The Payback Man (8 page)

She found the key, turned to dig it into the lock, then twisted it. She had to get away from him. If he tried to come in, she didn’t know she’d do. Scream? Something told her that he fed on fear, female fear especially. She opened her front door and over her shoulder said coldly, “Unfortunately, we’re all rather busy at the moment, aren’t we? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

She didn’t wait, but slipped inside, shut the door behind her and leaned against it. From the other side, she heard him chuckling—no, cackling. Her hands were shaking. She threw the deadbolt, fastened the chain and switched on a light.

She never felt this uncomfortable around the men on her team, not even Gil. Thank heaven the cottage windows came with heavy drapes. She called Precious, but got only her answering machine. She said, “Why didn’t you warn me Mike Newman lived on the other side of you? Call when you get home.”

She set the files on the kitchen table, poured herself a glass of white wine and drank most of it in one gulp, something she never did.
How on earth did he find out I told the warden I didn’t like him?
she wondered.
I can’t
let him get to me.
She wasn’t hungry any longer, but she found a hunk of cheddar cheese and sat down with it, a box of crackers and another glass of wine.

“Haute cuisine in a prison compound.” She lifted her glass and opened the envelope.

There was a note from Raoul Torres on top. “Here are the prison files you requested. This is only the bare bones. The real story you’ll have to get from them, if they’ll tell you. Even if they’ve talked to me, I can’t share that information with you. Doctor-patient privilege and all that. Call me if you need me. Raoul.”

She spread them out on the table and sorted through them. The one on top read Steve Chadwick. She carefully slipped it under the pile. She would read that one last. Wondering what he’d done was infinitely preferable to discovering he was guilty of something sordid.

She reached for the file on Gil Jones.

“Gilford Jones, aka Gil Jones, aka John Gilbert, aka Gil Johnson.”

Gilford? No wonder he kept changing it.

She was stunned at the length of his rap sheet. Any juvenile record he’d had was closed to her, but from the day he’d hit his eighteenth birthday he’d been boosting cars and motorcycles, and finally, after spending several years in another jail for illegal possession of firearms and incendiary devices—
bombs?
—he had been busted for running a chop shop.

He had a wife, and a daughter who would now be about eleven. What kind of father would risk going to jail and not being around to raise his daughter?

But he had never been arrested for actually
doing
anything violent, even with the guns and bombs. He’d never even been picked up in a barroom brawl. There was a note that he had tie-ins with several motorcycle gangs. He was a career criminal. Unless he had converted to honesty very recently, the chances were good that he’d get out on parole
and be back in prison again before the term of his parole was up.

He seemed like such a nice guy.

She slapped the folder closed and slid it back into the envelope. Then she took her dishes to the kitchen and stacked them in the dishwasher, staying to scrub the countertops and straighten the refrigerator.

She was putting off reading the other folders—Steve’s in particular.

As she started back to the dining room, her telephone rang. She jumped at the shrill sound, then snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you okay? You sound jumpy.”

Eleanor relaxed, leaned against the wall beside the kitchen telephone. “Hi, Precious. I’m not used to the silence, so when the phone rang… I’m jumpy. And for good reason. Why on earth didn’t you tell me Newman lived on the other side of you?”

“Would the name have meant anything to you when you moved in?”

“I guess not. I hadn’t started the job yet.”

“Then what’s the big deal? I mean, he’s creepy, but he’s never there except for his poker nights.”

“He was there tonight. Or rather, he was here. He loomed up at me out of the darkness as I was opening the front door.”

“He say anything?”

“Not a lot—just some stuff about being neighborly—but it was the
way
he said it.”

“Shoot, he’s a bully. He’ll back off. He never even speaks to me, but then I’m the wrong color to interest him.”

“Lucky you.”

Precious laughed. “Oh, right. Listen, you want me to come over?”

“No. I’m being silly. Sorry. We still on for Saturday?”

“Absolutely. Noonish? I’ll bring lunch. Now get some sleep.”

“I’ve got work to do tonight.”

“Not tonight, girl. You climb into bed and get some sleep. No wonder you’re on edge, much as you been working. Promise.”

“But—”

“Promise, or I’ll come over there and stand over you until you do.”

