by Brenda Novak
Peyton scowled as she tried to assimilate this information. “Why didn’t Rathman explain this before?”
“He said he told me what he thought had happened but has since realized he made a mistake. He said Riggs must’ve dropped the weapon after he hit his head. Weston Jager picked it up, and once Rathman saw Weston with it, he didn’t believe it had belonged to Riggs.”
“That part I can understand.”
“And Rathman’s been able to prove it was Riggs’s weapon, not Jager’s.”
“How?”
“Riggs no longer has a toothbrush in his cell, for one. And his cell mate insists he spent hours and hours at night sharpening something he wouldn’t show him.”
“Oh, jeez.” Rubbing her temples, Peyton scrambled to figure out what should be done. “Have you talked to Hutchinson about the toothbrush? I mean…if he saw it in Riggs’s hand and felt threatened by it—if that’s why he lashed out—why didn’t he say so?” Instead of all that garbage about adrenaline and the heat of the moment…
“I don’t know. I haven’t gone back to him yet. I wanted to speak with you first, inform you that we might need to reevaluate.”
“Reevaluate what?” It was the warden. He’d come to her door. Peyton had met with him earlier to assure him she was prepared for “Simeon’s” arrival. They’d also gone over the Hutchinson situation but, apparently, everything wasn’t as it seemed.
“The suspension of John Hutchinson,” she said.
His forehead rumpled as he walked into the room. “What’s going on?”
Hearing Shelley’s voice out in the hall, Peyton closed the door to give them some privacy while she explained. When she’d finished, the warden cursed in disgust.
“Sounds to me as if you didn’t do enough research,” he said to McCalley. Then he turned to her. “And you didn’t make sure he did enough research. Which means you were both derelict in your duty.”
“This is the first we’ve heard about Riggs having a weapon,” Peyton said.
“You should’ve known before, should’ve kept digging until you had all the facts before you handed down a decision.”
At the time, they’d believed they had all the facts. They’d interviewed everyone, spoken to John repeatedly, held off on making a decision until they felt confident they’d chosen the right course of action.
“Hutchinson is one of us,” Fischer said. “That means he deserves the benefit of the doubt.”
But just this morning, the warden had said they needed to make an example out of him, emphasizing that abuse would not be tolerated. He’d reacted the same way they’d reacted to the information available, which made him just as “derelict” in his duty.
Not that he’d ever admit it. He always acted as if he never would’ve made a particular mistake—after it was proven to be a mistake.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “So…now that the situation’s changed, how do you suggest we handle it?” Peyton wanted him to take full responsibility for the decision, so he’d have no room to blame her later if it was wrong.
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
She kept her mouth shut and waited for him to explain.
“Call Hutchinson in, apologize to him and make sure he understands that there’ll be no disciplinary action. And while you’re at it, try thanking him for risking his life to keep order.”
McCalley shot her a glance before focusing on the warden. “But there are still a lot of unanswered questions, sir. Shouldn’t we continue to investigate?”
“And draw even more attention to the fact that you suspended a man without sufficient cause? Hell, no! I don’t want our officers to think we won’t stand behind them when they need us most. What’ll that do for morale around here? We’re a family. Riggs had a weapon. Hutchinson acted to disarm him. That’s all we, or anyone else, need to know.”
Protect the family…. Peyton wondered if the C.O.s who’d scalded that mentally ill prisoner back in ’92 had relied on getting “the benefit of the doubt” when they’d been scrubbing the skin off his legs. She preferred to believe staff over prisoners, too, but checks and balances were an essential part of the system. “John didn’t say anything about a shank, sir,” she said. “I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it if it had been a real threat.”
“We have enough to worry about without going after our own,” Fischer retorted. “As long as no one can prove John acted out, we’re fine to assume he didn’t.” He turned to leave her office, but she called after him.
“Sir—”
He turned back. “Have I not made myself clear, Chief Deputy?”
“Yes, you have, but—”
“Just do as I say and quit arguing for a change,” he snapped and left.
Apparently the brutality issue had sidelined whatever he’d come to say. Or he wasn’t willing to discuss it in front of McCalley. Maybe he was so disappointed in how she’d handled the Hutchinson problem, he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all anymore. Lately, they seemed to disagree far too often. Only by sheer will was she able to implement some of his directives.
“You heard him,” she told McCalley. “Give Hutchinson a call.”
“I think he’s making a mistake,” he murmured.
She remembered John’s demeanor when he’d been in her office yesterday. If Riggs had had a shank, and John knew it, he definitely would’ve used that as part of his defense. “So do I.”
Ink wouldn’t leave Colorado, even though Shady had ordered him back to L.A. He was too pissed that Eddie Glover had lived. They’d gotten all the information they were going to get out of Eddie, so it shouldn’t have mattered, but to Ink killing Eddie had become an obsession. He talked about it constantly, said he wanted to add another tattoo to his body depicting him shooting “that miserable son of a bitch C.O.” All he ever craved was blood. As far as Pretty Boy was concerned he was a fucking psychopath. But no one else seemed to care.
