7. Confession

Michael felt the staccato thumping of his heart. "Who was shot?"

"Lincoln Burrows Junior was traveling—" Todd began.

"Not LJ!" Michael said.

". . . with a Ms. Sofia Lugo north of Changuinola, Panama." Todd paused. "Ms. Lugo was shot."

Michael felt guilty for the relief that coursed through him. "And LJ? How's LJ?"

"He seems to be unharmed."

"Is she in stable condition?" Karina asked. "Ms. Lugo?"

Todd's mouth tightened. "She's in critical condition."

Linc. Michael exhaled. Not another one. He remembered Veronica taking him in, wet from the rain—he must have only been ten or so. She'd towel-dried his hair and had given him warm clothes. She'd been a safe haven to him after what he'd endured on Pershing Avenue.

Veronica cradled his face. "The bruises are almost gone."

Michael hoped she'd drop it.

Her voice was gentle. "You want to tell me what happened?"

He shook his head.

"Lincoln still has more time in juvie. I can't keep you here—my dad's going to find out. You have to go back."

"No," he whimpered, "Don't make me go back. I'll keep hiding in your room when your dad's home. I'll be quiet."

"He can't find out you're here, or I'll be in trouble." Her grey eyes widened. "My dad can't find out."

"Who shot Ms. Lugo?" Karina asked, pulling Michael back to the room. This was a question he should've asked, and he scolded himself for not paying closer attention.

"We don't know yet," Todd said.

Michael shook his head. "It was the company."

"Ah, yes," Todd scoffed, "The ubiquitous company. Mysterious people you conveniently blame for your own crimes."

"Are you blind?" Michael glared at him. "Didn't you see Paul Kellerman's testimony in Sara's trial? The case that's building against Jonathan Krantz? The deaths of Veronica Donovan, Lisa Rix, Frank Tancredi, and so many more?" Michael's thoughts drifted to Tweener, Haywire, and his own father, and he felt the collective grief of their losses as well. "What else do you need?"

"And what about the deaths of Charles Westmoreland, William Kim, and Dr. Gudat? Those are only the ones we know you had a hand in killing. How many more are there, Scofield?"

Michael bowed his head. Agent Wheatley had forgotten to add Sammy and Seth to the list of dead men. The men whose blood stained his hands.

The shrill ring of Todd's cell phone echoed in the small room, and the agent glared at him before stepping out to take the call.

Karina reached for some gauze, which she wrapped over the burned skin of Michael's hands and forearms.

He offered no resistance. He hissed a couple of times, but he didn't look up.

"LJ's your nephew?"

He nodded.

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen."

"He's probably a handful, then. I have a fifteen-year-old, and he tests me at every turn."

"You do?" Michael's eyes drifted to her naked ring finger.

"Uh. . . His father's not around anymore."

Not knowing what to say, Michael simply stared at her.

After a beat, she said, "He died."

"I'm sorry." He wasn't sure if he could discuss another death.

"It was over twelve years ago." She looked away then plastered on a smile. "I've moved on."

He studied her. "Did he die in a fire?"

Karina's eyes flew open. "How'd you know that?"

"I wondered what'd motivate you to work with burn victims." He sighed. "Must take a special person to deal with so much pain."

Her hand trembled as she tucked a strand of dark-blond hair behind her ear. "Are you always this perceptive, Mr. Scofield?"

He bit his lip, wondering why he'd asked such an invasive question. There just seemed to be something easy and comforting about her. She was smart, warm, and fiery. Being cared for by a female doctor, when he was at his most defenseless, reminded him of those days in the Fox River infirmary—the days he'd fallen in love. His heart ached for Sara.

"I'm sorry I pried," he said. "Sometimes I can't help myself. Have you, uh, ever heard of LLI?"

She shook her head.

"Low Latent Inhibition. It's a way of seeing the world. My brain doesn't filter out incoming stimuli, so I see pretty much everything."

"So you are always this perceptive."

He blushed.

"Sounds overwhelming to see everything."

Exactly.

"What's it like?"

"Well, take that pen for example." He nodded at the ball-point on the counter. "Most people just see the barrel shell, the point, and the cap, but I see . . ." He squinted at the pen as he felt a flicker of fear in his belly. ". . . I see the um, the metal ball situated in the, the socket, right under the ink reservoir . . ."