Eleanor laughed. Actually, she felt relief. She had a good excuse not to look at Steve’s file until tomorrow night. One more day of blissful ignorance. “I promise.”

Raoul was both right and wrong, she thought as she dragged her weary bones into the bathroom to brush her teeth, wash her face and get ready for bed. At least she now knew that Gil wasn’t violent and that he could probably fix anything that went wrong on the tractor or any other equipment.

She dreaded reading Steve’s file. How could she equate the picture she was building of him in her mind—decent, intelligent, even sensitive—with a man who embezzled money or conned elderly pensioners out of their savings—or worse?

She had to know sometime. Just not tonight.

“T
ODAY WE MEND FENCES
,” Eleanor announced to her assembled crew. “Any of you know how to handle a fencing tool or a wire tensioner?”

As usual, Slow Rise raised his hand. “Good,” she said. “Selma will pass the tools out. Make certain you wear your heavy gloves. Barbed wire can cut you to the bone. You’ll notice we have a new four-wheeler. I’ll drive, and Selma will ride shotgun. We can carry the rolls of wire on the back of the four wheeler and roll it out as we need it. Now, Slow Rise, would you like to give us all a lesson in fence mending?”

He was a capable teacher. Even Robert roused himself
from his perpetual lethargy long enough to practice splicing and tensioning the barbed wire.

“Good job,” Eleanor said to Robert. He actually grinned at her briefly, then went back to his blank-eyed stare.

After an hour of practice, the group moved out. As Eleanor started to put the four-wheeler in gear, Selma stopped her. Eyes on the men, she said loudly, “Listen up. I do not like to run. If any of you bozos is considering taking off for parts unknown because you’re away from the barn and the compound, I promise you I will shoot first and ask questions later. A load of buckshot in your rear can be real hard on your gittalong. Are we clear?”

Gil was lounging against a fence post with a piece of grass between his teeth. “Hey, Madam CO, what’s to keep us from rushing you, ripping that sucker right out of your hands and taking off on the four-wheeler?”

His voice was light. He was smiling. Still, Eleanor felt a frisson of disquiet. His question was relevant. She and Selma were women, and only Selma was armed.

The CO smiled back at Gil and slowly climbed down from the four-wheeler. She held the shotgun one-handed, butt against her right hip, short barrel pointed skyward.

Then so quickly that the movement was a blur, she pulled down the shotgun, racked one into the chamber and blew the top off a pine sapling six feet from where Gil stood. Before anyone moved, she had racked another shell and was aiming the gun directly at Gil’s feet. “Any more questions?”

“No,
ma’am.
”

Eleanor’s ears were ringing. She could smell the acrid smoke from the shotgun shell, and her eyes stung. She was always uncomfortable around guns, but obviously Selma wasn’t. She tried to get her breath moving in her chest again. Selma touched her arm. “Sorry, Doc.” She pulled another shell from her belt and reloaded.

“Won’t all the COs come flying?”

“Probably.” Selma flicked the radio on her collar. “Just making a point. All clear.” Eleanor heard a string of curses followed by a command to make points without alerting the whole prison in future.

“Right.” Selma rolled her eyes. “Come on, Doc, let’s get to work.”

Eleanor watched Steve carefully as he moved along with the column of men. He looked a bit more comfortable today, his walk close to normal. She must remember to pick up that horse liniment for him when she went to the clinic. She pulled up beside him and said, “Steve, how much did you get done on the database program yesterday?”

He looked at her without breaking stride. “Most of what you asked for, but you need a good deal more. I can probably finish up tomorrow.”

“No work tomorrow,” Selma said. “Saturday’s visiting day, remember?”

“Yeah, Doc,” Sweet Daddy said. “Thass right. My ladies all comin’ to see me. They can come every week now we this close to Memphis. Why don’t you stop in while they here and see how a real lady dresses?”

“What a kind suggestion,” Eleanor said. She saw Steve’s lip curl. She pulled to a stop beside a ragged stretch of sagging wire. “This looks like a good place to start. Slow Rise, you’re the crew chief on this one.”

“I ain’t taking no orders from no old man,” Robert said sulkily.

