Inside (24 page)

“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.”

A
fter leaving the infirmary, Peyton had returned to her office. She’d been too unsettled to go home and face Wallace and had needed a place to relax for a few minutes. But then she’d started going through the stack of items awaiting her attention and wound up working another two hours. Fatigue weighed heavily as she packed up to leave.

Her phone rang. Curious as to who would even know she was here, besides the skeleton medical staff working graveyard and the people she’d passed coming and going from the prison, she checked caller ID. It was an internal call.

“Hello?”

“Chief Deputy? It’s Sergeant Hutchinson.”

Peyton made a face. McCalley had given John the word that he was no longer under disciplinary action. He’d left her a voice mail notifying her that it had been handled. But she didn’t feel good about it, so she didn’t want to talk to John. “Yes?”

She wondered if he could hear the dislike in her voice.

“I just transferred Weston Jager to the SHU as you requested.” He sounded like the old John, the one who’d
tried so hard to befriend her. But she didn’t understand why he felt he had to call
her
to report this. He had a line supervisor.

“Thank you. How does his face look?”

He chuckled. “Like he’s been hit by a train. That new guy, he really packs a punch.”

Peyton thought of Virgil’s knife wound. “I think he sustained his share of damage.”

“Still, for three on one, he handled himself pretty good.”

Irritated without fully understanding why, she clenched her teeth. “John, I’ve got to go. I’m exhausted. I was about to leave.”

“I’ll let you get some rest,” he said. “I just called to tell you that Weston passed me a note as I was moving him.”

“A
note?
What’d it say?” She covered a yawn. “That we have the wrong guy?”

“To ask you to come see him in his new cell as soon as possible.”

She didn’t want to go back inside the prison. “Did this note say why?”

“It said he has something very important to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t he share it with you?”

“I can’t say. Maybe he didn’t want me to hear. He was trying to keep his request to see you on the down low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to find out. I don’t know if it makes any difference to you, but I got the impression it might be worth your time.”

“Don’t tell me the prospect of spending the rest of his sentence in the SHU has caused a change of heart about his gang activities.”

“That’s possible. Maybe he’s ready to debrief.”

She doubted it. Things were never that easy. Not with someone as hardened as Weston. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she said. “But I’ll stop by before I go. Anything else?”

“Nothing, just a quick thank-you.”

“For…?”

“Agreeing to waive disciplinary action,” he said. “I’m really not the kind of person that whole thing made me out to be. And I want you to know I’m going to do everything I can to prove it.”

She felt too guilty taking any of the credit for his reprieve, or even letting him believe she’d been in agreement with it. “I’m afraid that wasn’t me, John. That was Fischer. He overrode my recommendation.”

“I see.” The stilted John was back. “Well, however it came down, I’m grateful.”

“You caught a break. Make it count, huh?”

“Thanks for your faith in me,” he said.

The sarcasm in his parting words echoed in her head long after she hung up. There was something about him she didn’t like, although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. But maybe she was being too hard on him. He’d tried to be nice to her. And anyone could make a mistake, especially in the heat of the moment.

She just hoped a simple mistake was the extent of it. Because, inside a prison, mistakes like that could cost lives.

Skin’s sister was the spitting image of him. And that only made what Pretty Boy had to do harder. He couldn’t believe he was finally coming face-to-face with her and it had to be under
these
circumstances. Over the years, he’d imagined their meeting so differently. Since his own family didn’t give a damn about him, Skin had
been generous enough to share her letters and pictures. Pretty Boy felt as if he knew her, and he would’ve liked her even if she wasn’t attractive, simply because he admired Skin so much. There’d even been a time when he’d thought maybe, just maybe, they’d wind up together someday. The idea of becoming Virgil’s brother-in-law, of helping take care of Laurel and her children, made him feel useful, as if he belonged.

