Page 3 of Hidden Truths

Not only was she meant to see him, she was supposed to do something for him.

But not now. First she had to rest.

CHAPTER THREE

MCFARRELLVILLE,LOCALLYKNOWNas McFelonville, was a company town. Everyone who lived there worked at the McFarrellville Federal Correctional Facility and was related to someone who worked at the prison, or supplied the prison or the prison personnel.

McFarrellville itself was south and west of Salt Lake City, in the desert, isolated as all hell, with one highway running through town, and a tiny airport built to transport visitors and officials to and from the prison. The drive from Salt Lake City in Max’s rental car took three hours; during those three hours he saw eight passenger cars, two tractor trailers and four police cars. He set his cruise control at precisely the speed limit.

He drove through town, taking note of the Desert Diner, the old local drive-in and the new fried-chicken-chain drive-through. He hoped to be out of here before he had to try any of them.

Based solely on its location, he’d booked a night at the Aloha Motel. He could have stayed at the Desert Flower Bed and Breakfast, but in the online photos the decor looked like a fancy Victorian whorehouse.

These days, he wasn’t in the mood for whorehouses, Victorian or otherwise.

The prison itself had once been out of town, but, incredibly, McFarrellville had grown out to meet it, and the Aloha Motel sat close to the prison. Really, how bad could any place named after a Hawaiian greeting be? According to the reviews, the beds were comfortable and the rooms were clean. More important, it was cheap; if he lucked out and finished his prison business before nightfall, he figured the loss of his payment was insignificant. One reviewer had written,“No bedbugs!!!”in italics. When he turned into the parking lot, he realized maybe the motel had doctored the reviews. It was a motel in the true fifties sense of the word, with an office at the front, a long strip of ground-floor rooms, and three cabins off to the side. He would bet the rooms were available by the hour, no questions asked.

He parked next to the door labeled Office, got out, pulled off his sunglasses and looked across the street.

There it was. The prison.

Even if he’d never seen a prison before, he would have known that’s what it was. Gray, monstrous, surrounded by wire and barbed wire and electric wire, towers, gravel, shimmering heat. And lights, even in the daytime. It was as if the site and building sucked in the desert’s eternal sunlight and disposed of it, as if desperation had constructed itself a home.

God, he hoped Mara Philippi was locked up in there. For all the pain and suffering she had caused, she deserved to live out her life in McFarrellville Correctional Facility. He didn’t believe she was in there—but he hoped.

A man stepped out of the motel office. His hair was white blond, his eyes were pale blue. He was probably five feet ten inches and rail thin; if Max had seen him in Kellen’s hospital, he would have thought him suffering from a terminal disease. “Hey! You Max Di Luca?”

“That’s right.”

The guy shoved his hands into the pockets of his no-iron khaki trousers and grinned. “I thought so. I looked you up. I saw you play against Notre Dame. I couldn’t believe when I saw your name on the motel roster. Come on in. We put you in the best room.”

Okay. This was weird. Max trekked across the melting hot asphalt into the motel office.

It was clean. Smelled clean, looked clean, if a little shabby.

The man pulled his hand from his pocket and stuck it out for a shake. “Jack Shales. I graduated from U of M three years after you.”

This guy was younger than Max? He didn’t look it.

Max shook. “Good to meet you, Jack.”

Jack continued, “Graduated summa cum laude in Physics with a minor in Mathematics.”

This guy was smarter than Max? Well, all things were possible.

Snow White would have envied Jack his complexion. How did someone who lived in the desert, under the unrelenting sun, stay so white? “You work here?”

“It’s worse than that. I own the place.”

As he was supposed to, Max chuckled. “I imagine it’s a paying proposition.”

“Sure is. My wife’s family has had it for years. All the wives, husbands and reporters who want to visit someone at the prison stay here.” Jack grinned wider. “Which one are you?”

Taken aback by the blatant prying, Max said, “None of the above. I’m here to visit Mara Philippi. I’m one of the people who helped capture her.”

“I told you.” Jack spoke toward the counter.

A woman rose from a chair back there. Max hadn’t noticed her; she was less than five feet tall, and the top of her head had been barely visible.

---