by Brenda Novak
“Okay, well, I’m heading out,” Shelley said. “But before I do, I thought I’d see if you wanted to deal with this.”
“With what?” Peyton asked.
Shelley walked in and plopped a stack of messages on her desk.
Peyton shoved away from her computer. “What’re those?”
“They’re all from the same guy. Rosalee delivered them to me before she left for the night. She said he’s been trying to reach the warden all day long.”
Rosalee was the warden’s assistant. “And Fischer wouldn’t talk to him?”
“He’s been too busy. And let’s face it. This guy’s probably a family member of one of the cons, all in a tiff about how we’re violating his constitutional rights by not serving enough pudding for dessert.” She laughed. “But he said it was urgent and he was so insistent, Rosalee asked me to see if you’d be willing to talk to him the next time he calls.”
Peyton wasn’t particularly interested. She had too much going on already. Virgil and his safety took precedence over everything else. But Shelley’s comment about talking to this guy the next time he called struck her as odd and made her look through the messages. There were at least ten slips in the stack, but not one included a telephone number.
“He wouldn’t leave his contact information?”
“Said he doesn’t have a phone. He’s calling from pay phones.” She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that pathetic? He’s probably on drugs. Everyone has a phone these days.”
If he was on drugs, wouldn’t he have given up after two or three attempts? Peyton glanced at the times the calls had come in. Almost once an hour all day long. That was too regular, too consistent, for someone who was high and not thinking straight. “Did he say what it was about?”
“No. Wouldn’t give her any idea. What a nutcase, huh?”
“Rex McCready.” Peyton read the name aloud. She didn’t recognize it. Or…did she?
Swiveling back to her computer, she scanned the webpage she’d just pulled up and, about two-thirds of the way down, spotted the name—Rex “Pretty Boy” McCready. Pretty Boy. The man who’d saved Laurel and her children. The name must’ve registered even though she’d barely had time to skim over what she’d found before Shelley interrupted.
Holy hell… What did he need? Why was he so determined to get hold of the warden?
He wouldn’t have called unless he had a good reason. He was a wanted man.
He obviously knew Virgil was here. Why else would he call? And if he knew Virgil’s whereabouts, so did The Crew. Was that what he was trying to tell them?
If so, it was okay for the moment. The Crew wouldn’t be able to reach Virgil while he was inside.
But gangs sometimes formed alliances, if it was in the interests of both groups. And The Crew would know Virgil’s name wasn’t Simeon Bennett. They’d know he wasn’t a legitimate con here because he’d been exonerated and released from ADX Florence. All they had to do was share that information with the HF, and together with what Weston already suspected, they’d all know the truth.
Pulse racing, Peyton dropped the messages and looked up at Shelley. “What’s today? It’s Thursday, right?”
“Yeah, it’s Thursday,” she said, nonplussed. “Is something wrong?”
Yes, something was wrong. Thursday was visiting day for the SHU. Shit! What were the chances?
“I need you to do an errand for me before you go.”
Shelley didn’t seem happy to hear this. She had her purse on her shoulder and her car keys in her hand. “What?” she asked hesitantly.
“Go over to visitation and get me a list of everyone who came to the prison today. Ask specifically if anyone requested a meeting with Detric Whitehead or Weston Jager.”
“That’ll be a pretty short list. Can’t you just call over there?”
Peyton didn’t have time for any argument. An inmate was most vulnerable when he was in the yard or the dining hall. And it was the dinner hour. “I want a list of all visitors, and I want you to get it and bring it to me now. If you don’t move your ass, you can find yourself another job.”
The sharpness of her response made Shelley’s eyes flare wide. “Okay, jeez. I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t do it. I was just saying, if you’re only looking for a list of SHU visitors, there probably aren’t more than two or three,” she grumbled as she trudged off.
