“Yes, but—”
“I will be maintaining my present position as a part-time staff veterinarian at Creature Comfort. That gives you access to the top veterinary facility and staff in four states as my backup. It also gives you a ready source for jobs for inmates who are eligible for work release and have shown themselves capable and willing to learn.”
A fortyish man with thinning hair and gentle brown eyes leaned forward. The others wore jackets and ties. He wore jeans and a V-necked sweater. “We were introduced earlier, Doc, but you probably don’t remember all the names. I’m a doctor, too, psychologist and psychiatrist. Raoul Torres.”
Sarah nodded. “I remember you, Dr. Torres.”
“Most convicts are master manipulators. A majority of them have conned their way through life. They’ll fawn all over you and tell you you’re wonderful, and before you know it you’re smuggling in cigarettes for them and calling their lawyers to discuss early parole.”
“I’m not that naive, Doctor.”
“Don’t believe it. Some may even convince you they’re innocent. A lot of these guys can’t read and write. We try to teach them that skill at least while they’re here. A few are geniuses, but many have below average IQs. That doesn’t mean they don’t have street smarts, but nearly all of them have rotten impulse control. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have committed robbery or stolen cars or even taken drugs. Just remember they see nothing wrong in using you to get what they want.”
“That’s a pretty grim picture, Doctor. Why on earth are you working with them at all if that’s the way you feel?”
“How can I help anyone I can’t diagnose properly? Many of these guys are close to being released back into society. If we can teach them impulse control, break the cycle of poverty, addiction and anger, and give them a skill needed on the outside, then maybe we’ll give them a chance for a decent life. Believe me, buying into the games doesn’t help anybody.”
“And in the meantime, we put them to hard work and help pay the expenses of keeping them,” Portree said. “Prison farms everywhere used to support themselves with market gardening and livestock. Then that theory went out of favor, but what goes around comes around. Several states now have very successful prison farm programs. Angola—about the toughest prison around—even has an inmate rodeo once a year to show the general populace what they’ve accomplished.”
“You want a rodeo?”
“Not immediately of course, and it probably wouldn’t be under your jurisdiction in any case,” Portree said.
“Mr. Portree, gentlemen, I can do this job. I am not going to get caught up in inmate intrigues. I will teach them to be cattlemen and horsemen—”
“Horsemen?” the man named Leo said. “Nobody said anything about horsemen.”
Eleanor sighed. “You have a choice. Either work your cattle from horseback or from four-wheelers or motorcycles. I don’t imagine you want your inmates to have access to motor vehicles. Horses are smarter, think faster than either men or cows, and go places four-wheelers can’t go. You can teach cows to come in on their own to eat, but if you have to move them any distance, you’ll need horses. I’d also recommend a couple of good herding dogs eventually.”
“She’s right.” This came from J. K. Sanders, a big, rawboned man with graying hair who sat beside Portree. “I got three or four old cutting horses out at my place I’ll let you have. They’re pretty much retired now, but you won’t be working them hard, and I think they’d enjoy the excitement.” He smiled at Eleanor, who nodded in return.
“This is getting complicated,” Portree said.
“It’s going to get worse,” Eleanor continued. “A commercial cattle operation looks fairly simple, but you want a prize herd, don’t you? Even a small herd of fine cattle gets complicated if done right.”
“We don’t want a large herd, Doctor,” Leo clarified.
Eleanor suddenly remembered that his last name was Hamilton—Leo Hamilton.
He went on. “We want an exceptional pedigreed herd that wins prizes at fairs, brings good prices at auction and shows off what a good job we’re doing. It’s to be as much a public-relations project as anything. We don’t expect to provide beef for an entire prison population. At least not initially, and perhaps never.”
“Then you need a few exceptional cows, preferably with calves at foot and pregnant again, and a really superb bull that will win prizes for you quickly. You can make money from selling his semen, as well as using it yourselves. You’ll have to change bulls every two to three years, otherwise you’ll have an inbred herd.”
