by Brenda Novak
“I’d go if we weren’t so close to having the baby. I hate leaving Laurel on her own. But…this has been such a difficult pregnancy.”
Peyton came over and sat on his lap, and he rested his forehead on her shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. “Are you sorry you married me yet?”
Her hands covered his. She knew he was teasing, but she answered seriously. “I could never be sorry about that.”
He rubbed her big belly, trying to get his baby to move. There was nothing more reassuring to him than feeling their tiny daughter shift inside Peyton’s womb. Peyton had endured so many fertility treatments and dealt with so many complications since those treatments had worked—gestational diabetes, water retention, early cramping. He couldn’t wait to cradle this latest addition to their family in his arms and feel he had half a chance of protecting what they’d fought so hard to create. Fifteen months ago, they’d lost a little boy to a very late miscarriage, and it was worse than anything he’d ever experienced, mostly because the pain wasn’t just his. Peyton had been devastated.
“Why’d this have to come up now?” he grumbled. “Right before the baby?”
“It wouldn’t be any easier afterward,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to leave me with Brady and a newborn.”
True, but what about Laurel? She’d always been so close to him, so loyal, and regardless of what she thought she could do with that gun he’d given her, she wasn’t capable of defending herself. Not against The Crew. They were determined, brutal, relentless. Ink, especially, had no conscience. He’d rape and torture her before he killed her, if he ever got the chance. Rex had called from the airport in Montana to say he’d alerted local law enforcement to what was happening. The sheriff lived next door to Laurel. But was that enough?
It was so hard for Virgil to rely on anyone else, even the police. In the past, they’d had the protection of federal marshals and it hadn’t helped.
“No, I guess I wouldn’t be able to leave then, either,” he admitted.
“How are you feeling about the murder of your mother?”
This question surprised him. Other than what Ellen’s murder said about The Crew and what they might or might not be doing, he’d put it out of his mind. He’d never wished her dead, but her death was easier to take than her betrayal had been. “The same,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, she was a complete stranger to me.”
“Her murder hasn’t changed anything?”
“Nothing.” Maybe Martin had been a lazy, selfish, abusive asshole who deserved what he got as much as anyone could. But Ellen’s compulsion to save herself at any cost, even at the cost of her own children? That wasn’t a mother to him. What made her actions even more reprehensible was that she’d waited so long to take responsibility for what she’d done. She’d lied and lied, and she’d kept lying, forcing him and Laurel to writhe in uncertainty for years. Ellen had waited so long to come clean that, when she finally told him, it made very little difference in his life.
Peyton twisted around to see his face. “Are you ever going to tell Laurel what you learned two years ago?”
He’d had the opportunity when he’d talked to his sister on the phone and hadn’t taken it. He wasn’t sure why. When Ellen was alive, he’d justified keeping her confession to himself because his silence gave Laurel the best possible chance of establishing a relationship with her, which was what he thought Laurel secretly wanted. But now? Their mother was dead. He could no longer use that excuse, and yet he was still reluctant to divulge the ugly truth.
Why? Was it due to some inexplicable urge to protect his mother by hiding her true nature from Laurel? Or was he trying to protect his sister from the disappointment he’d felt? He wasn’t convinced she needed to learn at this late date. Would it help her in any way?
He couldn’t see how. Not knowing was torture, but so was facing the harsh reality. Maybe it would be different if Ellen had been innocent. But she’d been guilty as hell. And there’d been nothing to redeem her, even in her confession. She only told him when she did because she’d been between boyfriends, was getting older and feeling lonely, and she’d hoped she could use her children to fill the emptiness in her life.
“Well?” Peyton prompted when he hesitated.
Virgil rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept last night. He’d tossed and turned, worrying about Laurel, Peyton and Brady, the new baby, Rex. “Eventually. Maybe. But not yet. She’s going through enough right now.”
“You should’ve turned Ellen in.”
“Why? She was my mother. Besides, I’d already paid the price for her crime. There wasn’t anything to be gained by sending her to prison.”
“Some people would argue with that.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Some? Like my deputy warden wife?”
“Former deputy warden. And, yes, I would like to have seen her charged.”
“My testimony might not have made a difference. You know that. She didn’t give me any damning details. She just told me she asked Gary to ‘take care’ of Martin, like he claims. That was all I could get out of her.”
“You believe she might’ve denied what she told you? Later on?”
“If the police came calling? Sure. Why wouldn’t she, after everything else she did?”
Peyton tucked her long hair behind her ears. “I guess I wouldn’t put it past her.”
Deciding whether or not to turn his mother in hadn’t been difficult for Virgil. It was deciding whether to tell Laurel that’d been tough. And it still was. He didn’t want to give his sister another emotional hurdle to clear. Maybe, with Ellen gone, it would be easier for both of them to leave the past in the past. As much as Virgil hated to admit it, they were both better off without her in the world. There was no manual on how to act when you had a selfish, lying murderer for a mother. Ellen was always so soft-spoken and nice. Pretty, too. Dealing with her was confusing as hell. Should they sympathize with the desperation that’d made her resort to murder? Chalk up her behavior to a few months of insanity and then too much fear to ever attempt to right her wrong? Assume she was sorry, that she’d changed even though she’d never taken responsibility for her actions?
