INSATIABLE    Prologue This was the last time I would drive it, this meandering, rural, meaningless stretch of State Highway 301 between Emporia and Jarrett, and the last time I'd visit the "death house," as they like to call it in their over-blown testosterone way It's full of show-off bruisers in Sam Browne belts who will, by God, show us today just how tough they are when they stick a needle in her tender arm, and kill my Madam. I wiggled into the plush car seat and adjusted the little pillow, trying to find some comfort – I'm quite certain at least two of my disks have ruptured, which has resulted in a whole new program of medications: In addition to my allergy pills, I'm now forced to take four or five anti-inflammatories every morning, which makes it necessary for me to chew up an equal number of antacids, and I won't even begin to tell you the hell that plays with my systems, if you know what I mean. Maybe when all this is over, I'll go see a physician. When all this is over, I'll have time to do a lot of things, but there'll be no joy in their doing. I pulled out of town and pointed the rented Taurus due north. As I gained speed down the lonesome highway in the mid-day heat – I-95 would have been quicker, but there was really no hurry – the sun broke through the trees and burned through the side window and, for a second, reflected off my watch into the rearview mirror, blinding me the way Ryder McCormick's good eye did the last time I saw him, when it twinkled with such triumphant evil as the verdict was read. Oh, Lord, I shuddered. The triumph of evil. And all the while his glass eye remained dark, unfeeling, solid, as cruel and implacable as Darth Vader's mask. The quiet, Southern Virginia farmland flowed by and I watched the trial again, as I did every day in my mind's eye, trying to figure out how he got away with it. No one stood up for her at the trial, or the sentencing hearing. No one. No one but me, and who am I? No one but the butler. Ryder had worn an eye-patch throughout the entire three-month ordeal, lest a single juror forget for a single moment that he was half blind. A half blind man who had cared for his invalid and dying wife. Not just any dying wife, mind you, but Mary Anne Schlumbacher McCormick, a delightful, wealthy, brilliant – let me say it again – invalid, who had only weeks at the most to live, anyway. The prosecution claimed that my Madam, wild with jealousy, had cold-bloodedly and maliciously shot Mrs. McCormick in the head and dumped her out of her wheelchair into the lake. Madam and I knew it was a lie. I had served them tea that afternoon on the dock at Mrs. McCormick's farm, and Madam and I had left together. I'd been with her the whole time. Well, just about the whole time. "We'd both become afraid of Jackie," Ryder mewled about Madam from the stand. He had worn the same clothes to court every day – a rumpled sport coat with a buttoned cardigan vest and a knit tie. The sight almost made me laugh out loud. Ryder McCormick, the biggest sartorial snob on the face of the earth, in a cardigan vest and a knit tie? Please. "She was stalking us. My wife was terrified and I know the fear intensified her illness. The doctor said she had only weeks, maybe just days, to live. And then, to come home and find her floating in the lake, her wheelchair over-turned on the dock. She was as frail as a dove. Oh, God, my beloved, beloved Mary Anne..." Then Ryder fell apart. It went beyond losing his composure, he just flat out burst into tears and blubbered like a big baby. And the judge called a recess. What absolute crap. GREENSVILLE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, the sign read. SLOW TO 5 MPH. DIM LIGHTS. STOP. "This'll be your last visit." The guard checked my driver's license and one of his side-kicks frisked me while another guided a German Shepherd through my car. "Next to the last," I said. "You coming back tonight?" I nodded. He breathed out hard and shook his head. What more could he say? "You're clear to enter Mr. Weatherby-Smythe. Follow the road to the first right, through the gates. The guard there will tell you how to proceed. Welcome to Greensville." He'd recited the same instructions every day for four days, ever since they'd moved her down from women's prison in Fluvanna for her execution. Madam had never looked or acted afraid. I could not imagine what she was made of that gave her such strength, beyond her adoration of the Blessed Virgin. But you'd think, even with that, she'd give up a tear or two. The door of the visiting room opened with a slow click and she shuffled in wearing her orange jumpsuit and white Keds scuffs, her wrists caught at her waist with a heavy shackle belt that rubbed them raw, her ankles circled with bruising steel cuffs and joined with a short link of chain. The light shone off her hair as off wet coal, and her hooded dark blue eyes gazed at me peacefully. She held a thick manila envelope in her hands and waited patiently while one of the burly female guards removed the shackles. Then, she sat down across the table and lit a cigarette. "How are the dogs?" "Fine, Madam. As naughty as ever." My jaunty answer was hollow. I struggled not to cry. Madam smiled and handed the envelope to the heavy-girthed matron who outweighed me two-to-one. Her only weapon, beyond arms and legs as thick as tree trunks, was a small solar-powered microphone clipped to her shirt collar. She opened the envelope and riffled through the pages, looking for contraband, before putting them back in and passing the packet to me. "You don't need to look at those now, Nigel," Madam said. "Just some last minute papers. But, listen to me, my darling friend ..." She gave me a look so drenched in love, I could feel my heart begin to swell with tears. My chest tightened and I couldn't breathe. Her voice was calm. "That envelope also contains my will and I've left every thing to you. You'll be able to live very comfortably." What fun was the money without her? The brown paper felt like ashes in my hands. "Do you promise you'll come tonight?" I nodded. "You'll bury me at the farm?" "Yes, Madam," I whispered. "You'll stay at the farm forever?" "I promise." She stood and ground out her cigarette and focused her eyes on mine. The matron re-hitched the chains. "I love you, Nigel." "I love you with all my heart, Madam." Now, I am going to tell you my story, straight out. I won't pull any punches and I don't care if you believe any of it or not. © Marne Davis Kellogg Read the First Chapter...