Inside

23

Wallace’s car was sitting in her drive when Peyton returned home. After the day she’d spent, he was the last person she wanted to see. Especially since she’d already made it clear that she preferred he go back to Sacramento. Why hadn’t he gone? What made him think he could hang out at her place indefinitely?

The fact that he was still here felt like an invasion of privacy. But she knew he wouldn’t understand why. She’d left him and Virgil alone in the house when she went to work as if she was fine with it—but she was more fine with Virgil being in her space than Wallace.

That she preferred Virgil seemed crazy, even to her. She knew Rick better. And Rick didn’t have a past.

“God, what’s going on with me?” she moaned. Then she collected her briefcase and purse from the car and took a deep breath before heading to the house. She was tempted to march up to Wallace and demand he pull Virgil from the prison. But Virgil would never forgive her if she did. He’d blame her if he was brought up on charges and sentenced to another prison term, or if Laurel ended up getting hurt. He preferred to handle this his own way and, while she respected that, she felt torn about his methods.

So what should she do? What could she do? Let Operation Inside run its course? Allow Virgil to continue risking his life? Or bring it all to a stop—and leave Crescent City without a job?

She wished the warden would play the heavy, take the decision out of her hands. He had more power than she did. But there wasn’t any chance of that. Fischer had decided to support the CDCR and was doing it with his eyes closed.

“Here we go,” she muttered as she climbed the stairs to her deck.

Rick was pacing in her living room. He was on the phone, in the middle of a heated argument, and barely turned to look at her when she came in.

Other than giving him a short wave, she ignored him, too, and went into the kitchen, where she dumped her belongings on the counter before opening the freezer. What was she going to have for dinner? She wished she’d gone out. If she’d known her company hadn’t left, she would have, if only to delay her return.

“You stupid bitch!” Rick yelled. “You can’t leave California! Don’t you dare! I’ll fight you every step of the way! Those are my kids, too.”

Flinching at his language and his anger, Peyton rolled her eyes. She shouldn’t have to put up with this. What was it he’d said about his divorce being less acrimonious than his parents’? That didn’t seem likely. And, lucky her, she got to hear this latest battle….

Unable to tolerate it, she shut the freezer and snatched up her purse. Rick didn’t even notice when she left. He had only one thing on his mind—verbally destroying his soon-to-be ex-wife.

Head down, she hurried to her car and peeled out of the drive. She told herself she was going to Michelle’s. She needed a break, a chance to think about something else. But she didn’t actually go to her friend’s. She went into town to purchase a veggie burger. Then she turned around and drove right past Michelle’s house—and all the way to the prison.

The sound that woke Laurel in the middle of the night wasn’t very loud. Just a creak, really. And yet…it roused her from a deep sleep.

It’s the marshal. Every night when she retired, Jimmy Keegan, the U.S. marshal who’d been staying with her since Rick Wallace left, called his wife, watched another hour of TV, then retired. They’d only been together for three days, but they’d already established this routine. Probably because there wasn’t much else to do. It wasn’t as if they could go anywhere. Although Keegan slipped out occasionally for very brief periods, to buy them a treat or some more milk, he wouldn’t even let the kids play in the yard because it was too risky. He was that strict.

Laurel didn’t mind. She felt safe for the first time in a long while. Vigilant as he was, she couldn’t imagine anyone getting past him, so she disregarded whatever had disturbed her and allowed her eyes to drift shut.

Shuffling, coming from the direction of the laundry room, made her eyes snap open again. What was going on?

A sliver of moonlight filtered through the blinds, falling over her son, who was sleeping on the twin bed against the wall. Mia curled against her in the double bed. Her daughter’s warmth was reassuring. Both Jake and Mia were fine. But something was wrong….

What time was it?

Late.

Careful to move very slowly so she wouldn’t wake Mia, she reached over to the nightstand to get her cell phone. The rental house in which they were staying had been furnished when they arrived, but very sparsely. No clocks or pictures hung on the walls. Only the furniture had been provided—the kitchenette set, the sofa, recliner and TV in the living room, the beds, dressers and nightstands in the bedrooms.