Peyton didn’t respond. Her mind was racing through possibilities, hoping it wasn’t already too late to pull Virgil out of the dining hall, if necessary. She would’ve sent word to the C.O.s in gen pop to get over there, but she was afraid her concern was making her imagine danger where there was none. She didn’t really know what Pretty Boy wanted to impart; she was guessing at all of it.
But she was pretty sure she’d guessed right when Shelley returned. She didn’t recognize any of the visitors on the list Shelley slapped down in front of her. None of them matched the known gang members mentioned on the website, either. She’d been scrolling through it and doing internet searches, looking for other names affiliated with The Crew. But the fact that none of the names matched didn’t bring her any relief. Visitors for men in the SHU had to get clearance, which meant The Crew wouldn’t send someone who was likely to be rejected. They’d send someone who didn’t have a record. What was significant was that, after going God knew how long without any visitors at all, Detric Whitehead had a man by the name of Donald Mechem visit him about five hours ago.
30
Virgil thought he was running a fever. He kept breaking into a cold sweat and he felt nauseous. But he wasn’t about to let the Hells Fury know he wasn’t in good shape. Not when they were huddled over in the corner like they’d been the night they attacked him.
Something had changed. He wasn’t sure what, but even Buzz, who’d been promising gang sponsorship, wouldn’t come close to him. Several members of the Nuestra Family had sauntered over to invite him to join them, but he could tell that the HF was looking for any excuse to jump him again and he didn’t want that to be the trigger. He didn’t feel well enough to be up on his feet, let alone swinging his fists.
After telling anyone who approached to leave him the hell alone, he moved his food around his plate to make it look like he was eating and hoped to survive dinner without an altercation. He had no chance out in the open. He didn’t even think he could handle Buzz if it came to a fight in the cell. His arms and legs seemed to weigh a ton, and his head kept spinning and pounding. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed to see a doctor.
He’d just decided that he’d ask to visit the infirmary when that guard who’d approached him in his cell— Hutchinson—came up. “Hey, big guy, how ya doin’?” he asked, popping his gum as he talked.
Virgil drew a deep breath. Steady. Hang on. “Not so good,” he said. “I think my wound’s infected.”
“That’ll knock your legs out from under ya.”
The C.O. seemed to be speaking too loudly, but Virgil thought that might be a misperception caused by his fever. When he didn’t respond, Hutchinson leaned down and whispered, “You want me to notify Peyton? She can get you out of here, you know. Get you to a decent hospital. The doctors at the infirmary suck. And it’s no wonder. If you were a talented physician, would you want to work here?”
Virgil pushed his tray aside. “Are you going to take me there or not?”
“You’re an arrogant bastard, aren’t you?” He straightened. “Sure, I’ll take you there. When everyone goes back, you just stay put and I’ll escort you myself.”
Virgil didn’t argue. He didn’t realize he should’ve objected until the dining hall began to clear and he wasn’t the only one who lingered behind. One of the other C.O.s waved to get the Hells Fury up and moving, but Hutchinson said, “I got the trailers, no worries, Greg.”
“Greg” turned away and headed out with the rest of the prisoners.
Then, as beleaguered and dimwitted as Virgil felt, he knew he was in trouble even before Hutchinson snapped,
“If you’re gonna do it, do it now and make it good. Because this time he can’t come out of it alive.”
Peyton felt a measure of relief when she called the guard station at Facility A and was assured that the dinner hour was over, all had gone smoothly and the men were on the way back to their cells. She figured Buzz might try something once he and Virgil were alone. But she doubted that while Virgil was awake Buzz would take him on. If he did, Virgil stood a good chance against only one man.
That didn’t mean she was willing to risk his life by leaving him vulnerable to a surprise attack, however. She was going to get him out of Pelican Bay as soon as possible. Now that The Crew had most likely found him, there was no point in trying to continue the operation, not if his cover had been blown. She just hoped to extract him without causing too much of a scene. She knew Fischer wouldn’t like it if the staff discovered what they’d been up to. Because the C.O.s hadn’t been told about Virgil’s true identity and purpose, they’d feel distrusted; they might wonder if they were being targeted by the investigation, too. And keeping up morale was key to running a prison successfully. So was avoiding any unexpected developments or the chaos they could create. She needed to handle this as quickly and quietly as possible.
