Simon Robert Hollis walked out of the United States Penitentiary, Thomson, on One Mile Road in Carroll County, Illinois wearing prison-issue duds with forty dollars in gate money and his personal possessions in a sack lunch bag. Greeted by a cold October breeze through his shaggy brown hair and long sideburns that extended down his rugged jawline, he shunned the chilly temperatures and savored his long-awaited taste of freedom outside the maximum-security facility east of the Mississippi River near the Iowa border, roughly five hundred miles from his hometown in Nashville, Tennessee.

He dropped to his knees to kiss the pavement beneath a sweeping sky smothered in gray stratus clouds. A youthful fifty-one years of age, with an easy grin and bashful brown eyes more akin to a youth camp counselor than a convicted felon, he stood up when a chauffeured Mercedes S 580 sedan approached from the visitor entrance, tires crunching on pea gravel behind a row of empty parking spaces. He followed the polished ride with his eyes and watched the driver get out to open the rear door and reveal his attorney in a charcoal suit with a white patterned shirt and solid burgundy tie.

“Get in,” the silver-haired attorney prompted Simon, who shuffled toward the rubellite red metallic sedan to join the man with perfect teeth and manicured fingernails.

“Nice wheels,” Simon noted as he settled in the back seat.

“How do you feel?”

“Numb.”

The attorney opened a leather satchel with a thin stack of legal documents and plucked a gold pen from his shirt breast pocket. “You’ll adjust.” He gave his pen and the first three pages to Simon. “Sign at the bottom of each page beneath my signature. As of today, you have been officially discharged from the Federal Bureau of Prisons. Understand this is not a pardon or parole. Your conviction has been overturned by the state of Tennessee based on conclusive DNA test results. Your previous rights of U.S. Citizenship have been restored. The Fifth Amendment’s double jeopardy clause protects you from further prosecution of crimes you were previously indicted and convicted of. Do you have any questions?”

“What about my compensation?”

The attorney received the signed paperwork from Simon and presented a state government check issued to Simon Robert Hollis. “For what it’s worth, your compensation includes a formal statement of apology from the state of Tennessee, signed by the governor himself. Mostly boilerplate verbiage, if you care to read it.”

Simon examined the check for twenty-five thousand dollars in one hand and weaved the pen through his slender fingers in the other. “This is what twenty years of wrongful incarceration buys me?”

“Before taxes.”

“I lost millions.”

“Potentially. Had you not been convicted, your future earnings would be difficult to predict, given the music industry’s volatility.”

Simon folded the check, exposing his tattooed knuckles with the notes E, A, D, G, and B etched in black ink on his strumming-hand fingers. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Endorse the check.”

“That’s it?”

“You’re a free man, Mr. Hollis. You have the rest of your life in front of you.” The attorney retrieved an envelope from his coat pocket and presented it to Simon. “It’s not much, but it should cover incidental expenses until your check clears. The county bus runs every couple hours, but I’ve arranged for private transportation. Someone inconspicuous and discrete.”

Simon clicked the gold pen with his thumb, aiming the pointy end at his attorney. “How about home?”

“Your wife took possession in your divorce settlement. Given she already had a primary residence of her own, she has agreed to let you reside in your former estate on a temporary basis.”

“How kind of her,” Simon acknowledged facetiously.

“Call me if you need me.”

Simon stuffed the envelope and check in his pant pocket and returned the pen. He gathered his bag of personal belongings and got out when the driver opened the door. “Is this the part where I say thanks?”

“Best of luck, Mr. Hollis.”

Simon gave a subtle nod as the Mercedes drove away and a silver Buick Enclave turned into the visitor parking area, cautiously winding its way toward him with the front windows down.

“Mr. Hollis?” the Buick driver inquired.

Simon rubbed his hands together, the paper bag tucked between his chest and armpit. “I take it you’re not here for the tour.”