“You know how to buy cattle?” The question came Sanders. Eleanor suspected he had probably bought and sold a few in his day.
“I haven’t done it in a while, and I’d be grateful for your assistance, Mr. Sanders.”
“Sure thing, little lady.”
Her mother had taught her that the way to make a friend or ally was not to do something for them, but to ask them to do something for you. This time it seemed to have worked. “If you agree, I’ll also enlist the help of the large-animal partner at the clinic, Dr. Sarah Scott. She’s an expert in breeds and breeding. Have you decided the breed you want?” Eleanor asked.
“We’re open to suggestions,” J. K. Sanders replied, “but my choice would be Beefmaster. I know a couple of excellent local breeders who’d let us have some stock at affordable prices.” He shrugged. “Might even donate ’em for the write-off on their income taxes, but we’ll have to pay a pretty penny for a good bull.”
“You do know they’re the largest breed of domestic cow,” Eleanor said.
“And one of the showiest,” Portree said.
“Your inexperienced men will be handling over a ton of bull.”
“Doctor, some of those guys could throw a bull over their shoulders and walk off with it. Besides, you’ve got the experience.”
“Even I cannot pick up a three-thousand-pound bull.”
“So you can’t handle it?”
“I didn’t say that. There’s not that much difference between a three-thousand-pound Beefmaster and a two-thousand-pound Brahma, except that the Brahma is probably a whole lot meaner.”
“Those are details we can discuss later if and when we decide to employ you,” Portree said.
“There is one thing that bothers me. Animals don’t work business hours. They often require care twenty-four hours a day, and most cows decide to calve at night. I know your prisoners sleep in dormitories in an inner compound. Will I be allowed to keep them at the barn when I need them? Nights, weekends?”
Leo Hamilton spoke up again. “The bakery begins work at three o’clock in the morning outside the compound. The mess-hall staff works weekends. We have a number of men who leave the prison each day for work release and return each evening. The men who are already here and the ones who’ll continue to arrive until we reach capacity are considered trusties. They are well aware that if they try to escape, they will be returned to maximum-security prisons and lose the good time that they have accrued.”
“So nobody tries to escape?”
“Occasionally,” Warden Portree said, “but not often, and we invariably catch them. The general rule among prison professionals is ‘three and three.’ Escapees are caught within three hours and within three miles of the prison.”
“So the men on my team will be able to work overtime?”
“When absolutely necessary,” Hamilton said. “They can be signed out by you or a CO and signed in again when they return.”
“I won’t abuse the privilege.”
“That’s all we ask,” Portree said. “Now, on to another subject. You know that a cottage on the grounds comes as part of the stipend?”
Eleanor nodded.
“It’s one in a row of overseers’ bungalows, built sometime in the forties. We’ve brought it up to code, but it’s not fancy.”
“I don’t need fancy.” She felt her spirits lift. Surely they wouldn’t be talking about housing
if they weren’t going to offer her the job.
“You mind living inside the prison gates?” Torres asked.
“But outside the internal compound, right?”
“Yes. Just inside the perimeter fences.”
“There are five or six other cottages, aren’t there?”
“Yes, but not all occupied yet. We hope to have the work done—by inmates—by the middle of February. Then we’ll put the remainder up for bids to our top staff.”
“Good idea.”
“At the moment,” Torres continued, “it’s pretty lonely—only three or four others occupied.”
“I’m used to being alone. And I like being close to my charges. Besides, Creature Comfort is only ten minutes away by car, so it works out well.”
“All right, Doctor, what say we call you in a couple of days with our answer?” Portree asked.
Eleanor nodded and stood to shake hands all around. Raoul Torres winked at her and gave her a small thumbs-up.
She felt their eyes on her back as she walked out. The moment the door to the conference room closed behind her on their murmurs, she leaned against the wall and let out a deep breath.
