Delusion by Peter Abrahams Page A

but it can’t be in his possession until transfer to court custody.”
    A guard took the Bible. Then they handcuffed him, hooked the cuffs to a waist chain, shackled his ankles.
    “See you soon, Pirate,” a guard said.
    Pirate shuffled out a door, across another dirt patch, into the back of a white van with DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS on the side.
    The double doors closed. Bolts clicked into place. The van started rolling, the driver and two guards, one with the Bible, in front, Pirate alone in back. There were two small windows and soon Pirate caught a glimpse of countryside going by, his first glimpse of countryside since . . . since the only other time he’d been outside the walls, the brief hospital visit after Esteban Malvi scooped out his eye. Pirate watched the countryside through the small windows. Once he spotted a woman in shorts and a T-shirt, walking by the side of the road.
    He kept a lookout for more to appear, but none did. After a while, he fell asleep. The sound of great rain rose up all around.
    “Hey. Wake up.”
    Pirate opened his eye. The van wasn’t moving. One of the guards stood before him.
    “On your feet.”
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    PETER ABRAHAMS
    Pirate rose, checking that his patch was in place. He shuffled to the open doors, sat on the edge of the steel floor, bumping down awkwardly—he felt a tiny stab in his non-eye—swung his feet outside and slid down, stumbling, but not falling, as he landed on the pavement of a parking lot.
    “Move.”
    Pirate walked across the parking lot, a guard on either side. They went down some steps, through a basement doorway, into a room with two cells at the back, both empty.
    “Inside.”
    Pirate went into one of the cells. The door closed. Keys jingled, locking him in. The guards left the room. Pirate sat on a bunk, much like his own. He smelled coffee, real brewed coffee, not far away.
    Pirate hadn’t drunk real brewed coffee in twenty years. He took a deep deep breath.
    A door opened. People came in: his two guards in their tan uniforms, some others in blue; and behind them someone he knew—the woman with the amazing skin. Susannah, her last name almost coming to him. She walked right over to his cell.
    “Hello Mr. DuPree. Everything all right?”
    “Hi, Miss, uh, Susannah.”
    All at once her eyes narrowed. She whirled around, faced those guards and cops. “Why is he shackled?” she said.
    A man in blue, three yellow stripes on his sleeve, said, “Standard procedure.”
    “It may be standard procedure here, Sergeant, but it’s also entirely discretionary, according to state code. I want them off—cuffs, shackles, chain.”
    “Can’t do that,” said the sergeant.
    “Plus we have some normal clothes for him. My client is not appearing in court attired in this prejudicial way.”
    Pirate didn’t know what that last sentence meant, but he liked the effect she was having on all these officers of the law. They were frowning, turning red, puffing out their chests; he almost laughed out D E LU S I O N
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    loud. And maybe he did, just a little, because an officer of the law or two shot him a look, quick and nasty.
    Then came a long silence. Pirate was familiar with silences like this, had witnessed plenty in the last twenty years: whoever spoke first lost.
    The sergeant said, “Someone go get the chief.”
    A minute or two later, the chief appeared. Pirate wouldn’t have guessed that, expected a chief to be dressed in a fancy uniform, while this man wore a gray business suit; but everyone called him chief, so Pirate knew. The chief was trim and broad-shouldered, not as big as Pirate; one of those handsome types with some Cajun blood, dark-haired and dark-eyed. People were explaining things to him. The chief listened, his eyes on Pirate. All at once Pirate remembered that brown-eyed gaze, seemingly sympathetic, remembered who this was, remembered a detective named Jarreau. And now: the chief?
    The room went quiet. The chief spoke. “No shackles,” he