Sure enough, it was 2:30 a.m. Late, as she’d thought.

Creak…

She caught her breath. That had to be Jimmy, didn’t it?

Of course. If The Crew had followed her and Rick Wallace that first night, they would’ve struck before now. They had no reason to wait. But the noises she’d heard were all wrong. There wasn’t just one person moving around. There were two.

She broke into a cold sweat. Jimmy would never invite someone in during the night, especially without telling her. He wasn’t even from this area. Like her, he didn’t know a single soul.

Her lungs burned from lack of oxygen as she held her breath again and listened. What was that? It sounded like whispering….

Adrenaline hit her, making it hard to get up, but she managed to climb out of bed, creep across the room and open the door slightly so she could peer out. It was too dark to see anything. But she heard a man cursing about getting blood all over him. Then her legs nearly turned to rubber.

Blood? Whose blood? But in her heart she knew. She wasn’t sure what had happened to the marshal, but she was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to help her.

If he was dead, or even incapacitated, she had mere seconds. Did she spend those seconds trying to call the police? Or did she get her children out of the house?

Ultimately, she had no choice. She had to go for the children. They’d have a much better chance of survival if she attended to them immediately. And they were what she cared about most.

Wishing she had the marshal’s gun or some other weapon to defend herself, she closed the door and locked it as quietly as possible. Then she woke Jake with a warning not to say a word. But of course, he did. He was too sleepy and confused to understand, let alone obey.

“What’s the matter, Mommy?”

At least he’d followed her lead and whispered. “Don’t talk,” she breathed in his ear. “There are strangers in the house and they might be dangerous. Just do exactly as I say. I’m going to help you through the window. Run next door and ring the bell until someone answers. Tell them to call the police. Then stay there until I come for you.”

Worry pinched his small face. “What about Mia?”

Mia was beginning to stir.

“She’s going with you. Hold her hand the whole way and keep her safe. But you first.”

He got up as bravely as any man and put on his shoes and coat without her having to ask.

Footsteps came down the hall as she cranked open the window. Then the doorknob turned. Click, click…click, click.

Oh, God…

A man’s voice carried to their ears, even though he was talking to someone else. “I don’t give a rat’s ass. Kick it in.”

Fortunately, the screen gave her no trouble. It was warped, barely hanging on to begin with. She shoved it out, but the old pane would swing open only so far. Would Jake fit through?

“Come on,” she whispered.

As he climbed onto the bed, Mia sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Where are you going?”

Laurel put a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

Her daughter’s eyebrows bunched together. “Why do I have to be quiet?”

“You’re going outside with your brother, okay?” She pulled Mia into her arms. “Stay with him. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“But it’s cold outside!”

“Be quiet!” Laurel snapped.

Someone hit the door at the same time, frightening Mia into silence. Eyes huge, she threw her arms around Laurel and clung tight.

Another blow to the door seemed to shake the whole house. Laurel had no idea what these men would do once they managed to get in, but she didn’t want her children to be there when it happened.

She gestured to her son, who was standing on the bed, staring at her in a terrified trance. “Hurry! Let’s go, Jake.”

Praying that he’d be able to fit, she guided his feet through the opening. Once he was halfway out, she realized he was going to make it, but that brought little relief. She couldn’t tell how much longer the door would hold.

She hung on to Jake until he dropped to the grass. “Mia, now you.” Her cell phone lay tantalizingly close, just beyond her daughter on the bed. She’d call for help just as soon as Mia was out, even though she knew there was almost no chance the police could arrive in time….

“What about you, Mommy?” Mia asked, refusing to let go.

“I’m coming. Go with Jake.”

“No! I want you!”

There was no time to be gentle. Yanking her daughter’s locked hands from around her neck, she grabbed her face. “Yes, go! Now!”

The shock of her response caused Mia to cry.

“Don’t!” Laurel gasped. “They’ll kill you!”