Fortunately, there’d been too much activity at the hospital to finish Eddie off, especially when it served no better purpose than to appease Ink’s twisted desire for revenge. Pointblank had flat-out told Ink that every single Crew member would be lying in wait for him if he risked that kind of heat. So he’d finally quit raving about killing Eddie and fixated on going after Laurel again. They’d been arguing about how he was going to accomplish that all day.
“We won’t find her.” Pretty Boy lounged on a bed in the cheap motel where they’d holed up since the shooting. “There’s no reason for her to stay in Colorado. For all we know, she could be halfway across the country.”
Pointblank, who was on the other bed, had been watching television. At this, he finally deigned to enter the conversation. “We stay until we’re told to leave.”
“Ink has been told to leave,” Pretty Boy reminded him.
Pointblank motioned to Ink, who was fiddling with his gun at the desk. “That’s his problem. He’ll have to answer to Shady. You won’t. So don’t worry about it.”
“Shady won’t be pissed at me, not once I get the job done,” Ink said.
“And how do you plan to get the job done when we don’t even know where she is?” Desperate to be rid of him, Pretty Boy fantasized about waking up in the middle of the night and putting a bullet through his brain while he slept. Killing Ink might cause a backlash inside The Crew. The hit wouldn’t be sanctioned by the gang’s leaders. But Pretty Boy felt he’d be doing the world a service. He’d be doing Skin a great service, too. Except he wasn’t sure if he should be motivated by the loyalty that still lingered in his heart. How should he feel about his old cellie? Was Skin debriefing as the others claimed?
If not, why hadn’t he made contact?
Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe something else was going on….
“Shady’ll find her,” Pointblank—Thompson—said. “You heard what he told us when he called. He’s got some contacts in the CDC.”
But would they go crazy cooped up together before those contacts came through? At this po
int, Pretty Boy was having fantasies about putting a bullet through his own brain just to escape the monotony. “We’ll see.”
He got up to go outside for a cigarette. He never used to smoke. He’d taken it up a few days ago. The nicotine calmed his nerves, and the act of bringing the cigarette to his mouth kept his hands busy. Besides, it provided a good excuse to take a walk every couple of hours.
Thompson’s phone vibrated on the table as Pretty Boy passed by. When he glanced down, he saw that the caller was Shady and froze. Shady’s contact had delivered what they’d asked for. Shady wouldn’t be contacting them again otherwise. They’d already talked to him today.
“Hand me that,” Thompson said.
Pretty Boy hesitated. The last time they’d received orders from Shady, Ink had shot Glover, a corrections officer, and it’d been all they could do to keep him from going back and killing Glover’s whole family. Pretty Boy didn’t want to see anyone else hurt, especially Laurel.
“What’s up with you?” Pointblank snapped at his lack of response.
Ink grabbed the phone before Pretty Boy could reach for it and tossed it over to Thompson, who answered.
“’Lo?…No kidding?…Never heard of it…. Where?… Got it…. ’Course…. This is a step in the right direction, anyway…. If it’s not a big place, maybe we can find her on our own…. Sure…. Will do.”
When he hung up, he scooted off the bed and began stuffing his clothes into his duffel bag. “Get your asses moving,” he said. “We’re out of here.”
Pretty Boy remained rooted to the spot. “Where we goin’?”
“Town called Gunnison.”
“Never heard of it,” Ink said. “Is it close?”
“Not far, maybe two, three hours.”
Pretty Boy’s mind raced. That was as far as the feds had taken Skin’s sister? What had they been thinking?
They’d underestimated the network that served The Crew, didn’t realize that gang members had loyal girlfriends and wives who held regular jobs and could be privy to sensitive information. “Laurel’s there?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.
“’Cording to Shady.”
“So his contact came through,” Ink said, obviously impressed.
Pointblank headed into the bathroom. “Damn right. Just like I told you. Shady means business. He does his part.”
Ink shoved his gun in the waistband of his jeans. “Does that mean we have an address?”
“Not yet,” Pointblank called back.
Pretty Boy could hear him packing up his shampoo and razor and whatever else he had in there. “When’s that coming through?”
“Shady’s not sure he can get any more than we got now. He’s hoping we’ll be able to find her ourselves.”
Hope buoyed Pretty Boy’s flagging spirits. “That won’t be easy.”
Sticking his head out of the bathroom, Pointblank grinned. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Gunnison’s only got five thousand people.”
Stubbornly clinging to that brief flash of hope, Pretty Boy said, “But if she’s hidden away, there’s no—”
“She won’t stay hidden forever, man.” Pointblank had disappeared into the bathroom again. “Most people can’t take that shit for long. When nothing happens, she’ll start to feel safe, get bored, and then she’ll go out to the grocery store, to church, take the kids to the park.”
“And she’ll be new in town,” Ink added with an eager gleam in his eye. “That means she’ll stand out.”
“So will we,” Pretty Boy said.
The toilet flushed and Pointblank walked out zipping his fly. “We’ll be lookin’ for her. She won’t be lookin’ for us. That’ll give us an advantage. And Gunnison’s only a temporary stop until the government can decide where to put her, so she’s in a rental.”