“Did you get it?”
Eleanor felt Precious Simpson’s hand on her arm. Precious, principal of the general education program at the prison, had called her boss at the clinic, Rick Hazard, about the job posting in the first place.
“I have no idea.” She thought a minute. “Maybe.”
“Great. We’ll be neighbors. Those bungalows aren’t much, but it’ll be fun having another woman close by. Right now all I’ve got is a couple of crotchety old COs who don’t have any family.”
Precious was the warm, golden brown of a ripe peach, and wore her hair in tiny braids that hung down to her shoulders.
“I think Leo Hamilton really hates that I’m a woman and what he calls ‘attractive.’” Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “You’re a beautiful woman. How come he doesn’t worry about you?”
“Leo probably doesn’t consider my type beautiful.”
“Does being inside scare you?”
“Sometimes. A lot of the inmates they’re bringing in are huge. Most prisoners pump iron constantly. Sometimes when I’m walking in a group of them past the mess hall or into class, I realize I’m one woman among a bunch of convicted criminals who haven’t had a woman since they were sentenced.”
“How do you handle it?”
“Keep my eyes front, walk like I know where I’m going and don’t stop to chat. Then I duck into the staff common room, have a cup of coffee and shake for a while.”
“But you keep coming back.”
“Hey, the pay is great, the rent is free. But what keeps me here is the occasional success—like when some tattooed crack dealer reads Crime and Punishment and actually gets it.”
Precious walked Eleanor out to the staff parking area. As they stood beside Eleanor’s truck with Creature Comfort emblazoned on its side, a yellow school bus pulled through the gates and stopped by the administration building, a battered two-story brick building left over from the Second World War. The bus door opened, and a corrections officer stepped down and shouted to the passengers.
Their hands were cuffed in front of them, but they weren’t wearing leg or waist irons. They wore identical blue work shirts under jean jackets, jeans and running shoes.
“You’re right,” Eleanor whispered. “Most of them are enormous. My Lord, look at that one.”
A gigantic man, probably close to seven feet tall, who weighed at least three hundred pounds and all of it muscle, stepped from the bus and stood blinking in the sun. His skin was almost pure white—prison pallor. His white-blond hair was cropped so short it looked like peach fuzz.
“Move,” the CO shouted.
The big man shuffled forward obediently. From under his brows he noticed the women watching and smiled at them shyly. His eyes were pale blue. Eleanor thought he had the sweetest smile she’d ever seen.
Then she glanced at the man behind him. He, too, was tall and well built, but didn’t walk with that muscle-bound swing several of the others had. He didn’t have any visible tattoos and he carried himself easily. His gaze moved from side to side as though he was drawing his new surroundings in his head for future reference.
He looked straight at Eleanor. She caught her breath. So much anger, so much bitterness, so much grief. It was as though in that one glance she’d been able to see inside him. A second later he dropped his eyes and became simply another con shuffling along with the others.
“Move, you.” The CO dug the man in the kidneys with his baton.
She didn’t like that moment of recognition. She hoped he wouldn’t wind up on her team. With luck, she’d never see him again.
CHAPTER TWO
PLANNING WAYS TO KILL Neil Waters had kept Steve Chadwick sane during his three years in prison.
At first he’d sought advice from the murderers he met inside, but they were obviously incompetent. After all, they were in prison. They’d been caught. Amateurs, all of them. Apparently professional killers didn’t often wind up behind bars.
He lay back on his bunk with his hands locked behind his head. Minimum security. At last.
One step closer to freedom.
He’d have to settle on the way to kill Neil soon.
The bunk beside him was occupied by an elderly con named Joseph Jasper, known as “Slow Rise.” He told the other cons he got his name two ways. He was usually easygoing, slow to anger, but his wife had finally pushed him too far. He’d caught her in bed with her lover and was now serving twenty-five to life because he’d picked up his shotgun and “caught him on the rise, like a damn fat mallard.” He said it was a satisfying experience, but not worth spending the rest of his life in prison over.