“Please bring me Simeon Bennett,” she told Sergeant Hostetler, who was still on the phone with her. “I need to talk to him.”
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
The worry clawing at her gut must have seeped into her voice. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm down. “No, nothing serious. Just…some rumors I need to address.”
“You bet,” he said. “Or…wait just a sec.” A moment later, he came on the line again. “Looks like he’s not back in his cell yet. I’ll bring him over as soon as I see him.”
Peyton glanced at the clock. Most of the men were back from dinner by six. They were given only so much time to walk from the dining hall to the cell block. Why wasn’t Virgil there? She didn’t want him lingering behind…ever. “Don’t wait. Go look for him.”
“Look for him? He’ll show up any second. There isn’t anywhere for him to go.”
The emergency in her voice had confused Hostetler; she’d just told him what she wanted wasn’t serious. But this time she didn’t try to cloak the fear that was rapidly turning into panic. “I said go look for him!” she yelled, and slammed down the phone. Unable to trust the C.O.s to move fast enough—they didn’t understand what was on the line—she hurried around her desk to race across the yard and into the prison herself.
I’m going to die, Virgil thought. Thanks to an infected wound, a dirty C.O. and three gang members, one of whom included his cellie, he wouldn’t make it back from the dining hall, let alone walk out of Pelican Bay with a new chance at life.
He’d known that accepting the government’s offer would put his future at risk. He wasn’t surprised by this attack. He’d felt it coming long before he’d noticed the unrest during dinner. This was how he’d expected to die back when he first went to prison at eighteen. All the other stuff—the exoneration, meeting Peyton, loving Peyton—that was what really surprised him. And now that brief flash of hope was about to be extinguished.
What would Peyton think? She’d fought so hard against this. And what would happen to Laurel and Mia and Jake?
“You bastard.” Buzz held a shank, the handle of which appeared to be a ballpoint pen, the sharp end a nail. But he hadn’t struck yet. Virgil could sense his reluctance. He was so close to being free; he didn’t want to bury himself under another prison sentence. That partially fueled his rage. He blamed Virgil instead of the leaders of the Hells Fury for forcing his hand. “I was plannin’ to get you in, help you become one of us!” he growled, keeping his voice low.
The others acted as a wall to block the view of anyone who might glance back.
“You sure you want another ten to fifteen for murder?” Virgil breathed.
“I do what has to be done.” He pounded his chest with his free hand. “I’m loyal! I’m HF!”
Virgil struggled to remain on his feet. “And you think Detric Whitehead would sacrifice a decade or two of his life for you? That’s the lie, man. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s using you.”
“Get it over with,” Hutchinson barked. “We only have a few seconds. You get me in trouble again and I’ll tell the cops who killed that judge.”
Eyes shining with adrenaline-fueled fury, Buzz lunged forward.
Virgil managed to sidestep the first jab. He had almost no energy, but his own adrenaline had helped him that much. Then he went for the guard. The C.O. was his only hope because he wasn’t expecting to be attacked. No one else expected him to go after the C.O., either. But the guard had a can of pepper spray on his belt. If Virgil was going to use the last of his strength to do something, he needed it to be effective against more than one person.
Buzz thrust again just as Virgil reached for the pepper spray, but Virgil saw the shank coming and, in a motion born more of instinct than intent, pulled John in front of him.
The C.O. stumbled, nearly fell, then jerked and cried out as the shank went into his neck.
Virgil didn’t have the strength to bear John’s weight. He had to let go of his human shield as the others pressed forward to finish what Buzz had started.
