“Yeah, I guess.”
Steve caught her eye. He raised one eyebrow and nodded almost imperceptibly. She raised her chin. Apparently she’d done something right, and though she shouldn’t give a darn what Steve thought of her or her decisions, she felt a glow from his approval.
She climbed wearily into her truck and watched as the men trudged up the hill toward the compound.
She’d expected them to turn from mere inmates into people to her, but not this soon and, in one case especially, not so personally.
“YOU BASTARDS THINK you gonna have it easy ’cause she’s a civilian and a female. You ain’t, not with me around,” Mike Newman said. “Showers! Shee-ut.”
“But she said we—” Robert clamped his mouth shut as Steve’s hand fell hard on his forearm.
“She said, she said. What she said don’t mean squat. What I say’s what counts.”
“If we show up dirty in the morning, she’s gonna be pissed.” Slow Rise’s voice was plaintive.
“Shut your yap, old man. Or you gonna find out what this here stick’s for.”
“He’s right, you know,” Steve said mildly, and knew the moment the words left his mouth that he shouldn’t have spoken.
Newman already disliked him. He’d recognized that immediately. Steve tried to be just one of the cons, but he’d never managed to get the shuffle down quite right. Newman saw attitude and arrogance in him and hated both.
He was also looking for revenge after Dr. Grayson called him about the gloves. Someone had been almost certain to take a beating over that. Steve had just broken the cardinal rule of prisoners the world over. He’d called attention to himself.
“You saying I’m wrong? Huh? Yeah, you saying ol’ Mike Newman is wrong. My, my. Well, I do apologize. Sure wouldn’t want to trample on no civil rights of any of you gentlemen, now would I?”
The last rays of sunshine had given way to twilight. Steve knew the blow was coming, but not where or with how much force. He tried to brace himself, but he wasn’t fast enough. The steel baton slashed across the backs of his knees and dropped him. As he fell forward and gritted his teeth to keep from howling, the baton slammed across his kidneys.
Now he couldn’t howl. He couldn’t even breathe. The pain was electric, as though he’d been hit with a cattle prod rather than a baton. He tried to gather strength to roll over, to resist somehow, or at least to present a smaller target, but Newman was nothing if not expert in delivering pain.
Newman could crack his spine with that baton, and there was nothing, not a damn thing, that Steve could do to stop him.
“Enough.” The voice was Gil’s.
God, Steve thought, now Newman would go for Gil. Although Steve barely knew the man, he didn’t want to be responsible for another man’s pain. He groaned and tried to struggle to his hands and knees.
He expected to hear the whish of the baton, to feel it across his shoulders or his hips.
Instead, Newman said with the kind of bluster that usually covers fear, “Ain’t nobody tellin’ me I’m wrong.”
Steve felt hands under his armpits. Sweet Daddy on one side and Slow Rise on the other barely managed to hold him up. His back felt as though it had been broken, but he could still feel his legs, so he supposed it hadn’t.
Newman tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled. “Hell, even when I’m wrong, I’m right. You remember that. You go on, git, and take your damned showers.”
Steve didn’t turn around. He didn’t think he could move without help, but after a couple of steps he managed to keep his legs straight, to put one foot in front of the other. He gulped in air with every step. He felt like an old man who’d had a stroke.
“Man, you stupid.” Sweet Daddy sounded put out. “Man hates yo’ ass, fool. Next time he gonna kill you.”
Steve turned to Gil. “Thanks,” he managed to choke out.
Gil shrugged. “Hey, man, the bastard kills you, we gonna be up to our asses with Internal Affairs and union reps. I’m not lying for Newman. Easier to keep you alive.”
“Yeah.” Steve managed a faint grin. They reached the door of their dormitory.
Originally an old army barracks, the room now held cots for twenty men. So far only fifteen had been assigned. A two-drawer chest with a lock sat at the end of each cot, and beside it, a single bedside table with a lamp. No posters on the walls, no personal possessions in the open where they could be stolen, nothing to enliven the drab green of the walls or cover up the scars on the old wooden floors. At the far end of the room were latrines and a gang shower that could hold ten men at a time.