Slow Rise said the only truly successful murders were listed either as accidents or natural deaths and never investigated at all. He had great respect for the skill and doggedness of homicide detectives once they were alerted that a killing had taken place. He suggested Steve kill Neil with poison, and even mentioned a few varities that could handle the job. Born and bred in the country, Slow Rise knew a dozen ways to turn common weeds into deadly potions.
“If you don’t do it but once and don’t do anything stupid right after like marry his woman or buy a yacht with his money, chances are it’ll be put down to a heart attack,” Slow Rise had advised.
Steve couldn’t use poison. That was the sort of sneaky method Neil might try. Besides, he wanted Neil to know he was being killed, by whom and for what. He wanted Neil to be afraid, to beg for his life.
Steve had expected to have to wait until he was paroled in two years or less to kill Neil, but if he kept his nose clean at the penal farm, he’d probably be sent out on work release soon—maybe in a few weeks if he was lucky. He could easily escape from work release.
To outsiders, two years to serve until parole might seem like no time at all, but Steve didn’t think he could stay sane another two years, assuming he was still sane now. Killing Neil seemed perfectly reasonable. Did sane men think that way?
“Hey.” The man on the other bunk sat up and poked Steve’s shoulder.
Steve ignored him. He loathed Sweet Daddy, a small-time pimp imprisoned for cutting one of his ladies—his “bottom bitch”—when she tried to leave his employ to start her own business. Steve had inadvertently protected Sweet Daddy in the yard at Big Mountain Prison one day when a motorcycle freak had threatened to break him in two for stealing cigarettes. From that moment on, Sweet Daddy had stuck to Steve like a limpet.
Steve couldn’t imagine any woman being attracted to Sweet Daddy’s ferrety face and scrawny body, but apparently he’d run a large and generally loyal stable of beautiful and expensive ladies. Guess he could be charming when it behooved him.
Steve forced himself to stay calm, to keep his eyes closed, to feign patience. The trick was to seem relaxed, uncaring. If they thought you cared about anything, they took it away fr
om you. Prison taught patience.
But now he had resources. He had the contacts to obtain false identity papers that would pass the closest inspection, and he could sign Neil’s signature so well that Neil himself couldn’t detect the forgery. Prison did teach a few useful skills.
Steve would have preferred to see Neil brought to trial for Chelsea’s murder, convicted, sentenced to prison, see his good name, his wealth, his family stripped from him as Steve’s had been.
Steve knew that wasn’t possible. He’d have to be content with exacting his revenge personally. He’d have to spend the rest of his life in Brazil, which had no extradition treaty with the United States. A small price to pay.
Prison had also taught him there were no completely satisfactory endings.
Before he was convicted, he had believed in the United States criminal-justice system, that being an honorable, moral man was all the protection he would ever need. No more.
Everybody expected Brazil to be corrupt. There would be no nasty surprises. He’d be one more crook among many. Bribery would work every time.
His only worry was that actually killing Neil wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable as the hours spent planning it.
“I THOUGHT I GOT TO PICK my own workers,” Eleanor Grayson said to Ernest Portree. She had been formally hired as resident veterinarian at the farm one week earlier. Up to now she’d been filling out reams of paperwork, going over the old cattle barn and the pastures to see what needed fixing and moving her few possessions into her new bungalow.
This was her first real meeting with the warden since she’d been hired. She looked at the list of six names. These men were unknown quantities and would be her “team.” All had only recently been moved into the facility from Big Mountain Prison in East Tennessee.
“Seniority and good time are inflexible criteria in prisons, Eleanor, or at least this prison. These men have shown good conduct or they wouldn’t have been moved here in the first place. We want the inmates to see a carrot, as well as a stick, in this assignment.”
The Payback Man Page 2