Pretty Boy’s hope died on the spot. “That’s what Shady’s contact said? Gunnison’s temporary?”
“That’s what she said.”
“What are we supposed to do once we find her?”
Ink, who was packing his own bag, looked up. “What do you think, stupid?”
Trying to avoid another confrontation with the psycho asshole, Pretty Boy kept his attention on Pointblank. “I’m talking about the kids. I don’t want to kill kids. Or a U.S. marshal. That shit’s asking for war.”
Pointblank slung his duffel over his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. First, we gotta find her.”
But Pretty Boy imagined that wouldn’t take too long. They’d be in Gunnison before nightfall. How many rental houses could there be in such a small community?
22
“Maybe we should lay down a few ground rules,” Buzz said.
Virgil stretched out on his bunk. There wasn’t a lot to unpack when you were allowed only six cubic feet of personal belongings. “Like…?” He shifted his gaze to his cell mate, who was standing up and staring morosely out onto the tier.
“Just one rule, really. You leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone. It’s that simple.”
Despite an abundance of tattoos, a series of devils with their tongues sticking out KISS-style, Buzz wasn’t particularly frightening. He wasn’t big and didn’t look very strong. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Virgil had learned long ago not to discount anyone, not until he knew what the guy was like on the inside. Vanquishing an enemy was largely a matter of determination and often depended on how far you were willing to go—whether or not you’d risk your own life to accomplish what you wanted. Some of the meanest men Virgil had ever fought were less than a hundred and eighty pounds. And some of the other guys, the bigger ones, weren’t worth a damn when it came to throwing punches.
“Let’s make it even simpler than that,” Virgil said. “You leave me alone or I’ll make you sorry you didn’t.” He wanted to start gathering information. Now that he was here, all he could think about was getting out, and he couldn’t get out until he had something for Wallace. The smell of this place, different and yet so similar to the other institutions he’d known, threatened to suffocate him. But until he built up some credibility with Buzz, any attempt to befriend him would be wasted. Worse than wasted. It would have the opposite effect.
First, he had to play his role, sell his image and do it well. In order to infiltrate the Hells Fury, he’d need a sponsor. He hoped his cell mate would take that on, but Buzz had to have some reason to trust him or admire him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be willing to stick his neck out. Virgil had been part of the criminal world long enough to understand that.
“So you’re a tough guy?” Buzz said.
Obviously he accepted nothing on faith. They had that in common.
“No need to take my word for it.” Virgil sat up to see if his cellie wanted to test him, but Buzz glanced away. He wasn’t going to be issuing any challenges. At least, not right now.
“I don’t want trouble,” he muttered. “I get out in less than a month. You screw that up and you’ll end up dancin’ on the blacktop no matter how tough you are. And that’s a promise.”
Dancing on the blacktop… Virgil hadn’t heard that phrase before, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out. Buzz was saying he’d be shanked in the yard.
“You’re the one getting in my face,” he said. “If you don’t want trouble, stop asking for it.”
“I’m just pissed,” he grumbled. “I shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
Virgil propped his hands behind his head and spoke through a yawn. “With what?”
“With you, man.”
“Then don’t deal with me. I thought we just went over that.”
Shifting from one foot to the other, Buzz went back to staring into the tier, which held some concrete tables and a couple of telephones. Nineteen other cells opened onto it. They were allowed to play cards and socialize there when they weren’t on lockdown.
Virgil assumed their conversation was over, so he lay back and closed his eyes. After the week he’d spent in the real world, he was beyond tired. B
ut Buzz was too agitated to shut up.
“What’d you do?” he asked. “What you in for?”
Virgil cracked open his eyelids. Where he came from it wasn’t polite to ask. “None of your damn business.”
“Let me see your papers.”
Buzz wanted to know if he had any gang affiliations. That was pretty standard. “No.”
“Fine. Tell me this much, then. Where’d you do time before here?”
“That’s none of your business, either.” Virgil knew that the less he said about himself, the less he’d have to remember and the harder it would be for anyone to prove he was lying.
“It’s gonna be a long month,” Buzz breathed.
Virgil couldn’t help laughing.
The way Buzz whirled on him told Virgil the man had a weapon hidden somewhere. Otherwise, considering their difference in size, he’d move with more caution. “What? What’s so damn funny?”
“Quit whining. At least you’re getting out.” In a show of contempt for any threat Buzz might pose, Virgil rolled over and presented his cell mate with his back.
“I could kill you in two seconds,” Buzz growled, obviously offended by Virgil’s lack of fear.
“You could try.” Virgil knew he was extending a challenge Buzz might not be able to resist. Parole pending or not, Buzz could lash out to save face, vent his anger and hatred or impress his Hells Fury pals. But Virgil had to establish superiority. And forcing him to fight or stand down from the very beginning was the fastest way to do it. That approach would also reveal certain aspects of Buzz’s personality—how volatile he was, whether he’d act with more than his mouth when cornered and exactly how far he was prepared to go to salvage his pride.
Hoping he’d have the chance to retaliate if he was shanked, Virgil listened for any movement that might alert him. But Buzz defused the tension instead.