* * *

The Buick driver headed north on I-80 then east toward I-39 at a comfortable pace with an ex-convict in his back seat and the constant clatter from the compact SUV’s broken tailpipe. A hand-carved cross shaped from olive wood hung from a strand of rosary beads draped over the rear-view mirror. His face paved in razor stubble, the driver wore a brown knit beanie pulled over his ears and a handmade charm bracelet on his wrist. After minutes of prolonged silence, he summoned the courage to ask, “You like music?”

“Leave it off,” Simon answered tersely. “And turn down the heat. My feet are melting back here.”

The driver checked his mirror to find Simon with his knees pressed against the back of the passenger seat, his arms crossed at his chest with a brown lunch bag in his lap. “You’re the longest trip I’ve had this month. I’ve been to Thomson twice before. Can’t say I like it much. Barbed wire and shotgun towers are enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. I’m Jared, by the way. Jared Finley. I read your story online. Not trying to be nosey, but your lawyer told me about you. I’ve seen a lot of news about DNA testing lately. The state owes you, big time. Our justice system is anything but just.”

Simon uncrossed his arms and opened the paper bag to dump the minimal contents in his hand.

“Don’t mind me,” Jared continued. “My wife says my mouth moves faster than my brain.” He glanced up to catch Simon glaring at him. “If you’re hungry, we can stop for food somewhere.”

Simon poked at the contents in his hand. A plastic guitar pic, a leather necklace with a silver plague pendant, a pair of small silver hoop earrings, and several rings, his gold wedding band among them.

Jared changed lanes on I-39, traveling southeast toward Tennessee. “Do you have children?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He speaks, Jared thought to himself. “I have a daughter and a dog. It’s her dog, of course. A chihuahua named Benny. Damn thing’s always biting at my ankles, when he’s not chewing my shoes or taking a dump on the floor.”

“How old?”

“My dog or my daughter?”

“Your girl.”

“Thirteen going on thirty. She has her mother’s face and her mother’s attitude. Likes to argue more than talk. Teenage girls can test your patience, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world.”

Simon placed three silver rings on the fingers of his strumming hand. One black onyx with a silver pentagram on the face, one with Satan horns, and one with a cross embedded. “How much longer?”

“Depends on the traffic. Maybe eight or ten hours from here. Long ride, but it beats walking home from prison.”

* * *

Jared drove the last stretch toward Nashville, ignoring his inner voice telling him he’d made a terrible mistake escorting a convicted killer from northern Illinois through Madisonville, Kentucky and the Nashville suburbs. He’d read about Simon Hollis, a country music celebrity sentenced to life in prison for a triple homicide. Despite the media spin, Simon Hollis maintained his innocence before DNA testing granted him a second chance. And now the same man who’d survived twenty years in a maximum-security prison sat three feet away in the back seat of his ride without eating, or peeing, or sleeping for the better part of ten hours.

Jared canceled the route navigation on his phone when he reached his destination at dusk outside a tall iron fence at the front of a classical Belle Meade plantation. “This look familiar?” he asked the former music celebrity who gripped the back of the passenger seat and leaned forward.

Simon stared through the windshield at the open gate with a spiked arch top and rusty hinges ensnarled in overgrown weeds. Weathered stone piers soiled in a ruddy patina stood erect like silent sentries guarding opposite ends of the fortified entrance. “Keep going,” he told Jared. “The house sits near the end of the property.”

Jared drove through the gate on a modest incline parallel to an open field with a No Trespassing sign mounted on wooden stilts beyond a five-acre pond with a faded fishing pier. Closer to the vacant property, motion sensors triggered a bank of flood lights outside the ten-thousand square foot antebellum mansion with two-story pillars and covered balconies. Thick, matted vines encroached on moss-covered windows obscured by black oak branches. Fifty acres of open land surrounded the main residence with an English garden to one side near a standalone four-car garage. “How long did you live here?”

“Not long enough,” Simon replied.