The men who were already lounging on their bunks waiting for the call to dinner looked up curiously, then quickly dropped their heads back to their books or porn magazines. Something had obviously happened. Nobody wanted to know what.
“Can you get your clothes off without help?” Slow Rise asked.
Steve nodded. “I think so. I’ll be better after I stand in the shower awhile.”
And he was. He managed to carry his own tray through the chow line and sit down at one of the long tables to eat. As usual, he didn’t speak, and afterward walked slowly and hesitantly to his bunk, lay down and prayed his kidney damage wasn’t permanent. He knew he was leaching blood, probably would be for several days.
Work tomorrow would be difficult if not impossible, but he didn’t dare go to the infirmary. He’d have to explain what had happened or make something up. He suspected the people at the infirmary would take one look at his bruises and recognize precisely what had happened to him.
That would not be a good thing. Either Newman would make up some excuse to deprive him of the good time he’d accrued, or Newman would be brought in and disciplined. Then he’d really be out to get Steve. Either way Steve would lose.
He couldn’t tell Eleanor, either—he already thought of her as Eleanor. She’d tear into Newman with the same effect. Newman would take out any dressing-down he got on the men.
Most of them could fend for themselves. Sweet Daddy was small, but he was wiry and fast. He was also cagey. He usually talked his way out of trouble, or whined his way out, if need be.
Obviously Newman had decided not to mess with Gil Jones. Steve had no idea what Gil had done to land behind bars, but he suspected this wasn’t his first trip. From the tattoos, Steve guessed he was well allied with others in the prison. Newman apparently knew it, too. Together Gil’s people could take on Newman or any of the other guards, take them out if necessary, and nobody would ever know who did the actual killing. Best to keep on Gil’s good side.
Slow Rise was simply a decent man who had a bad temper. Prison had made it worse. He was also an aging con among young men. He had to seem invulnerable to survive.
Robert was an unknown quantity. He could be a kid who went for joy rides in other people’s cars, or a gang member who had gunned down someone on an opposing gang. Steve was fairly certain drugs played some part in his sentence, but whether Robert was a consumer or a supplier, Steve had no way of knowing.
And Big? Despite his size he seemed like a shy, frightened child. Forrest Gump in extra, extra large. If so, why was he in prison?
Steve had taught reading at Big Mountain. He’d written letters for illiterate cons, helped with their business problems. Many knew they owed him. If and when he got a chance to talk to any of them, he’d try to get some information about the team members he did not know. Inside the fences, knowledge was definitely power.
He’d been offered a job teaching here, as well, but working inside the compound all day didn’t serve his purposes. He had to seem trustworthy on his own, away from the group, even if that meant passing up chances to escape in favor of better chances down the road.
He had always worked out and, besides polo, had played handball, tennis and golf. He’d run in charity races. He was already in shape. When he discovered the weight room at Big Mountain, he put on twenty pounds in six months—all of it muscle.
One con had tried to
attack him with a knife, but Steve had countered him successfully and won grudging respect. His knowledge of business eventually won him some measure of protection, as well. As long as he kept his mouth shut, he was moderately safe at Big Mountain.
The prison farm, however, was a new environment. He didn’t understand the rules or know many of the people, and they didn’t know him. He’d met sadistic guards before, but not one who had an unreasoning personal grudge against him.
Eleanor had to be the catalyst. She was the outsider, the female among males. A peahen for a Lard Ass Peacock to preen in front of. Newman’s ego had taken a beating from her. Maybe he’d picked Steve for his scapegoat because he and Eleanor seemed to have an affinity.
The CO was right. Steve and Eleanor did have a connection. Steve had felt it the moment his eyes met hers in that parking lot. Nothing that happened since had changed his mind. Today, when he’d snatched her away from the snake, he’d felt her in his marrow. Newman had punished him tonight not so much for touching Eleanor as for Eleanor’s response. He’d nearly forgotten what a woman’s soft voice sounded like, how she thought, the way she felt.