And now he was going to
kill
her? It’d only been eighteen months since he and Virgil were cellies in Tucson. Shortly after he was paroled, Virgil was transferred to Florence and talk of his exoneration began to swirl. Pretty Boy remembered how eagerly he’d embraced the possibility because it meant they’d be able to see each other more often. The future had looked bright—until everything reversed itself. Now no amount of wishing would change it back. Skin had betrayed The Crew—betrayed
him.
He had to believe that or he couldn’t do what had to be done. The others believed it, didn’t they? Duty, loyalty, the oath he’d given demanded he retaliate. And if he didn’t follow through, he’d be the next to die. Or he’d have to go on the run and ramble around America with no friends, no support group, no job—always looking over his shoulder for fear someone from his past would catch up with him.

If only he’d been able to see this coming….

“Oh, boy, look what I found.” Ink squeezed past him to get into the room. “Pretty, ain’t she?”

Laurel shrank into the corner.

“You gonna tell me you haven’t heard from your brother
now?
” Ink sauntered closer. “He’s obviously up to somethin’ if you’re hangin’ out with a
U.S. marshal.
”

“Wh-where is the marshal?” she stammered, shaking.

“Where do you think?” Ink responded.

Terrified though she was, she glared up at him with the same stubborn defiance Pretty Boy had seen so often in Skin. “He’s
d-dead?
”

“Yep.” He dusted off his hands. “Pointblank made sure of that.”

“And the l-loss of a man’s life means n-nothing to you?”

Ink grinned. “Nothing at all. One minute he was creeping out to check on a noise. The next…” He whistled as he drew an imaginary line across his throat.

What little color there was in Laurel’s face drained away. “You’re an animal, you know th-that? You make the p-perfect argument for c-capital punishment.”

Pretty Boy resisted the urge to intercede as Ink yanked out his gun and strode forward. He told himself to let this happen, to get it over with so they could go back to California and he could try to forget. His situation gave him no other choice.

But Ink didn’t fire. He paused, glanced at the beds, then looked in the closet. “Where’re the kids?”

Hugging herself, she drilled him with another malevolent stare and refused to answer. “I said,
where are the kids?
”

She must’ve gotten them out of the house, because they’d been here at some point. The bedding was rumpled; there were impressions on all three pillows. She definitely hadn’t been sleeping in this room alone. How she’d done it, Pretty Boy didn’t know. The windows didn’t look as if they opened wide enough, but maybe they did.

Good for you.
He could only hope Mia and Jake were well away from this house. He couldn’t tolerate seeing Ink kill a couple of kids, especially
these
kids.
He’d watched them grow from babies via Skin’s pictures. Witnessing what Ink did to Laurel would be bad enough.

The veins bulged in Ink’s neck. “Answer me, bitch!”

“If you th-think I’ll tell you anything, y-you’re crazier than I th-thought!” Ducking her head, she covered up with her arms as if she expected that to be the last thing she ever said.

Ink grabbed her by the hair and dragged her up against him, placing the gun to her temple. “Tell me, or I’ll splatter your brains against the wall.”

She was hyperventilating, but she wasn’t pleading for her life. She wouldn’t give Ink the pleasure.

Virgil would be proud….

Ink struck her with the gun. “Tell me!”

“N-never!” she said, and surprised them both by spitting in his face.

“You’re gonna pay for that.”

Before Ink could make good on his threat, Pointblank poked his head into the room. “You’re not done? Come on, ladies, let’s finish up and get the hell out of here, huh?”

“The kids are gone,” Ink complained.

Pointblank had wiped off the blade of his knife, but the marshal’s blood still stained the handle as well as his fingers. The artery he’d cut when they lured the guy outside had spurted like a geyser, spraying Pointblank’s T-shirt and face, too. Now the marshal’s body was being used as a doorstop as the ever-widening puddle of his blood fanned out on the back porch. “So?”

“So Shady said to do them all.”

Pointblank grimaced. “They’re just kids.”

“Kids who are related to Skin! We didn’t come this
far to do half a job, did we? How do you think that’ll go over with Shady? Besides, this bitch just spit in my face. She deserves to see them die.”

With a curse, Pointblank sheathed his knife. “Fine. They can’t be far. I’ll find them. But don’t make a production out of this.”

“What does that mean?” Ink called after him.

“Kill her now and be quick about it. Who cares if she spit on you? This is a job.”

That was the difference, Pretty Boy realized, the reason he put up with other members of The Crew but not Ink. Violence and crime weren’t a means to an end for Ink. He
enjoyed
inflicting pain on others.