Jared proceeded through the circular driveway and parked parallel to the front of the grounds. “You’re home.”

Simon got out as the sun dipped below the horizon. “Join me for a drink to celebrate?”

“I have a long ride back to my own home,” Jared professed.

“You miss the daughter and the wife?”

“I do.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you stuck around for a minute to help me settle in. I promise I’m not bad company.”

“I appreciate it, but I really should get going.”

Simon forced a smile. “I haven’t seen this place in twenty years. Prison took everything I ever loved and everything I ever had. Except my house, I suppose. And even that is temporary. But I get it. Family comes first.” He turned away and charged up the marble stairs toward the arched double doors fashioned from Brazilian mahogany with beveled rain glass inlays and a brass door knocker in the shape of an elephant head.

“Hold up.” Jared leaned toward the open passenger window. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“If you can find it.”

Jared watched Simon disappear into the sprawling estate. His bladder ready to burst, he left the Buick and entered the historic residence. “Mr. Hollis?” he called out from the grand salon beneath a crystal gasolier converted to operate on electricity. He ventured toward the carved walnut staircase with hand-lathed spindles and u-shaped railing. Twin parlors painted in ivory shades accentuated dark wood paneling. On the opposite side, formal dining room chairs covered in plastic sheets surrounded an antique table centered beneath coffered ceiling insets decorated in gold foil paper and stenciled boarders.

“Mr. Hollis…”

Jared tried different doors until he found one that opened to a half bath with a toilet and sink. He lifted the lid with his foot and peed for what seemed like an eternity. When he finished, he jiggled the toilet handle to flush and rinsed his hands in the sink beside an empty towel rack. He wiped wet hands on his jeans and emerged to hear loud music playing.

“Hello?” he shouted above the previously recorded vocals and heavy bass. “I’m leaving now. It was nice to meet you.” He moved past an open room with built-in bookshelves and framed pictures of signed record albums on one wall. When he returned to the front of the house, he found the double doors closed. He pressed the thumb latch on the elongated brass handle and tugged on the door that was locked from the outside. He reached for his phone and realized he’d left it tethered to the charger in his car.

He tried the door again, frustrated and confused. “Mr. Hollis?” he announced in a quivering voice when a shadow moved across the wall behind him. He looked up at the second-floor area from the foyer below, afraid to ascend the staircase and venture into private space where he didn’t belong. “I need to leave.”

He searched the first-floor area, frantic to find an alternate exit while the music continued loudly from somewhere inside the house. “This isn’t funny!” he shouted above the high-volume sound waves as he removed a plastic sheet from a nineteenth century dining room chair. He gripped the backrest with both hands and adjusted his stance to lower his center of gravity. Then he heaved the solid wood chair at a window. Venetian glass shattered on impact, exposing an egress to the outside world.

He wedged himself between overgrown hedges and inadvertently activated a motion detector to cast a spotlight on his position in the yard. He ran across the property to see his car splash headlong into the oversized pond, where Simon Hollis stood with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily in the crisp autumn air.

Jared crouched behind a hedgerow enmeshed in thick vines as Simon Hollis turned to look in his direction.

Caught between fear and disbelief, Jared ran in the opposite direction, pumping his arms with a furious stride. He followed the fenced perimeter, prepared to scale the sharp vertical spikes, without impaling himself in the process, before a length of taut fishing line stretched between tree trunks snagged his ankle and sent him sprawling.

He broke his fall with his arms outstretched and clambered to regain his footing. He advanced toward the fence and propped his leg up to climb over when Simon Hollis suddenly appeared, clutching an expandable steel baton.

“What do you want from me?” Jared cried out, visibly shaken.

Simon sprang toward his victim, knocking him to the ground with the locomotive force of an all-pro linebacker on steroids. He swung the steel baton at Jared’s arms and legs, mercilessly pounding flesh and bone. When he finished, he stood up straight to catch his breath and replied in a winded voice, “Release.”