He’d have to be more careful.
The problem was that he wasn’t certain he could be. It wasn’t simply that she was an attractive woman, someone with the same kind of background as his. Not even that she was the first woman he’d touched in three years.
No, not even that.
If he had met her at a cocktail party or a polo game before…well, before, he knew he would have felt the same pull. She stirred his blood, yes, but more than that, she stirred his imagination. He could hear her voice in his head, see the gentle smile she’d given Big. Wished that smile had been for him.
He couldn’t afford to lose his objectivity, his separateness, his focus.
He was going to escape and kill a man. He needed to husband his anger, hone his bitterness, remember his grief.
He did not want to feel anything but hatred.
CHAPTER THREE
“SO HOW DID YOUR FIRST DAY GO?” Precious stretched out her long legs and propped them on the nearest cardboard box in Eleanor’s small living room. The white walls were devoid of pictures. Except for an old leather couch and matching chair, a couple of end tables and a rolled-up rug in the corner, the room was furnished with cardboard boxes.
Eleanor handed her a glass of white wine, then took her own and sat on the chair across from her. “Weird.”
“How weird?”
“On the one hand, they seem like people you’d meet anywhere, might even like, and then some tiny thing sets them off and, bang, it’s World War III.” She shuddered. “Slow Rise, this country boy over sixty, nearly came to blows with Robert Dalrymple, a lanky black kid, when the kid said he was crazy. I don’t think Robert meant anything by it—just a casual remark.”
“I know Slow Rise,” Precious said, watching the wine swirl in her glass. “He’s usually very gentle, but he’s inside for killing his wife’s lover in a fit of rage.”
“My God! Now I’m terrified.”
“Don’t be. Most of the time he’s the soul of kindness. He’s got another ten years to serve before he can even think of applying for parole.”
“He probably won’t live that long.”
“No, he’ll likely die in prison.”
“Lord, how sad.”
“Don’t let the sad stories get to you, Eleanor. Remember he did kill a man.”
Eleanor leaned her head back against the chair. “You’re right. I had no idea I was this tired. Do you mind if we skip the unpacking tonight? I’m grateful for your help, but I really think I just want to go to bed. Tomorrow I’ve got the men in the morning, and then I’m working a full shift at the clinic in the afternoon and evening.”
Precious finished her wine and stood. “Girl, you are going to burn out at that rate.”
Eleanor didn’t bother to get up. She was sure her legs would be too weak to hold her.
“Want me to fix you some soup or a sandwich?”
“No thanks, Precious. I’m sorry to be such a poop.”
“Forgedaboudit, as they say in the gangster movies. We’ll do it this weekend.”
“You have things to do.”
Precious laughed. “Right. A couple of rich radiologists are just breaking down my door trying to take me away from all this. Girl, I so have nothing to do this Saturday except unpack your stuff. Now, go get some sleep.”
She moved to the door. “I’ll let myself out.”
Eleanor listened for the closing door without opening her eyes.
Not since the long nights and days nursing Jerry had she felt this completely depleted nor this close to despair. She roused herself long enough to call Raoul Torres. When he answered, she said, “Raoul, were you serious when you offered to give me some help understanding this place if I needed it?”
“Absolutely. You feeling overwhelmed on your first day? Want me to come over? I can be there in five minutes.”
“Thanks, but it’s not that urgent.” In the background, Eleanor heard the sound of at least two children, one of whom was screaming something in Spanish.
“Pipe down!” Raoul shouted. “Lupe, tell my children I will chain them to the whipping post and flog them as soon as I’m off the telephone.”
A woman’s voice said something indistinguishable, and the screaming children began to laugh.
“Okay, if not tonight, when would you like to get together? Tomorrow sometime?”
“What?” Eleanor had lost track of the conversation momentarily. “Oh, how about I buy you lunch tomorrow? Someplace close to the farm. I shouldn’t be as dirty as I was today.”
