by Brenda Novak
“I was driving by when I saw you turn in.” He motioned to the street and the traffic streaming along it.
“And?” Grooves of impatience were etched in Wallace’s forehead. Obviously the man was in a hurry.
John swayed to the side, trying to see if there was another person in the room, but it appeared to be empty. An army-green duffel bag sat on the bed, stuffed to capacity and zipped shut. It didn’t look as if it belonged to someone who dressed in expensive, tailored suits like Wallace did, but John couldn’t imagine why Wallace would be packing up another person’s belongings.
A sack on the counter contained groceries, a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, judging by what he could see from the door. That explained how someone might be able to stay locked up in a motel room for several days. “I was hoping you’d have a minute to talk about an unfortunate incident that occurred a couple weeks ago,” he said.
“What incident is that?”
The gravity of John’s tone had piqued his interest, so John took great care to describe what had transpired in a more favorable light than Wallace would probably hear from anyone else. “I feel terrible about it,” he finished, “but I really don’t believe my actions were out of line, sir. I was just doing my job.”
“And there are witnesses to corroborate your story?”
There were witnesses who should’ve supported him and didn’t, which angered him. He would’ve lied for any one of them. “There should be. Two other C.O.s came over to help once the fight broke out, but everyone seems to have a different version of it.”
“Then I’m not sure what you think I can do.”
“I was hoping you could convince the chief deputy warden to revisit the issue. I don’t deserve to have this on my record, sir. I’m a damn good C.O. And I can’t afford the loss of two weeks’ pay. I’d never use more force than necessary. If I hadn’t kicked Bentley Riggs he wouldn’t have stopped fighting.”
“Punishing a man for doing his job doesn’t send the right message,” Wallace muttered.
“Exactly. Next time there’s a fight, I’ll be so afraid of getting into trouble I might end up on the floor with a cracked skull myself. Or worse.”
“We can’t tie the hands of our guards,” he agreed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. I’m so glad I spotted you turning in here. Any chance you’d let me take you to dinner?”
“Sorry, I’ve got other plans.”
John wondered what those plans might be. “No problem.” He nodded toward the duffel on the bed. “Can I help you carry any of your stuff?”
“I’ve got it.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay. Have a good night.” He returned to his truck, even drove out of the lot so it would look as if he’d moved on. But he waited down the street to see what would happen next. Then he followed the associate director all the way to Peyton’s house, where Wallace, carrying that duffel bag from the motel and a nice piece of rolling luggage, went in but, oddly enough, didn’t come out.
John watched until all the lights in the house went off before realizing that Wallace must be staying the night.
At least now he knew how Peyton had been getting her promotions. And she thought she could fault his behavior? She was a whore at heart, just like his ex. Women were so full of shit. They only did what benefited them.
But he still wasn’t sure what the man who’d been staying in room fifteen had been doing in town, how he was connected to Wallace and Peyton, or where he’d gone.
Skinner’s angry. See if you can settle him down. That woman’s death was his fault, not mine. None of this would be happening if he hadn’t joined up in the first place.
None of this would be happening…
None of what?
20
It was difficult to sleep in Peyton’s house without remembering what had happened the last time he’d been under her roof. Virgil told himself he shouldn’t think about it. He had to put the past few days behind him and prepare for what lay ahead. But he couldn’t seem to get the memory of making love to her out of his mind. And with this being his last night of freedom, he wanted to spend it with her, cancel out what he’d done at the motel.
If only he could convince her that he wasn’t really the prick he’d made himself out to be. But he couldn’t talk to her in private. Wallace was keeping a close eye on them both. From where the associate director was sleeping on the couch, he’d be able to tell if either of them came out.
Let it go. She doesn’t need someone like you. She had too many better options. Hell, even Wallace was a better option. Maybe he was arrogant, self-absorbed and married, and maybe he irritated Virgil, but he’d never killed anyone, even in self-defense. No one was trying to kill him or his family. And he had a successful career, a place in life, a future. That was a lot to offer a woman—a lot more than Virgil had.
A creak in the hallway made him catch his breath. Someone was up. He hoped it was Peyton, that she’d come to him.
“Virgil?”
It wasn’t her. Wallace knocked softly at his door.
“What?” Why the hell would Rick bother him in the middle of the night?
“Can I come in for a second?”
“As long as you have a good reason.”
The door creaked as he opened it, but he walked quietly as if he didn’t want to wake Peyton, and closed the door behind him.
Virgil sat up. The fog that had been so prevalent the past few days had dissipated. A full moon hung in the sky, as round as a silver dollar. After being denied any sight of the outside world for so long, Virgil refused to lower the blinds and block out such beauty. The light that streamed in didn’t disturb him. He was conditioned to it. He’d spent fourteen years living in places that never went completely dark.
Rick looked as if he owed his build to a carefully monitored diet as opposed to any physical activity. Wearing a deep V-neck T-shirt that revealed a hairless chest and designer pajama bottoms, he seemed a little too conscious of his own assets.
For a second, Virgil envied him the ease of his life. He could’ve become a polished professional, given half a chance. But why waste time lamenting what could have been? He was what he was.