Eleanor saw Steve stiffen, then lay his hand on Slow Rise’s shoulder. His long fingers bit into the muscle as he shook his head very slightly. Slow Rise visibly relaxed.

“You take orders from who the doc says you do!” Selma snapped. “Otherwise I guaran-damn-tee you won’t see any visitors tomorrow.”

“Aw, hell.”

Once they’d established a rhythm, the men stretched and spliced with a fair amount of expertise and only the oc
casional yelp as somebody got a strip of barbed wire across exposed flesh. Most of the fences were still in adequate shape and only required tensioning.

“How come we got to use these old saggy fences?” Robert asked.

“If we make a success of the pilot program, the prison board has promised we can replace them next spring. In the meantime, cows don’t know whether fences are pretty or not, just so long as they’re tough and tight.”

“Damn!” Gil Jones exclaimed. “Wouldn’t know it was October, hot as it is!” He looked at Eleanor. “Boss lady, you mind if we take off our shirts?”

“Go right ahead, but remember that’s more skin to get ripped open.”

“I’ll take my chances. I been cut before.” He unbuttoned his prison blue work shirt and hung it on the nearest fencepost.

Eleanor snapped her mouth shut before he could catch her gaping. His whole body was a canvas. The dragon that wound up from his hand sported a red forked tail that encircled his shoulders, and another even larger and more ferocious dragon flew up his back, scarlet wings extended, talons grasping across his lats. His whole torso was wound around with vines and flowers. The effect was, well, stunning. Some people might think it was beautiful. Eleanor could only think of the hours of pain he must have endured. She tore her eyes away from him in time to see Steve strip off his shirt.

This time she didn’t gape, but she caught her breath. She already knew most of the men lifted weights, and from the breadth of Steve’s shoulders and the ropy muscles to his arms, she’d assumed he worked out, but she didn’t expect the sheer beauty of his body. A mat of curling dark hair ran across his chest and in a line down to disappear under the waist of his jeans. He wasn’t muscle-bound like Gil, but each muscle stood out perfectly formed. She could
count the six-pack on his abdomen. She gulped. If he was as beautifully built under those jeans—

Selma caught Eleanor’s eye. Her expression said, “Nice.”

The only one who kept his shirt on was Big. He seemed embarrassed and hunched his big shoulders more than usual. Even Slow Rise was in good condition for his age, and Robert, despite his skinny frame, was well muscled. Only Sweet Daddy was scrawny. Not an ounce of fat on him, but not much muscle, either. Probably too much trouble to work out.

They stopped at noon. This time there were lunch bags for everybody, and Eleanor drove to her truck for her cooler of drinks. Nobody bothered putting shirts back on, but hunkered down against the trees.

Steve sat with his arms on his raised knees, his head against the trunk of a honey locust. Several times she caught him looking at her through almost closed lids, and each time she felt that stirring in her belly. She tried to ignore him, but every fiber of her was aware of him. She longed to run her fingers over his shoulders, curl her fingers in that hair—

“Ma’am?”

She started. Realizing she’d been daydreaming—about a convict, no less—she blinked and looked up into Big’s concerned eyes. “Yes?”

“Ma’am, could I work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, and we’re off then. You heard Selma. It’s visiting day.”

He hunkered down further. “Don’t nobody visit me.”

“Is your family too far away?”

“Mama died last year. Wish they’d have let me out for her funeral.”

Eleanor was aghast. “Aren’t they supposed to? Why didn’t they?”

“Said they couldn’t. First thing I get out I’m putting
flowers on her grave, if I can find it. Don’t have no headstone. Couldn’t afford one.”

“I’m sure she’ll love the flowers. As for this Saturday, I don’t think so. We’ll have to run a roster to work weekends once we get the herd started, but this week we don’t really have anything that can’t wait until Monday. Most of the COs will be off, and I’m working at the clinic in the morning.”

“I’d like to work as well,” Steve said. “Get that program finished and tested before we actually input any data.”

“Surely you have visitors. Wife? Parents?”

“My wife is dead. I have no other visitors.”

Eleanor found herself at a loss for words. Robert, however, came to the rescue.

“I got visitors. My mama comes, and my woman and my little boy.” His voice and face softened when he mentioned his child.

Eleanor was surprised. He didn’t seem old enough to have a wife and child.