Tears slipped down the girl’s round cheeks, but she made no sound.

“Open this door or you’re dead!” someone screamed from the hallway.

Laurel felt certain it was the man with all the tattoos who’d threatened her before: Ink. The Crew had found her.

“Mommy?” Mia whispered in panic.

Safety. That was all that mattered. She pushed her daughter through the window and, fortunately, Mia didn’t put up a fight.

Laurel watched her children only long enough to see Mia’s feet touch the ground and Jake clasp her hand. Then she closed the window. She didn’t want Ink to know she’d let them into the yard. She hoped he’d be so focused on her he wouldn’t notice their absence until after they got away.

Because of her terror, she lacked the physical strength to close the window tightly enough to latch it. But she did the best she could so they wouldn’t guess it’d been opened. Then she dove for her phone.

She had it in her hand, was already punching in 9-1-1, when the door splintered and crashed against the inside wall.

“He what?” Peyton gaped at Regina Murray, the nurse who’d replaced Belinda Rogers at the shift change.

Regina’s size and mannerisms had always reminded Peyton of the nurse in Stephen King’s Misery. But hard as Regina was to like, Peyton tried to treat her as cordially as possible. “The dumb cluck insisted on being taken back to his cell,” she said, and gestured toward the empty room where Peyton had seen Virgil earlier.

Apparently he’d left shortly after she did, because the room was already clean and ready for the next occupant. “But it’s only been a couple of hours since he was here.”

Regina hugged the chart she held. “I know. I can’t quite figure it out. Most guys will say they’re sick when they’re not just to get in here. It gives them a break from the tedium and a little female attention.”

It wasn’t female attention they wanted as much as prescription painkillers. And Regina was no attraction. Instead of whistling or admiring her, like they did with Belinda, they made unkind comments. I’d rather sleep with my own grandmother….

Peyton was infinitely glad Regina didn’t seem to pick up on that behavior, since there was no way to stop it. At least she tried, by denying privileges to the men who persisted. When she’d first started as a C.O. there was one inmate who’d masturbate in front of her at every opportunity without fear of reprisal because the warden refused to punish him. That’s what you’re gonna get inside a maximum security prison, he’d tell her. Prison officials weren’t quite as accommodating of women sixteen years ago. Most believed they had no place in corrections. There were some who still felt that way.

“But…this fella didn’t want to stay,” Regina was saying. “He claimed to feel just fine.” What he said didn’t matter. Virgil needed the rest, the safety. “Why was he so set on leaving?”

“Who knows? As soon as the doctor stitched him up and X-rayed his hand, he hopped off the table and that was it. We don’t make them stay here against their wishes, not unless it’s imperative to their health.”

Momentarily distracted by mention of the X-ray, Peyton asked, “Is his hand broken?”

“No. Sprained but not broken.”

Was she crazy to have worried so much about him? There’d been all that blood…. “Anything broken?”

“Nothing. He’s tough as nails, that one. He hurt the guys he was fighting as bad as they hurt him,” she added with a chuckle.

That, Peyton had seen for herself. But it made her more apprehensive than happy. Would the Hells Fury launch another attack in an attempt to get even? Had Virgil started a war? Or was he making the kind of inroads he’d set out to make?

It could go either way….

Wishing he’d stayed, at least for the night, she glanced at the empty bed again. “He had a stab wound. That alone should be reason to keep him for a few days.”

Interpreting that comment as criticism, Murray drew herself up to her full five feet ten inches. “Fortunately, the wound wasn’t all that deep.”

“What about the risk of infection?” Peyton pressed.

The chain on her glasses swung as she shoved them higher. “He’s on antibiotics. If he stays out of trouble, he should be fine.”

But Peyton had no confidence Virgil would even try to stay out of trouble—and she definitely didn’t want him getting into another fight while he had such a serious wound. He shouldn’t be in too much of a hurry to get what he wanted or it might backfire. And there’d be no second chance.

“What about Weston?” she asked.

