But right now, as he sat across from Warden Philip Mackenzie in the corner booth at McDermott’s pub, Max threw all of that away. Sarah was not with him. She didn’t even know he was here. She wouldn’t approve—Sarah was very by-the-book—and moreover, he was （to keep within his piss-poor metaphor） throwing a scuffed-up spitball, clearly illegal, and if someone was going to get thrown out of the game, it might as well be him and him alone.
Mackenzie had ordered an Irish whiskey called Writers’ Tears. Max was going with a club soda. He didn’t handle spirits well.
“So what can I do for you, Special Agent Bernstein?” Mackenzie asked.
Max had chosen to meet Mackenzie at the warden’s favorite watering hole because this wasn’t about intimidation or pressing an advantage. Just the opposite, in fact.
“I need your help finding David.”
“Of course,” Mackenzie said to him, sitting a little straighter. “I want that too. He was my prisoner.”
“And your godson.”
“Well, yes. All the more reason to want him back safe and sound.”
“I can’t believe nobody picked up on that before now.”
“Picked up on what?”
“On your relationship with him. But I also don’t care. Look, we both know you helped break him out.”
Mackenzie smiled, took a deep sip of his drink. “You heard my attorney. The CCTV backs up my story. Burroughs was seen holding a gun—”
“Look, this is just us talking. I’m not recording this. It isn’t a cute trap.”
Max placed his phone on the grossly sticky table in front of them.
“Oh my,” Mackenzie said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Your phone is on the table. Now there is no way you can possibly be recording this.”
“I’m not. I think you know that. But for the sake of anyone maybe listening, we are having a hypothetical discussion. That’s all.”
Mackenzie frowned. “Seriously?”
“Look, Phil, I want this to be nice. I don’t want to add threats. Okay? You know I’m going to nail you for aiding and abetting. You’ll go down. Your son will go down. You’ll both go to prison or if I really mess up, you’ll just lose your jobs and pensions. It’s going to be bad, and if I’m angry—forget me, if Sarah is angry—you’re going to be toast. She will crawl up your sphincter and make a home there.”
“Colorfully put.”
“But today I don’t care about any of that. Today I want to know why you did it. Why now. Hypothetically.”
Mackenzie took a swig. “Sounds like you have a theory, Special Agent Bernstein.”
“I do. Would you like to hear it?”
“Sure.”
“David Burroughs gets no visitors for years. Suddenly his sister-in-law shows up. I’ve checked. There were no letters exchanged before her visit, no phone calls, nothing. I’ve also seen the video of her first visit. He didn’t know she was coming. With me so far?”
“Sure.”
“She showed him a photo. I can’t make out what it is. That’s the thing. But when Burroughs sees it, everything changes. You can feel it right through the CCTV. When the visit is over, he contacts you—again, from what I can see, for the first time. Do you want to help me here and tell me what he wanted?”
“I already said—”
“Okay, you’re not going to help, fine. Let me go on then. You respond to his visit by going to see your old police partner, who happens to be Burroughs’s father. As soon as you come back, you help break Burroughs out. I’m not sure how the fight with Ross Sumner fits in. I’m also not sure about the correctional officer Ted Weston. He’s one of your men. You know him better than I do. Anyway, Weston lawyered up after we found out someone was bribing him. Did you know about that?”
“No.”
“Surprised?”
“That he took a bribe?”
“Yes.”
Mackenzie took another sip, shrugged.
“Okay, don’t answer. But here’s why it’s important. I don’t think Burroughs attacked Weston. I think it was the other way around. Weston went after him. So that’s weird to me. And one last thing: When Burroughs does escape, the first person he goes to is a key witness from his trial. An old woman who changed her name and moved away right after the trial ended. And that old woman? I talked to her. She’s lying about what Burroughs said to her during his visit. I think for some reason she’s protecting him.”
Max spread his hands. “So I add this all up, Phil, and you know what I come up with?”
“What’s that?”
“Burroughs’s sister-in-law, who used to be a very good investigative journalist, found something that could free him. She brings it to him. Shows it to him through that plexiglass. Burroughs goes to you. Tells you what Rachel Anderson has. You agree to help. Thing is, you’re too good to have rushed an escape like that, leaving so many things to chance. So my guess is, the Sumner or Weston attack—or both—forced your hand.”
“This is some story, Special Agent Bernstein.”
“Call me Max. I don’t have it exactly. I’m missing parts. But we both know I’m close. Here’s the thing. We have to bring David in. You get that. And I don’t know why this evidence couldn’t just be given to his attorney or something. I assume there is a good reason for that.”
Mackenzie still gave him nothing.
“And Sarah? She is strictly by the book. If Burroughs was set up, if he didn’t do it, I’m not like that guy in The Fugitive—remember that movie?”
Mackenzie nodded. “I even remember the TV series.”
“Before my time. But there’s the great scene when Harrison Ford tells Tommy Lee Jones—Tommy plays the federal agent trying to capture him—‘I’m innocent,’ and do you remember what Tommy Lee Jones says?”
He nodded. “He says, ‘I don’t care.’”
“Right. That’s Sarah. She doesn’t care. We have a job to do. Bring Burroughs in. Period, the end. It’s why you and I are meeting alone in this bar. I’m vulnerable now. You could tell them what I said. But unlike Tommy Lee Jones, I do care. If Burroughs didn’t do it, I want to help him.”
The warden picked up his drink and held it up to the light. “Suppose,” he said, “I told you that you’re mostly right.”
Max felt his pulse quicken.
“But suppose,” Mackenzie continued, “I also told you that the real story is stranger than what you’ve concocted.”
“Stranger how?”
“Suppose I told you that the real reason David escaped was because a child may be in grave danger.”
Max looked confused. “You mean another child?”
“Not exactly.”
“You mind explaining?”
Philip Mackenzie smiled, but there was no joy in it. “Tell you what,” he said, draining his whiskey and sliding out of the booth. “You draw up papers giving my son full immunity, we can finish this chat.”
“What about immunity for you?”
“I don’t deserve immunity,” Mackenzie said. “At least, not yet.”