Peyton stood. “So what are you going to do?”
“Maybe I’ll tell her later. When we have a chance to be together.” Maybe being the operative word…
“I’m talking about The Crew.”
Pursing his lips, he rocked back in his chair and said what had been going around and around in his head since he’d first learned of Ellen’s murder and realized what it meant. “I’m going to call Horse.”
His wife’s eyes latched onto his. “You can’t mean that.”
“I have to do something.”
“And this is what you’ve come up with? What on earth will you say to him?”
“Mommy, what’s wrong?”
Brady stood by the door, frowning at the tension in the room. He wasn’t used to seeing them at odds.
“Nothing, honey,” she responded, but the fact that she didn’t so much as glance back at him told Virgil she was completely involved in their conversation. He understood why. Calling Horse was a huge risk. But doing nothing could prove to be an even greater one.
Spotting his father, Brady scampered past Peyton. Virgil wouldn’t let Peyton lift him up, not while she was pregnant, so these days Brady relied primarily on Virgil to carry him when he wanted it. He snuggled with his mother only when she was sitting on the couch or lying down. “Can we throw the baseball, Daddy?” he asked as he climbed into Virgil’s lap where Peyton had sat just seconds before.
“In a minute, bud.” For now, Peyton still had him pinned beneath a disapproving stare.
“I asked you a question,” she reminded him.
Virgil drew a deep breath. “I’ll explain that he’d better not pick this fight.”
“Or…”
“I’ll finish it.”
He was transferred several times before he spoke to someone at California’s
Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation who could help him, but it wasn’t long before Myles had the information he was looking for. The mug shots for the inmates who’d broken out of the California Men’s Colony had come through the fax machine and, sure enough, he recognized them. One was “Ron Howard.” Nickname Ink. Real name Eugene Rider. The kid who’d claimed to be Peter Ferguson was Lloyd Beachum, age nineteen. Lloyd had three priors for drug possession and grand larceny, but Eugene’s arrest record made Lloyd’s look like child’s play. Rape. Armed robbery. Arson. Several counts of murder.
With a curse, Myles dialed the number he’d just gotten from the CDCR.
A woman answered. “Warden Wright’s office.”
To avoid the noise two of his deputies were making as they reported for work, Myles got up and closed his office door. “Is the warden in?”
“He is, but I’m afraid he’s not available. Can I take a message?”
“This is Sheriff King in Pineview, Montana. Tell him I spotted your boys and believe they’re still in this area.”
“Excuse me?”
He returned to his seat. “The two convicts who cut a hole in the fence and slipped out ten days ago? They’re in Montana.”
“Oh, dear! Um, in that case, hang on. I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you sooner rather than later.”
Two or three minutes dragged by before a male voice boomed across the line. “Sheriff?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for calling. You have something to report on our escapees?”
Propping his elbows on the desk, Myles smoothed his eyebrows with a finger and one thumb. “I wish I had more than I do, but I’ll give you what I’ve got. They stole a red Toyota truck from a Quentin J. Ferguson in Monrovia, which they drove here. A leak in the radiator stranded them on the side of the road. That’s where I found them yesterday.”
“Tell me you have them in custody.”
“I’m afraid not.” Myles explained what had happened, then mentioned Pat Stueben’s murder.
“Eugene Ryder should never have been transferred from Pelican Bay. He’s a level-four prisoner if I’ve ever met one.” The stress in the warden’s voice revealed just how much he wanted to get these particular inmates back where they belonged.
Myles had wondered what someone convicted of so many counts of murder was doing in anything less than maximum security. But it happened sometimes. Due to good behavior, time served, overcrowding or myriad other reasons, their points dropped. “Considering his long list of offenses, why’d they reclassify him?”
“Four years ago, Ryder tried to kill a woman who was going into WitSec. Murdered the federal marshal who was protecting her, but he took a bullet that night that nearly severed his spinal cord. He was never supposed to walk again. He’s done much better than the doctors predicted, but he’s in constant pain. No one dreamed he’d leave his free and ready supply of codeine and head for the hills. When his back gets bad, he can barely limp around. And it’s bad almost all the time.”
Was the warden joking? Prison doctors didn’t have a corner on the painkiller market. “But there are plenty of alternatives to codeine available on the street. Including some drugs, both legal and illegal, that are a lot stronger.”
“He spent two years in Pelican Bay after the shooting, seemed like a different man. And they’re so crowded up there.”
Myles read over Ryder’s arrest record again. They thought he was a different man? This was obviously a screwup, and the warden didn’t want to admit it. So Myles changed tactics. “Who shot him?”
“Don’t know. Until ten days ago, he was just another inmate to me. Now all I care about is dragging his ass back here.”
Myles remembered the stories Mia had shared with her friend at school. Had she witnessed the shooting that’d injured Ryder? Or the slaying of the marshal?
Rex had mentioned that The Crew had been out to get Vivian and her brother for a long time, that they’d been in protective custody. “Was it the woman he was trying to rape who shot him?”