Rick cleared his throat. “I wanted to let you know…I’m aware of what happened between you and Peyton.”
Unwilling to confirm or deny what Peyton had told him, Virgil held his tongue and waited for Wallace to disclose why he’d confronted him on this subject.
“I guess I can’t blame you for taking what you can get. A man in your shoes would have to be desperate for a woman. And Peyton’s beautiful. What ex-con wouldn’t climb on if he could? But I split up with my wife today so…things are going to change. I thought you should know.”
“Things?” Virgil prompted.
“Between Peyton and me.”
Virgil warned himself to keep his mouth shut. He had enough to worry about with Laurel and the kids and whether or not he’d get out of Pelican Bay alive. Why did it matter what Wallace had to say?
And yet…it bothered him that Rick felt he had the right to do this, that he could clear the field with a few simple words. “I don’t think she’s interested in you, Rick.”
His mouth dropped open. “What’d you say?”
“You heard me.”
“You think she’s interested in you? Because you caught her at a weak moment? The way she lives, she was probably as sex-starved as you. Peyton’s not the type to sleep around. But that doesn’t mean she’d ever go for a man who has little or no chance of even getting a job.”
Leave it to Wallace to hit him where he was most vulnerable. “I wouldn’t expect her to,” he responded. “Unlike you, I have no false hope.”
“False hope?” he scoffed. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know a fool when I see one. Now get out of my room.”
Virgil dismissed him by lying back down, but Wallace didn�
��t leave. His voice lowered to a whisper as menacing as any Virgil had ever heard in prison. “I’m going to credit that response to your uneducated and uncouth background—further proof of the many reasons you wouldn’t be right for a woman like Peyton.”
“Credit it to whatever you want. It’s the truth.”
“Just consider yourself warned.”
Virgil rose onto one elbow. He’d been threatened by a lot of men, but no one who’d be easier to take than Wallace. “Warned?”
“To stay away from her.”
“Or what?” he said with a laugh. “You’ll kick my ass?”
“I wouldn’t have to touch you,” he said, and left.
Virgil stared at the door long after Wallace had closed it. He hadn’t liked the associate director to begin with, but he especially didn’t like him now. Apparently it didn’t matter that he was on the outside dealing with someone who was supposed to live according to the law. Men were the same everywhere. If it served their purposes, they’d do whatever they felt they could get away with.
Tempted to march out and grab Wallace by the throat, to teach him a lesson he’d never forget, Virgil got up and started for the door. But he stopped himself before leaving the room. He couldn’t touch Wallace, not if he cared about Laurel and the kids. He had to keep the agreement he’d made. Peyton didn’t nullify that.
Soon this would all be over; Laurel and his niece and nephew would be safe, and they’d build new lives. Whatever happened here wouldn’t matter; Wallace would have no hold over him.
But in the meantime, he’d have to watch his back more carefully than ever.
Because it was now clear that he had more than just The Crew out to get him.
The tension at breakfast was palpable. Peyton wasn’t sure why. Everything had seemed fine—or as fine as could be expected—when she went to bed last night. She’d been so exhausted she’d fallen asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow and for that she was grateful. At least she hadn’t tossed and turned for hours as she feared she might when she knew she’d have these two men as houseguests.
But this morning she felt certain there’d been some exchange she’d missed between Wallace and Virgil—and wondered about the nature of it.
“You two okay?” she murmured as she put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of each.
Rick sat closest to the stove. He’d been reading the paper and drinking coffee while she prepared breakfast. “Fine, why?”
Virgil didn’t answer her. After selecting a seat two empty chairs away from Rick and across the table from her, he kept staring out the window at his elbow as if he wasn’t sure he’d ever see the outdoors again, which made her hyperaware of the possibility that he might not.
“Because it’s colder in here than it is outside, if you get my meaning,” she said, answering Rick. “What’s going on?”
Setting the paper aside, he reached for his coffee. “Nothing.”
That assurance meant little to her, since he wasn’t the one she was concerned about. “Virgil?”
He glanced at her. “Don’t worry about it.”
She hesitated in the middle of the kitchen, still holding the frying pan. “Look, if there’s a problem—”
“There’s not a problem.” Rick gestured to the empty seat next to him. “Quit worrying and sit down so you can eat. This is our big day.”
When he punctuated that comment with an arrogant smile directed at Virgil, Virgil shot him a look that told Peyton he was no longer pretending to like Rick. Not that he’d gone to any great lengths before….
Afraid she was at the root of the conflict, she turned back to the stove, left the rest of the eggs in the pan and poured herself a cup of coffee. It’d been a mistake to get involved with Virgil, but it’d been an even bigger mistake to try and fix what she’d done by going to Rick.
Her misgivings about the investigation edged up another notch as she waited for them to finish eating, but she’d always felt nervous about it, so she was growing used to the sense of unease. It wouldn’t do any good to speak out again, anyway. She’d been trying to get Rick to listen to her from the beginning. Virgil, too. They wouldn’t.
She carried her cup to the table, where she sat down in a chair other than the one Rick had indicated. It felt like the only neutral choice because it wasn’t any closer to Virgil than it was Wallace. “How will you manage the transfer?”