Another guard came running, screaming for the cons to stand down. Virgil could hear the pounding of his feet, the shouting of the other men, and yet it all seemed to be coming from a distance. Even if that C.O. was closer than he thought, Virgil doubted he’d act quickly enough to help. The guard didn’t know what was going on, would need to take precious seconds to assess the situation.
Fumbling to get hold of the pepper spray before it was too late, Virgil grabbed the canister despite John’s thrashing around on the floor. He pulled it from the C.O.’s belt and sprayed—but not before someone got him from the side.
When Peyton arrived at the dining hall and found Virgil lying on the floor, her panic turned to anguish. She was too late. Judging by the blood on his shirt, he’d been stabbed again, this time on his right side.
Was he dead? He wasn’t moving….
John Hutchinson lay next to him, writhing in pain. A shank protruded from his neck. He gasped for breath while the C.O.s who’d responded when the alarm sounded herded Buzz, Ace Anderson and an inmate by the name of Felix Smith against the wall.
“Medical personnel are on the way,” Hostetler told her. His manner was matter-of-fact, businesslike. He’d handled this situation by the book. But this wasn’t just another violent episode that they had to process according to a set of rules. One of the people affected by this incident meant everything to her.
Images of what it must’ve been like for her father, dying in much the same way, ran through Peyton’s mind as she sank to her knees. Had she lost someone else? After all the years she’d worked in corrections, trying to make a difference?
Succumbing to tears, she reached for Virgil’s hand. It’d taken her thirty-six years to fall in love, and then she’d done it against her better judgment and in only a matter of days. Was it over before it had really begun?
“Virgil?” she whispered, cupping his cheek. She could feel the surprise and attention of the others. Their eyes bored holes in her back, but she didn’t care.
There was no response, but he was warm. Praying that meant there was still a chance, she pressed two fingers to his throat—and found a faint pulse. He was alive! She didn’t know how long he’d last, but she clung to the slim chance implied by that barely perceptible movement.
“Virgil, can you hear me?” she asked. “I’m with you.”
“She knows him?” someone muttered.
“Looks like it…”
The medical team that rushed into the room behind her tried to pry her away, but she refused to let them. As long as she could touch him, she felt she could lend him some of her strength, her energy, the determination and spirit to keep fighting.
“Chief Deputy.” The doctor’s voice was filled with reproof when she resisted.
She shot him a defiant look. “I won’t get in the way, but I won’t leave him, either,” she said.
She was glad she’d refused when they lifted him onto the stretcher and his eyes fluttered open and focused on her.
“Don’t cry,” he mumbled with a tender smile.
By the time Peyton had Virgil removed from Pelican Bay and admitted to Sutter Coast Hospital it was another late night. The doctors said he had a systemic infection and needed stronger antibiotics, as well as more stitches. They weren’t making any promises that he’d survive. He wasn’t in good shape. Apparently he would’ve wound up in the hospital—or dead—even without another shank wound. But she was cautiously hopeful. At least he was out of Pelican Bay and getting the best medical help available. And she no longer had to pretend she didn’t care about him. Too many people had seen her reaction to his injury. That removed a weight.
She was dozing in a chair next to his bed when he began to stir. Fighting the exhaustion tugging her toward unconsciousness, she forced her eyes open so she could make sure he was okay, and found him staring at her in the half light streaming from the hallway.
“Hey, you,” she said, getting up so she could move closer.
“Hey,” he responded. “What’s going on?”
She bent down to lean her elbows on the edge of the bed, which put her face only a few inches from his. “You’re pretty sick, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“My shank wound is infected.”
“You knew that before this happened, didn’t you?” She took his hand. “The doctors said it must’ve been going on for twenty-four hours or longer.”
“I suspected.”
She frowned. “And yet you said nothing.”
“There was too much riding on what I was trying to do. You know that.”
“It doesn’t matter. Sooner would’ve been better, Virgil. Now it’s gone into your blood.”