"What is it, Michael?"

He couldn't rub his eyes with his bandaged hands. He swallowed, then shrugged. "Just tired, I guess. Worried about LJ."

Her lips pressed together. "Children can do that to you—make you worried. Even when they're not your own children."

Michael closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillow. A stab of longing pierced his heart. "I'm going to have my own child soon." His eyes fluttered open to find the doctor staring at him. "Sara's pregnant."

Her nods picked up speed. Then she frowned.

"Michael? Agent Wheatley told about the backpack full of tools they found in the prison chapel. I assume that's your backpack?"

He wondered where she was going with this.

"There was a pair of rubber gloves in the backpack." She chewed on her lip. "Why didn't you wear them when you crossed the wires?"

His mouth set into a tight line. Who was perceptive now? He sat in silence for several moments.

"It was the tumor." He glanced down at his bandaged hands. "I didn't want Linc and Sara to have to watch me die a slow, painful death." He sighed. "They've both been through too much already."

"Guess you don't have to worry about the tumor anymore."

He let out a soft chuckle. "Yeah. Now the only roadblock's a long prison stretch."

There was a bustling at the door, then four men crowded the small space: Agent Wheatley, two uniformed police officers, and a medium-height brown-eyed man. The man's black hair, graying at the temples, along with his leather briefcase, lent him a distinguished air.

Todd pointed at him. "Scofield, this guy says he's your attorney. Is that right?"

He couldn't help but grin. Bruce Bennett's colleague had recommended Blue Phillips as Sara's attorney. "Good to see you, Blue."

"What the fuck kind of name is Blue?" Todd scoffed.

"It's the kind of name you'll see on a judge's order if you don't start treating my client better." Blue smiled. "Have they given you anything to eat, Mr. Scofield?"

Michael was enjoying this. "Not yet."

Blue glared at Todd. "And when's the last time you allowed Mr. Scofield a bathroom break?"

"That's what bedpans are for," Todd said.

Blue shook his head. "So you want to be cited for prisoner abuse. You want to waste your time rushing to comply with endless court orders."

"Now wait a minute, Blue, there's no reason to come in here spouting off threats—"

"My client has rights, Agent Wheatley, and I want them seen to right now or I'm calling the judge. I have him on speed dial, you know."

Todd rolled his eyes. "The chains are not coming off."

"That's fine—your officers can help him shuffle to the bathroom—whatever you need to do. Just stop denying him his rights, or you'll be sorry."

Todd placed his hands on his hips.

"Doctor . . ." Blue peered at her nametag, "Daniels, how do you think this prisoner has been treated?"

"Um . . ." Karina glanced at Todd, who shot her the stink eye.

"Do you agree he should be given food and access to the restroom?"

"Yes, I do. But Agent Wheatley did do as I asked and removed the handcuffs from the patient's wrists."

Blue's jaw dropped. "You handcuffed his burned wrists?"

Todd exhaled and gestured to the bed. "Unlock him and take him to the head." As the officers moved in, he warned, "But don't take your eyes off him for a second."

Once free of being shackled to the bed, Michael swung his feet around, chains clanging. The officers grasped each of his upper arms as they guided him off the bed.

As Michael looked at the floor, the tile swam before his eyes. Instead of layers of floorboard, concrete, and steel beams beneath him, all he saw was the flat, one-dimensional tile. Terrified to step down on the foreign surface, he halted his foot mid-air.

"C'mon." One officer tugged his arm.

Michael's throat tightened. Why wouldn't his damn legs move? He felt paralyzed, frightened to step on the rolling, unsteady floor

"Move it, Scofield," Todd cajoled from across the room.

As Michael took a tentative step, he felt himself plunging into nothingness. His foot scrabbled for a firm hold. When he careened forward, one officer lost his grip, and Michael crashed to the floor. He hit his left side with a thump while managing not to land on his injured hands.

"God damn it!" Todd yelled, rushing over, "It's a trick! He's trying to escape!" Once he reached him, he pushed the officers aside and rolled Michael over on his back.

Todd gasped when he read the fear in Michael's light-blue eyes. This was no trick. Something was definitely wrong with Scofield.