Inside (21 page)

“Sir—”

He turned back. “Have I not made myself clear, Chief Deputy?”

“Yes, you have, but—”

“Just do as I say and quit arguing for a change,” he snapped and left.

Apparently the brutality issue had sidelined whatever he’d come to say. Or he wasn’t willing to discuss it in front of McCalley. Maybe he was so disappointed in how she’d handled the Hutchinson problem, he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all anymore. Lately, they seemed to disagree far too often. Only by sheer will was she able to implement some of his directives.

“You heard him,” she told McCalley. “Give Hutchinson a call.”

“I think he’s making a mistake,” he murmured.

She remembered John’s demeanor when he’d been in her office yesterday. If Riggs had had a shank, and John knew it, he definitely would’ve used that as part of his defense. “So do I.”

Ink wouldn’t leave Colorado, even though Shady had ordered him back to L.A. He was too pissed that Eddie Glover had lived. They’d gotten all the information they were going to get out of Eddie, so it shouldn’t have mattered, but to Ink killing Eddie had become an obsession. He talked about it constantly, said he wanted to
add another tattoo to his body depicting him shooting “that miserable son of a bitch C.O.” All he ever craved was blood. As far as Pretty Boy was concerned he was a fucking psychopath. But no one else seemed to care.

Fortunately, there’d been too much activity at the hospital to finish Eddie off, especially when it served no better purpose than to appease Ink’s twisted desire for revenge. Pointblank had flat-out told Ink that every single Crew member would be lying in wait for him if he risked that kind of heat. So he’d finally quit raving about killing Eddie and fixated on going after Laurel again. They’d been arguing about how he was going to accomplish that all day.

“We won’t find her.” Pretty Boy lounged on a bed in the cheap motel where they’d holed up since the shooting. “There’s no reason for her to stay in Colorado. For all we know, she could be halfway across the country.”

Pointblank, who was on the other bed, had been watching television. At this, he finally deigned to enter the conversation. “We stay until we’re told to leave.”

“Ink
has
been told to leave,” Pretty Boy reminded him.

Pointblank motioned to Ink, who was fiddling with his gun at the desk. “That’s his problem. He’ll have to answer to Shady. You won’t. So don’t worry about it.”

“Shady won’t be pissed at me, not once I get the job done,” Ink said.

“And how do you plan to get the job done when we don’t even know where she is?” Desperate to be rid of him, Pretty Boy fantasized about waking up in the middle of the night and putting a bullet through his brain while he slept. Killing Ink might cause a backlash inside The Crew. The hit wouldn’t be sanctioned
by the gang’s leaders. But Pretty Boy felt he’d be doing the world a service. He’d be doing Skin a great service, too. Except he wasn’t sure if he should be motivated by the loyalty that still lingered in his heart. How should he feel about his old cellie? Was Skin debriefing as the others claimed?

If not, why hadn’t he made contact?

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe something else was going on….

“Shady’ll find her,” Pointblank—Thompson—said. “You heard what he told us when he called. He’s got some contacts in the CDC.”

But would they go crazy cooped up together before those contacts came through? At this point, Pretty Boy was having fantasies about putting a bullet through his
own
brain just to escape the monotony. “We’ll see.”

He got up to go outside for a cigarette. He never used to smoke. He’d taken it up a few days ago. The nicotine calmed his nerves, and the act of bringing the cigarette to his mouth kept his hands busy. Besides, it provided a good excuse to take a walk every couple of hours.

Thompson’s phone vibrated on the table as Pretty Boy passed by. When he glanced down, he saw that the caller was Shady and froze. Shady’s contact had delivered what they’d asked for. Shady wouldn’t be contacting them again otherwise. They’d already talked to him today.

“Hand me that,” Thompson said.

Pretty Boy hesitated. The last time they’d received orders from Shady, Ink had shot Glover, a corrections officer, and it’d been all they could do to keep him from going back and killing Glover’s whole family. Pretty Boy didn’t want to see anyone else hurt, especially Laurel.

“What’s up with you?” Pointblank snapped at his lack of response.

Ink grabbed the phone before Pretty Boy could reach for it and tossed it over to Thompson, who answered.

“’Lo?…No kidding?…Never heard of it…. Where?… Got it…. ’Course…. This is a step in the right direction, anyway…. If it’s not a big place, maybe we can find her on our own…. Sure…. Will do.”

When he hung up, he scooted off the bed and began stuffing his clothes into his duffel bag. “Get your asses moving,” he said. “We’re out of here.”

Pretty Boy remained rooted to the spot. “Where we goin’?”

“Town called Gunnison.”

“Never heard of it,” Ink said. “Is it close?”

“Not far, maybe two, three hours.”

Pretty Boy’s mind raced. That was as far as the feds had taken Skin’s sister? What had they been thinking?

They’d underestimated the network that served The Crew, didn’t realize that gang members had loyal girlfriends and wives who held regular jobs and could be privy to sensitive information. “Laurel’s there?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

“’Cording to Shady.”

“So his contact came through,” Ink said, obviously impressed.

Pointblank headed into the bathroom. “Damn right. Just like I told you. Shady means business. He does his part.”

Ink shoved his gun in the waistband of his jeans. “Does that mean we have an address?”

“Not yet,” Pointblank called back.

