Altered States Read Online Free
Author: Paul J. Newell
was that she was very stable. She was six years old when the picture was taken – and she always will be now.
I shook myself from my reverie; I had a job to do. I needed to see a man in a prison. The man arrested in connection with Pearle’s death. This was not as straightforward as it should be. Nothing ever is for me.
I’m something of an expert at laying low. I could write a book about it – though promotion may prove problematic. Specifically, I can impart that one particularly bad way of laying low is to walk into a city jail and visit a murderer; what with all the policemen, cameras, form-filling and so forth. So there was really only one alternative, and it was potentially a rather expensive one.
I pulled on some clothes, and grabbed the briefcase full of cash I always had handy for just such occasions.
I headed into town and then slipped off the main Strip. One block makes a big difference in New Meadows. Sneak behind its glitzy façade and you find the true depth and hue of its foundation. Ugly storage units, grimy offices, low-grade accommodation for the underpaid workers. It was virtually a different world. This was the real New Meadows. The rest was just a front. A crocodile smile.
As unwelcoming as it was, this was just the ambience I was seeking. I was heading for a bail-bondsman and I needed a distinctly back-street kind of outfit. A place that wouldn’t ask too many questions. I also needed to be face-to-face. Calling 1800-GET-ME-OUT would not suffice.
The door tinkled as I walked in.
‘Can I help you?’ The question originated from a pale-looking man sitting behind a dishevelled desk. He seemed somewhat surprised at receiving any custom in person. The décor seemed quite surprised too. In fact, it seemed to have popped out for lunch. The ceiling was short of its full complement of polystyrene tiles, and most of those that remained bore the familiar brown stain of a leaky air-con unit. Loose cables trailed across the floor beneath furniture that was mostly fashioned from bare chipboard. A real classy joint.
‘I’d like to post bail,’ I stated succinctly.
There was a name plate on the man’s desk. It wasn’t a shiny brass affair. More of a grubby plastic fridge-magnet, propped up against a pot of pencils. As such it served the double purpose of clearly stating the name of its owner – one Kent Bradshaw – and of equally clearly stating that he was a loser. He was not a bad man, I could tell that; with a less than savoury employer most likely. In this respect I felt a twang of sympathy for him, and at some level felt bad about what I was about to do. But sometimes we have to do things that make us feel bad. Sometimes there is a greater need.
‘Do take a seat,’ Kent urged.
I didn’t take a seat. I just gave him the particulars of my desired inmate, a man named Jackson Burch. The clerk tapped the details into the terminal in front of him, peering intently at the screen, flashing the occasional look of apparent confusion. Clerks in such mundane roles often strive to convey the impression that there is something extremely complex and unusual about entering the same half-dozen pieces of information they enter a hundred times a day. You can experience this phenomenon when checking-in for a flight. Despite the fact that the airline already has all of your details and has been expecting your arrival for the three weeks since you booked the ticket, the check-in clerk still appears utterly confused at your arrival and indeed your very existence in this world. It’s a power thing – that is, trying to pretend they have some. Fortunately, at the end of Kent’s taxing ordeal he still found the energy to speak.
‘The bail is five-hundred thousand dollars. Our fee is ten per cent, payable in advance. How would you like to settle?’
I placed the briefcase I was carrying on the desk without saying a word.
‘Okay,’ he said, with a slight, incredulous inflection. ‘And what will you be
I shook myself from my reverie; I had a job to do. I needed to see a man in a prison. The man arrested in connection with Pearle’s death. This was not as straightforward as it should be. Nothing ever is for me.
I’m something of an expert at laying low. I could write a book about it – though promotion may prove problematic. Specifically, I can impart that one particularly bad way of laying low is to walk into a city jail and visit a murderer; what with all the policemen, cameras, form-filling and so forth. So there was really only one alternative, and it was potentially a rather expensive one.
I pulled on some clothes, and grabbed the briefcase full of cash I always had handy for just such occasions.
I headed into town and then slipped off the main Strip. One block makes a big difference in New Meadows. Sneak behind its glitzy façade and you find the true depth and hue of its foundation. Ugly storage units, grimy offices, low-grade accommodation for the underpaid workers. It was virtually a different world. This was the real New Meadows. The rest was just a front. A crocodile smile.
As unwelcoming as it was, this was just the ambience I was seeking. I was heading for a bail-bondsman and I needed a distinctly back-street kind of outfit. A place that wouldn’t ask too many questions. I also needed to be face-to-face. Calling 1800-GET-ME-OUT would not suffice.
The door tinkled as I walked in.
‘Can I help you?’ The question originated from a pale-looking man sitting behind a dishevelled desk. He seemed somewhat surprised at receiving any custom in person. The décor seemed quite surprised too. In fact, it seemed to have popped out for lunch. The ceiling was short of its full complement of polystyrene tiles, and most of those that remained bore the familiar brown stain of a leaky air-con unit. Loose cables trailed across the floor beneath furniture that was mostly fashioned from bare chipboard. A real classy joint.
‘I’d like to post bail,’ I stated succinctly.
There was a name plate on the man’s desk. It wasn’t a shiny brass affair. More of a grubby plastic fridge-magnet, propped up against a pot of pencils. As such it served the double purpose of clearly stating the name of its owner – one Kent Bradshaw – and of equally clearly stating that he was a loser. He was not a bad man, I could tell that; with a less than savoury employer most likely. In this respect I felt a twang of sympathy for him, and at some level felt bad about what I was about to do. But sometimes we have to do things that make us feel bad. Sometimes there is a greater need.
‘Do take a seat,’ Kent urged.
I didn’t take a seat. I just gave him the particulars of my desired inmate, a man named Jackson Burch. The clerk tapped the details into the terminal in front of him, peering intently at the screen, flashing the occasional look of apparent confusion. Clerks in such mundane roles often strive to convey the impression that there is something extremely complex and unusual about entering the same half-dozen pieces of information they enter a hundred times a day. You can experience this phenomenon when checking-in for a flight. Despite the fact that the airline already has all of your details and has been expecting your arrival for the three weeks since you booked the ticket, the check-in clerk still appears utterly confused at your arrival and indeed your very existence in this world. It’s a power thing – that is, trying to pretend they have some. Fortunately, at the end of Kent’s taxing ordeal he still found the energy to speak.
‘The bail is five-hundred thousand dollars. Our fee is ten per cent, payable in advance. How would you like to settle?’
I placed the briefcase I was carrying on the desk without saying a word.
‘Okay,’ he said, with a slight, incredulous inflection. ‘And what will you be
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