Rick stopped chewing long enough to answer. “I’ve got a couple officers from Santa Rosa coming to transport him.”
She could tell that Virgil was paying attention to the conversation, but he wouldn’t look at her. He finished his breakfast, then stared out the window some more, brooding.
“Those officers know he’s not at the motel anymore?” she asked Rick.
“They do.” He washed down his last bite with a swallow of coffee. “I spoke to them while you were in the shower and explained that he was generating too much interest, so we moved him.”
Having Virgil picked up at the house would be so much safer than smuggling him out of the Redwood Inn. As awkward as last night had been, it was well worth the discomfort if only for this one reason. “So you won’t be coming to the prison yourself?”
“There’s no need. I want this to look very routine. So I’ll wait here until he’s been picked up. Then I’ll head back to Sacramento.” He set his fork on his plate and shoved it away. “Unless you’d be more comfortable if I stayed a day or two—to be sure he settles in okay.”
The way he glanced at her said he wanted her to act as if his presence would be welcome. But she knew it was highly unlikely that he’d really take the time, not unless there was a need greater than making her feel “comfortable.” He was showing off for Virgil’s benefit. He’d behaved in a proprietary fashion ever since he’d arrived, touching her now and then and showing more familiarity when he spoke to her. But she didn’t even want him around. At this point, she could barely stand the sight of him.
“No. I’m fine.” She added a smile so she wouldn’t be too obvious about wanting him to go. Maybe he and Mercedes would reconcile. She hoped so. She didn’t want the problem of Rick being single and available, which complicated everything. Only if he decided to put his marriage back together would he be able to forget her little faux pas with Virgil, because then he’d be focusing elsewhere, no longer looking to her as the next woman in his life.
Checking the clock, she got up. “I have to go or I’ll be late.”
“But you didn’t eat,” he said.
She couldn’t eat. She was too nervous, too aware of Virgil sitting at her kitchen table. “I’ve got some granola bars in my desk if…”
Virgil was finally looking at her. She could feel his gaze. But when their eyes met, the strangest bittersweet sensation swept over her. In another time, another place, she could’ve fallen in love with this man. She felt quite certain of that, even though it didn’t make a lot of sense. They hadn’t spent more than a few hours together. And they came from very different worlds. There was just…something about him.
Belatedly she realized that she’d stopped talking. She returned her attention to Rick. “If I get hungry,” she finished, but that brief interruption must’ve given her away because, in the same split second, Rick had clenched his jaw. “Just make sure everything goes smoothly on this end, okay?” she said to fill the sudden silence.
Rick smiled blandly. “Don’t worry about Virgil. He’s already killed…what, two men?” He turned to Virgil, who glared at him as if those blue irises were laser beams. Rick knew the answer to his own question. Peyton knew it, too; by Rick’s own admission, four men had jumped Virgil, but he didn’t add that. He wanted to emphasize Virgil’s background, to taunt him with it in front of her, not justify his actions. “He gets in trouble, he’ll just kill again.”
Peyton didn’t appreciate the reminder. But…maybe it was necessary. She was having trouble seeing the man she’d come to know as a murderer. Probably because she felt she’d never rea
lly lived until he’d come into her life.
“There won’t be any need for violence,” she said, and purposely dropped her purse as she picked it up off the counter.
The clatter of the contents that spilled drew Rick’s attention to the floor. He bent to gather everything up, and that gave her the opportunity she’d been hoping for. Quickly shoving one hand behind her back, she held out a note to Virgil—and felt him take it.
Cooley had arrived. At last.
John climbed out of his truck while waiting for the man in the old Corvette rolling down the narrow dirt road. He’d met the same guy here in the forest twice before, and he hoped this meeting would be as financially rewarding. He was overdrawn on his checking account, needed to cover the drafts he’d written before the bank manager called him.
The bass of Cooley’s stereo pounded against the windows as he slammed on his brakes and slid to a stop, nearly hitting John.
Scrambling to get out of the way, John cursed. Each time he dealt with this punk, John swore it would be the last, but with spousal support and child support and his new truck, which he’d bought when his marriage fell apart, he couldn’t get ahead.
Heavy metal blasted into the small clearing as Cooley, a kid of maybe eighteen, left the motor running and got out. The little prick knew better than to come charging in here with his stereo turned up so loud. John had asked him a number of times to be more discreet, but Cooley wanted to come off as too much of a badass to care whether or not he attracted attention. His cockiness was reflected even in the car he drove. That old Corvette wasn’t worth more than a few thousand dollars, not these days, but he raced around in it as proudly as though it were fresh off the lot.
“What’s up, man?” Tall and skinny, with long greasy hair, Cooley wore an MMA T-shirt with tight rocker jeans and Vans on his feet. He looked more like a skater dude than a gangbanger. He had the usual tats, of course, but tats were so common these days they no longer signified anything. Too many wannabes inked up. Cooley strove for a tough image, talked like he’d spent a few years in prison, but John knew the truth. He was just a foot soldier, recruited by Weston Jager, his older brother.