Murray sniffed. If it wasn’t so hard to get and keep medical help, Peyton would’ve replaced her long ago. The inmates were prickly enough. “Went back to his cell, too. They all did. Mr. Anderson left last because he had to wait for Dr. Pendergast to cast his hand.”

So there was one broken bone as a result of the fight. At least it wasn’t Virgil’s.

“Fine. Thanks.”

Dr. Pendergast stopped her on the way out. “Chief Deputy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad to see you. I think we might have a problem.”

She already had a problem. Several of them. Wallace camping out at her house was one. Virgil injured in a cell with the man who’d caused it was two. The delicate balance she had to maintain in order to squeak through the coming weeks while keeping everyone safe and retaining her job was three. “What kind of problem?”

He motioned for her to join him and together they walked into the inner office. “I heard Weston Jager talking to Doug Lachette.”

“And?”

“I think they’re going after the new guy again.”

“Did you tell Bennett? Did you warn him that he’d better stay here?”

“I tried. I told him he shouldn’t fight again or it’ll rip out those stitches. But we would’ve had to physically restrain him to keep him here, and that didn’t make much sense.”

“That’s it,” she said. “Weston just won himself a ticket to the SHU.” She wanted to send Virgil there, too, where she knew he’d be safe. But Wallace and Fischer would override her if she did. Segregating him would defeat his whole purpose.

John hadn’t been in the dining hall earlier when the fight broke out, but he’d heard details from several people in the five hours since. The C.O.s were all abuzz, talking about how one guy, a new transfer, had just about kicked the shit out of three seasoned gangbangers. He might’ve come out the clear winner if they hadn’t shanked him. John wished he could’ve been there to witness it, especially once he learned that Westy had been involved. He didn’t think Westy had ever come out on the bad end of a fight. Westy stacked the deck, if he had to.

Apparently he hadn’t stacked it high enough when he picked a fight with this man.

John tried not to reveal the satisfaction that knowledge gave him as he waited outside Westy’s cell. He’d just received orders to leave Ace in gen pop but move Westy over to the SHU. Good news all around. Once Westy was in segregation, he’d need John’s help more than ever to carry messages and smuggle contraband, which meant prices would go up.

“So what happened?” he asked as Westy gathered his stuff.

Westy glowered at him but didn’t respond.

“I heard that dude can fight.”

Ace Anderson was lying on his bunk, staring at the fingers dangling out of his new cast. He’d been Westy’s cell mate for…John couldn’t even remember. A year, at least. “Doesn’t Westy’s face tell you that?”

When he chuckled at his own joke, Westy threw a balled-up shirt at him. “Shut the hell up! At least I didn’t break my damn hand!”

Ace pulled the shirt from his face. “That con has a hard head.”

“So what’s this guy’s name? Where’d he come from?” John couldn’t wait to get a look at him. He had to be as big as a house, judging by the way everyone was talking about him.

“Who cares?” Westy took back his shirt. “He’s gonna be a dead man soon. That’s all I know.”

“You don’t have enough enemies with the blacks and the Mexicans?”

Westy paused to glance at him. “Don’t be telling me how to run my business.”

John shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say. We clear?”

“I wish we’d done some homework before we messed with him,” Ace admitted. “We could’ve been more prepared.”

“How do you get more prepared than four on one?” John knew this comment would make Westy angry, but it was a jab he couldn’t resist.

“It was three on one, okay?” Westy said. “Buzz’s got a month left. He don’t want to fight so you’re not gonna get much out of him. And we weren’t all that serious. We were just messin’, givin’ him a little initiation to the joint.”

Sure, John thought. But he didn’t say it.

“Now I know why he didn’t come in on the bus,” Ace said. “That boy’s one bad dude.”

John had been biting a hangnail, but at this he dropped his hand. “What do you mean he didn’t come in on the bus? All the transfers came in on the bus.”

“Not this asshole,” Westy grumbled, packing his stuff again.

“He came at the same time as the others, but he was driven up here by two uniforms,” Ace explained.

“How do you know?”