“You got it. I’ll pick you up at the barn about eleven-thirty.”
“Thanks, Raoul. I really need to talk about the men. If I’m going to work with them, I need to understand them.”
“Don’t worry about everything so much. It will work out.”
“I hope God’s listening to you on that one.”
She crawled into bed certain that she’d fall asleep instantly, but found she was too tired and ached in too many places to get comfortable.
How many nights after Jerry died had she slept rolled in a comforter in his old leather recliner, hoping to capture a fleeting scent of the man he had been before he got sick? How many days did she try to remember his face, his smile, the way his laughter crinkled the corners of his eyes?
Since his death no other man had stirred her blood. Her friends told her she was still young, still attractive. She didn’t feel either young or attractive. Until today she’d have sworn that the juices had all dried up. Until today when she’d felt Steve Chadwick’s strong arms around her waist.
Raoul would undoubtedly tell her she was attracted to Steve because he was completely out of her reach and therefore safe. But there was nothing safe about him. It was insane to feel attracted to him. He was a criminal, for God’s sake. A man who had done something dishonorable, and that made him unworthy to be Jerry’s successor.
That sounded priggish even to Eleanor, but it was true. Jerry had been the kindest, the most generous and honorable of men. He had devoted his relatively short life to saving the lives of animals, even though he could have gone to medical school and possibly made a lot more money.
Even more important, after Jerry died she’d sworn never to invest herself so completely again in any man or any relationship. No one should have to endure losing a true love even once, much less twice. She didn’t dare love that way again.
She would devote herself to her goal—saving enough money to buy a decent veterinary partnership. She had enough problems without Steve Chadwick.
Getting even slightly involved with any of the men she worked with would be a fatal error. Whatever crime Steve Chadwick committed probably had to do either with drugs or with money. He could never be considered a love interest.
She’d been wrong not to check her team members out. She did need to know what these men had done to land
in prison. If it colored her opinion of them, so be it. She’d discovered that not knowing was much worse than knowing.
“MORNING, EVERYBODY,” Eleanor said with a cheeriness that made her want to throw up. So obviously phony, but then, no matter what she said or did outside of actual work seemed to sound phony. She climbed out of her truck, locked the doors and pocketed the keys, although the only people around were her crew and the new guard.
“Where’s La—uh—Mr. Newman?”
The new CO, a fiftyish woman who could probably have held her own in a fight with Big or Gil, grinned at her. “Mr. Newman is off today. I’m Officer Selma Maddox.” She turned to the men standing in a ragged line behind her. “And I do not want to hear one word about my ass or any other part of my anatomy, you got that?” No response. “I said,” Selma repeated patiently, “you got that?”
Heads nodded.
“Good, we understand each other. Now, Doc, what say we put these lazy bums to work? What you got for ’em to do?”
Eleanor motioned for Selma to follow her as she moved out of earshot. She didn’t want to put Selma on the spot, particularly since, unlike Mike Newman, she seemed to be a reasonable person.
“The painting crew should be here any minute,” Eleanor told her. “They have their own team leader, and I’ve already discussed with him what they need to do. I have a suspicion you don’t want my guys spreading out to check fence lines alone, do you?”
Selma laughed. “This may be minimum security, but it’s still a prison. Outside the compound the fences are intended only to keep the herd animals we’re going to be raising in separate pastures. Four-foot-high barbed wire will not keep your average inmate from climbing over and taking off. Then we have to go after them with bloodhounds. The bloodhounds enjoy it, but I don’t.”
“I take it that’s a no?”
“Right.”
“Okay, so we’ll put them to work helping the painters. They can start painting the one-by-six pine boards for the stall enclosures—they’re easier to paint flat before they’re nailed up. Tomorrow we can go do the fence lines as a group. I doubt anyone but Slow Rise knows how to tension a wire fence, so he can teach the others. It’ll be slow going, but we’ll get it done.” She leaned against the building. “Will you be back tomorrow?”
The Payback Man Page 5
