Inside

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 really 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.

“What the hell took you so long?” John growled, relieved when the car door slammed, muting the discordant music.

Cooley shot him a dark look. “That’s the first thing you say to me? What’s your problem, dude?”

What did he think? John risked a lot coming out here. If he was caught doing business with the Hells Fury he’d go to prison himself. “Nothing. Just give me what you owe me so I can be on my way.”

Cooley dangled a thick envelope in front of him, but when John tried to take it, he yanked it out of reach. “My brother’s got another job for you. If you’re man enough to handle it.”

“I was man enough to handle the last one, wasn’t I?” They’d wanted Bentley Riggs and he’d delivered him. He’d even kicked the bastard when the presence of other C.O.s forced him to break off the attack before Weston was finished.

Cooley made a tsking sound. “I heard you got yourself in trouble with that one.”

“See the risks I take?”

“That shouldn’t have been a risk. You didn’t sell it right. Westy said you came in late.”

Because he’d almost chickened out. “All’s well that ends well,” he said to cover his embarrassment. “That’s a happy ending?” Cooley cracked a smile.

“He was sent to the infirmary with a broken skull, wasn’t he?”

“I’m talking about what’s happening to you, man.”

John didn’t want to go into it. It was too upsetting. But curiosity compelled him to find out what the Hells Fury had to say about him. They thought they were so tough, but he was the one who’d done the bulk of the damage that day. “How do you know what’s happening to me?”

“Word has it you’re gonna be suspended.”

News traveled fast in prison, especially bad news.

“And that’s just for jumping in at the end,” Cooley added. “If they knew it was because of you Westy got to that faggot in the first place, they’d fire your ass.”

“They’re not going to fire me. I’ll get through this.”

“Too bad you have to worry about it. That’s what’s wrong with the system. We’re only trying to take out the trash, you know? Cleanse the world. Creeps like Bentley Riggs don’t deserve to live.”

John heard that all day, every day. If the Hells Fury weren’t pressuring him to smuggle cell phones, cigarettes or crank into the prison, or to provide privileges they didn’t deserve, they were asking him to serve up chomos—or child molesters—so they could exact retribution on behalf of the innocent victims who’d been harmed. Which was pretty damn ironic considering all the innocent victims they’d harmed. But John didn’t mind the irony. He hated chomos as much as they did. “We can’t snuff them all out. And I’m done doing favors for your brother. At least for a while.”

Cooley pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. “What do you mean by that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been written up. I need to lie low.”

With a wave of his hand he suggested John was too concerned. “Stop worrying. My brother’s got your back.”

John wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously. “There’s nothing Weston can do. ISU has already given me notice. My suspension got the rubber stamp from everyone, all the way up to the chief deputy warden.” Who should’ve shown more loyalty…

“That chief deputy…shee-it.” Drawing out the word, he punctuated it with a whistle. “She’s a mighty fine piece of ass, isn’t she?” Peyton was attractive. No denying that. In the beginning John had liked her. When he’d first started having problems in his marriage, he’d even harbored some hope that Peyton might like him in return. That if he lost Marguerite, he’d take a step up. But he didn’t care for her anymore. He preferred women who acted like women, not some ballbuster ice queen like Adams. She made him feel…inadequate. “She’s okay, I guess.”

“She’s more than okay, dude. She’s hot! What my brother wouldn’t pay for five minutes alone with her…” He made a thrusting motion with his hips. “I might even be willing to serve a nickel for some of that action, you hear what I’m sayin’?”

John backed away. “Listen, if that’s what Weston has in mind, tell him to forget it. I might need a few aces here and there to cover expenses, but I’m not crazy.”

“Chill out. You think we’re stupid? That would bring down the whole place, which would interfere with business. There’s no need for that.”

Detric Whitehead, the leader of the Hells Fury, would probably kill them both if they did.

“Westy has a message he wants you to deliver, that’s all,” Cooley said as he exhaled a fresh stream of smoke.

Communication work paid well and was the safest way to augment his income. Even if he was caught passing a written message, what convicts called a “kite,” he could claim he’d confiscated it. But right now…he was too concerned about the added scrutiny he was under.

“I’d do it, but I’m already in enough shit. I need to stay aboveboard for a while.”

“I told you, my bro’s handling your problem.”

“There’s nothing he can do.”

“Where’s your faith, man? We run the place. You know that.”

His arrogance annoyed John. The war wasn’t over yet. Peyton and the warden were doing all they could to weed out dirty C.O.s. They had Rosenburg working overtime, investigating anything that smelled remotely suspicious. But with so many inmates wanting so many things, there were simply too many ways to earn a buck and too many ways to spend the extra dough. He wasn’t the only one to sell out.

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.” John was pretty sure the administration had won this battle. It was too late for anyone to fix, even Weston Jager. Or Detric Whitehead himself. “You going to give me the money or not?”

As soon as Cooley handed over the envelope, John counted through the stack of money. It was all there—two thousand bucks for making sure Bentley got his ass kicked and for smuggling in a cell phone. It would’ve been a nice financial boost if he hadn’t gotten busted. As it was, he’d lose more than that due to the suspension.

“We’re even,” he muttered, and turned away.

Cooley remained where he was. “That’s it, then?” he called after him. “I should tell Westy it’s a no? Deech won’t like that.”

“Deech” was Detric Whitehead’s nickname. They all had one. Even the general. “I can’t,” John said, but he was already calculating up his financial obligations, knew he’d be broke again in a few days. How would he survive the coming weeks?

He’d figure out what was going on with Rick Wallace and that stranger, that was how. News of what they were doing had to be worth more than the petty amounts he’d earned in the past—maybe even enough to finally get him out of the red.

He’d climbed into his truck when he waved to let Cooley know he had more to say. It might take a while to learn Wallace and Peyton’s secret; he could use a few bucks to keep him going in the meantime.

Driving forward, John lowered his window.

Cooley took a final puff on his cigarette and ground it into the dirt. “Change your mind already? You are so predictable.”

“Shut up,” John snapped. “Just tell me what Weston wants me to do and how much he’s offering.”