“DeWitt was at the sallyport. He, uh, had a package to deliver to me—” he grinned meaningfully “—and mentioned that some badass had come from Corcoran by personal transport. Has to be this guy.”

Why would two officers handle a transfer when they had the bus coming the same day, with at least ten other cons from Corcoran? That was a waste of time and gas. Unless…

“What’s he look like?” he asked.

Westy had finished gathering his belongings. “’Bout six-four, two hundred and twenty pounds. Blond hair, military cut. Blue eyes. Has love and hate tattooed on his knuckles.”

“Dude’s been liftin’, you can tell,” Ace added, but John scarcely heard him. That was the guy his sister had described to him! She’d seen him having dinner with Rick Wallace….

John’s heart began to jackhammer against his chest. He’d solved the mystery. He’d put the pieces together and figured out what Rick Wallace and Peyton Adams had been hiding. They had a plant inside the prison. One who could, apparently, hold his own among the gangbangers and other dangerous losers. Maybe that was how they expected him to stay alive.

They were taking a hell of a risk, which was why they’d needed to keep it secret.

John smiled. He had what he wanted, and it was every bit as good as he’d hoped.

In a hurry now, he smacked the wall. “Hey, let’s get going, huh? This doesn’t need to take all day.”

Westy gave him a look that said he’d just as soon rip his head off as obey, but John wasn’t worried. Westy would forgive him soon enough.

“Let’s go,” he said again.

Ace came to his feet. “Dude, I’m gonna miss you,” he told Westy. “I wonder who else they’re gonna stick in here to pester my ass.”

Westy didn’t even bother to respond. He was too angry, too dejected.

John kept his mouth shut until they were out on the grounds. But he was too excited to wait any longer. “I’ve got something for you,” he murmured. “Something big. But you’re going to have to pay for it.”

Westy didn’t hear him. He was somewhere inside himself, nursing his resentment. John had to give his arm a jerk to catch his attention.

“You do that again, and I swear—”

John repeated what he’d said.

“What is it?” Westy was suddenly alert, hopeful. “Money first.”

“What, you think I can pull a wad of cash out of my ass? Fat chance. I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Trust me. It’ll be worth a lot.”

“How much?”

“Five grand.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m telling you this is worth it!”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“So we have a deal?”

“If what you give me is that valuable, I’ll pay. I’m not committing until I hear.”

Could he be trusted? He’d always been dependable before. Cooley paid him, not Westy. “Fine. That dude you were fighting?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s a plant, a snitch.”

Westy stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”

“He’s a cop.”

“No…”

“It’s true.”

“Can’t be. I can smell a cop a mile away.”

“He’s some kind of mole working with the authorities.”

Skepticism etched deep grooves in his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Shh…” John got him walking again.

“If you’re yankin’ my chain—”

“I’m not yankin’ anything.”

He lowered his voice still further. “How do you know it’s true?”

“My sister saw him having dinner with Wallace just last week.”

“No fucking way.”

“It’s true.” Another C.O. approached. Only when they were well past him did John explain.

“You could be making this up,” Westy said when he was through. “Maybe you just don’t like the guy. Maybe you want us to take him out.”

“I don’t want him in here any more than you do,” John told him. “Who knows what he’ll tell the warden?”

Westy started to laugh. “Oh, I get it. He could rat on you as easily as me so you want me to pay you five grand and kill the bastard.”

“If he rats on me, who’ll smuggle in your dope?”

Unable to argue with that, Westy sobered. “I’ll need more than what you’ve told me.”

“Like what?”

“Some way to be sure. I don’t want to get Deech involved in this, have him risk his ass by ordering a hit if this is all some bullshit you’ve dreamed up to make a quick buck.”

They’d reached the SHU. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Westy stopped before it was too late to talk. “Wait a second…”

“What?”

“It’s gonna be easy.”

John held the door. “What’s gonna be easy?”

Westy tapped his head as if he’d just had the most brilliant idea in the world. “Do as I say and we’ll know whether he’s a snitch within twenty-four hours.”