giving him a little rope. He also claims to know who the author Mallard Malone is. This is out of left field, I know, but he insisted you work that into your ten minutes.

After quickly reading it, Sam showed the note to Jennifer.

Once the camera started rolling, the lights seemed even brighter, but unlike before the interruption, Sam felt a sense of calmness now that he hadn’t before. He sat up straight in his chair and said, “Before the break, you were asked a question about the disappearance of Bethany Hawthorne.”

Sal wasted no time answering, Sam thought, because he knew now that his time was limited and whatever game he’d planned would have to be adjusted. Sal said, “I knew nothing of Mrs. Hawthorne’s disappearance until now, and therefore I had nothing to do with it.”

“But you have to admit the timing of it all seems sketchy?” Jennifer asked.

Sal watched her, delaying his answer, Sam mused, not so much because he didn’t know what to say, but in the way his facial expression had just changed from puzzlement to revelation, and in the way he was now studying Jennifer, Sam guessed Sal may have just realized exactly who Jennifer was. And then, with a knowing grin, Sal said, “I know you. You’re from Freedom, aren’t you? Which would have put you as a little girl back then on the ranch.”

“Would you admit that the timing of the abduction—”

Sal cut her off: “Of course it may seem sketchy, but I assure you, with coincidence and fate and all those colorful conundrums set aside, I had nothing to do with it.” He held up an index finger. “Yet, as the good Christian I am, I hope and pray that the good governor’s wife will be returned soon to her house, home, and family.” This last part, Sam noticed, Sal had said directly into the camera, like he was speaking to whoever was responsible.

Sam scanned his list of questions, skipping over most, settling on one in the middle. “Are you afraid to die?”

Sal leaned forward, elbows back on his knees, twiddling his thumbs. “I’m afraid of pain, Sam Harper. I’m afraid of the not knowing. I’m afraid of death, of what’s waiting on the other side, but no … I ain’t afraid to die. Cuz I ain’t afraid of nothing.” He leaned back, crossed his legs again and laughed. “Look at me, Sam Harper. I look afraid of anything to you? Maybe of aliens … of Bigfoot … of the Loch Ness Monster. Or maybe the needle not properly going into my vein. Maybe I’m afraid of the Helter Skelter race wars my man Charlie spoke of. But you know what I’m really afraid of?”

Before Sam could stop it, the words came out: “You’re afraid of any talk of the Kentucky Cannibal.”

Sal froze like he wasn’t expecting this. Like Sam Harper had just got him good. Like he’d just been interrupted on a major point he was about to make and he didn’t appreciate it none.

Sam held strong. “Are you the Kentucky Cannibal?”

This was the exact question on which Sal had gotten up to leave during the CNN interview, but here, he answered definitely and without hesitation. “No. I am not. I have not, and never will, dine on human flesh. The thought of it revolts me.”

Sam said, “There was a pot of stew found on the kitchen stove of your house on the Freedom Ranch, and after it was analyzed, it—”

“Oh, I’ve heard all about the famous stew, Sam Harper, so don’t waste my time.” Sal shifted in his chair. “Or, as my mother used to say, before she was beaten to death by some vagrant on the streets of your fine city, Sam Harper, quit dilly-dallying.”

“Why did you write on the wall above the stove, the words, The Kentucky Cannibal was here?”

“Because he was.”

“Who is the Kentucky Cannibal, Sal?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to perhaps one day find out.”

“So the Kentucky Cannibal is real?”

“Yes.”