“Could’ve been. I haven’t looked into those details. They don’t matter. All that matters is what’s happening now. We gotta get these boys back in prison before they hurt someone else.”
But they’d have a far greater chance of catching their “boys” if they could figure out where they might be going and why. And that could be linked to their pasts. “What can you tell me that might help me locate Eugene? Does he have family in Montana? Friends?”
“No. His family lives in San Diego, and he lost touch with them years ago. This guy’s a career criminal and not right in the head. His family’s as scared of him as everyone else, especially his mother. When he was only twelve he tried to set her bed on fire while she was sleeping.”
Nice son… “So he won’t be reaching out to them anytime soon.”
“They certainly hope not. But we’ve been in touch, just in case.”
“What about the guy who escaped with him? Beachum? Where’s his family?”
“He’s from Modesto, here in California. We’re in contact with his family, too, or what’s left of it. He was born to a crack addict who lost him to Child Protective Services when he was eleven. From there he bounced around the foster system for three or four years. Finally wound up on the street. Mother claims she hasn’t heard from him, but she’s still on the pipe so who knows if she’d even remember.”
Myles groped for some other way to track Eugene Ryder. “Someone had to help these men escape. Someone on the outside. A girlfriend. A family member. A buddy. Isn’t that how it usually works?”
“More often than not.”
“Have you figured out who that might be?”
“No. They have a lot of friends, Sheriff, but not the type who’ll help us. Ryder and Beachum belong to a gang called The Crew.”
That was the problem, not the answer.
“They must’ve had some wire cutters smuggled in so they could cut the fence,” the warden was saying. “But we could drag every member of that gang into my office and interrogate the hell out of them for hours and not a single one would talk, because nothing we’re at liberty to do can compare with what’ll happen to them if they rat out a fellow member.”
“But you’ve tried to talk to them? Maybe there’s a weak link. Someone who really hates Ryder and would like to see him get caught. Someone who, down deep, wants to do the right thing.”
Laughter crackled over the phone. “I can see you’ve never worked in a prison.”
That told him they hadn’t called in any of Ryder’s or Beachum’s “buddies.” “Look, I already have one dead man here, thanks to your escapees. I expect you to do all you can, no matter how futile it may seem.”
Silence greeted this response. Myles had been speaking out of frustration more than anything else, but he didn’t apologize. When Ryder and Beachum drove that beat-up Toyota into his town and killed Pat, California’s problem had become his problem. And he didn’t appreciate it. “We are doing all we can, Sheriff.” His manner, suddenly wooden and overly polite, indicated any camaraderie had come to an end. His next words confirmed that the conversation had, as well. “Thanks for calling.”
“Wait!” Myles tried to catch him before he could hang up. There was no response, but he didn’t hear a click so he barreled on. “Tell me this. Why would these men come to Montana?”
“Sheriff, I didn’t even know they were in Montana until you told me. But it’s as good a place to hide as anywhere else, I suppose.”
The California authorities knew nothing, just as Myles had suspected. Laurel Hodges had left WitSec, so she didn’t even have that conduit to people who might know where she was and inform her of this escape. That tempted Myles to open their eyes, despite Rex’s warning. “You need to check out the shooting incident that damaged Ryder’s spine,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because maybe these two cons aren’t looking for freedom. Maybe they’re looking for revenge.”
“Ag
ainst whom?”
“Whoever was involved in that shooting!”
The way the warden cleared his throat and deepened his voice reminded Myles of his father. “Do you know something you’re not telling me, Sheriff?”
Was he going to tell what he knew? All of it?
Myles tapped his fingers on the desk while he tried to decide. He wasn’t sure he believed what Rex said about The Crew being able to find out everything the authorities knew. That would require too much corruption, or too many girlfriends working in too many government offices. But…Los Angeles, where he’d been told this gang was largely based, wasn’t Pineview. Maybe he was being too naive. “I know they’re not out for a joyride. That’s what I know.”
Long after he hung up, Myles sat staring at the phone. Should he have explained that Vivian was Laurel Hodges and her life was at stake? That she was a mother of two children? That she’d already been through far too much and deserved to feel safe for a change?
He could’ve tried to enlist their support, offered to collaborate. Most sheriffs would’ve done so; he’d certainly considered it.
But he couldn’t ignore what Rex had said. Apparently he trusted Vivian’s ex-boyfriend more than he wanted to admit. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see what might happen if he disregarded that advice. Either way, he’d told the warden that Ryder and Beachum were here. Let them come look for their escapees without knowing any more about Laurel and her whereabouts than they did now. He’d make sure she was safe.
Speaking of safe… Myles glanced at the clock. He needed to head back to Pineview. He didn’t want Vivian returning from the airport in Kalispell to an empty house.
He’d just scooped up his keys and started for the door when one of his deputies—Ben Jones, his most recent hire—intercepted him.
“Ned Blackburn’s on the phone for you,” Jones announced.
Ned was an insurance salesman who was also on Myles’s softball team. At their last practice, Myles had mentioned that he’d like to increase his life insurance. But now was not the time. “Tell him I’m busy. I’ll have to call him back when things slow down around here.” He tried to circumvent Jones, but Jones caught his arm.