To make sure Pointblank didn’t find those kids, Pretty Boy started into the hall. But before he could reach the door, Ink thrust the gun he’d been waving around into his hands.

“What the hell?” Pretty Boy tried to give it back. “I’ve got my own weapon.” He hadn’t taken his semi-automatic from where he’d shoved it in the waistband of his jeans, and that was telling, but he’d spoken the truth—he did have one.

“Hold it for me.”

“What for?”

Ink was lifting his shirt and undoing his pants, which made his intent clear.

“Come on, man. Don’t be a loser.”

“She deserves this. And I want Skin to see it. Take out that fancy-ass phone of yours and video it.”

“Oh, that’s smart. If the video falls into the wrong hands, they’ll put your ass back in prison and throw away the key.”

He whirled around. “And who’s going to give it to the wrong people?
You?
”

“I’m just saying you don’t create shit that can prove you’re guilty of a crime like this, man.”

“Which is why you won’t get my head in the frame, jackass!”

“Fuck you! Here, take your damn gun.” Once again Pretty Boy tried to return Ink’s pistol, but Ink wouldn’t take it.

“Film it!” Throwing her on the floor, he started pulling up her nightgown.

Laurel wasn’t going down without a fight. She was frantic—scratching and clawing and biting—but she didn’t scream. She was probably afraid that would draw the children to her, if they were still within earshot.

Pretty Boy felt just as horrified, enraged and helpless as she did. No way was he filming this. He’d seen a lot of sick shit in his life, could tolerate almost anything—except a man beating up on a woman or a child. Being part of The Crew wasn’t supposed to be like this. In prison, they targeted rapists and child molesters, punished them for their actions. Now they were becoming just like them?

“You getting this?” Ink grunted. She’d hit him, connected with his stomach, but it didn’t really faze him. He ripped her panties while trying to get them off her.

Pretty Boy opened his mouth to try and talk Ink out of what he was doing, but before he could make up his mind about what to say, Pointblank yelled from the front door.

“Found the little bastards!”

Crying filled the house. Pointblank was coming through the living room, bringing the kids to the bedroom—probably so Ink could do the honors. Pretty Boy didn’t believe Pointblank wanted to hurt those children any more than he did. But Pointblank had a better
position in The Crew, greater authority, and he’d follow any kind of order before he’d lose that.

“They were standing out on the neighbor’s porch, shivering,” he explained with a laugh as they came closer. “No one was home, but they didn’t have the sense to go somewhere else. They just kept pushing the doorbell.”

What’d he expect? They were kids, man.
Little
kids.

God, he was in the middle of some messed up shit.

A bead of sweat rolled from Pretty Boy’s temple, stinging his eyes. He couldn’t let this happen, didn’t want any part of it or the kind of people who could do this. Ink and Pointblank—neither of them could measure up to Skin, no matter what Skin had done since being released from the joint.

Ink didn’t seem to care whether or not Pointblank had found the children. What Pointblank said, all the crying, none of it seemed to register. Now that he had Laurel’s panties off, he was too busy trying to force her legs apart to care about anything else.

From what he’d seen so far, Pretty Boy thought Ink should thank him for
not
filming. Ink was too stoned to do much more than punch and fumble.

“It’ll hurt less if you quit fighting,” he panted, and began to choke her.

She did what she could to free herself, but it was no use. In another second Ink would be pumping away—

A child’s voice, full of fear, broke through the melee. “Mommy? Mommy!” And that was the last thing Pretty Boy heard before he pulled the trigger.

His right arm jerked with the recoil, his ears rang from the blast and the smell of gunpowder burned his nose and throat.

Trying to convince himself that he’d really shot Ink
and not just imagined it, he blinked several times to clear his vision. There was no blood, nothing like when Pointblank used his knife on the marshal, but Ink lay slumped over Laurel, motionless.

Pretty Boy expected to feel instant remorse, or maybe fear for what his actions would set in motion. Instead, he experienced a rush of satisfaction, a sense of resolution that put the conflict tearing him up to rest. He’d made his choice. Maybe he’d regret it later, but he didn’t regret it now.