Pretty Boy could hear him packing up his shampoo
and razor and whatever else he had in there. “When’s that coming through?”

“Shady’s not sure he can get any more than we got now. He’s hoping we’ll be able to find her ourselves.”

Hope buoyed Pretty Boy’s flagging spirits. “That won’t be easy.”

Sticking his head out of the bathroom, Pointblank grinned. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Gunnison’s only got five thousand people.”

Stubbornly clinging to that brief flash of hope, Pretty Boy said, “But if she’s hidden away, there’s no—”

“She won’t stay hidden forever, man.” Pointblank had disappeared into the bathroom again. “Most people can’t take that shit for long. When nothing happens, she’ll start to feel safe, get bored, and then she’ll go out to the grocery store, to church, take the kids to the park.”

“And she’ll be new in town,” Ink added with an eager gleam in his eye. “That means she’ll stand out.”

“So will we,” Pretty Boy said.

The toilet flushed and Pointblank walked out zipping his fly. “We’ll be lookin’ for her. She won’t be lookin’ for us. That’ll give us an advantage. And Gunnison’s only a temporary stop until the government can decide where to put her, so she’s in a rental.”

Pretty Boy’s hope died on the spot. “That’s what Shady’s contact said? Gunnison’s temporary?”

“That’s what she said.”

“What are we supposed to do once we find her?”

Ink, who was packing his own bag, looked up. “What do you think, stupid?”

Trying to avoid another confrontation with the psycho asshole, Pretty Boy kept his attention on Pointblank. “I’m talking about the kids. I don’t want to kill kids. Or a U.S. marshal. That shit’s asking for war.”

Pointblank slung his duffel over his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. First, we gotta find her.”

But Pretty Boy imagined that wouldn’t take too long. They’d be in Gunnison before nightfall. How many rental houses could there be in such a small community?

“M
aybe we should lay down a few ground rules,” Buzz said.

Virgil stretched out on his bunk. There wasn’t a lot to unpack when you were allowed only six cubic feet of personal belongings. “Like…?” He shifted his gaze to his cell mate, who was standing up and staring morosely out onto the tier.

“Just one rule, really. You leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone. It’s that simple.”

Despite an abundance of tattoos, a series of devils with their tongues sticking out KISS-style, Buzz wasn’t particularly frightening. He wasn’t big and didn’t look very strong. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Virgil had learned long ago not to discount anyone, not until he knew what the guy was like on the inside. Vanquishing an enemy was largely a matter of determination and often depended on how far you were willing to go—whether or not you’d risk your own life to accomplish what you wanted. Some of the meanest men Virgil had ever fought were less than a hundred and eighty pounds. And some of the other guys, the bigger ones, weren’t worth a damn when it came to throwing punches.

“Let’s make it even simpler than that,” Virgil said. “You leave me alone or I’ll make you sorry you didn’t.” He wanted to start gathering information. Now that he was here, all he could think about was getting out, and he couldn’t get out until he had something for Wallace. The smell of this place, different and yet so similar to the other institutions he’d known, threatened to suffocate him. But until he built up some credibility with Buzz, any attempt to befriend him would be wasted. Worse than wasted. It would have the opposite effect.

First, he had to play his role, sell his image and do it well. In order to infiltrate the Hells Fury, he’d need a sponsor. He hoped his cell mate would take that on, but Buzz had to have some reason to trust him or admire him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be willing to stick his neck out. Virgil had been part of the criminal world long enough to understand that.

“So you’re a tough guy?” Buzz said.

Obviously he accepted nothing on faith. They had that in common.

“No need to take my word for it.” Virgil sat up to see if his cellie wanted to test him, but Buzz glanced away. He wasn’t going to be issuing any challenges. At least, not right now.

“I don’t want trouble,” he muttered. “I get out in less than a month. You screw that up and you’ll end up dancin’ on the blacktop no matter how tough you are. And that’s a promise.”

Dancing on the blacktop…
Virgil hadn’t heard that phrase before, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out. Buzz was saying he’d be shanked in the yard.

“You’re the one getting in my face,” he said. “If you don’t want trouble, stop asking for it.”

“I’m just pissed,” he grumbled. “I shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Virgil propped his hands behind his head and spoke through a yawn. “With what?”

“With
you,
man.”

“Then
don’t
deal with me. I thought we just went over that.”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Buzz went back to staring into the tier, which held some concrete tables and a couple of telephones. Nineteen other cells opened onto it. They were allowed to play cards and socialize there when they weren’t on lockdown.

Virgil assumed their conversation was over, so he lay back and closed his eyes. After the week he’d spent in the real world, he was beyond tired. But Buzz was too agitated to shut up.

“What’d you do?” he asked. “What you in for?”

Virgil cracked open his eyelids. Where he came from it wasn’t polite to ask. “None of your damn business.”

“Let me see your papers.”

Buzz wanted to know if he had any gang affiliations. That was pretty standard. “No.”

“Fine. Tell me this much, then. Where’d you do time before here?”

“That’s none of your business, either.” Virgil knew that the less he said about himself, the less he’d have to remember and the harder it would be for anyone to prove he was lying.

“It’s gonna be a
long
month,” Buzz breathed.

Virgil couldn’t help laughing.

The way Buzz whirled on him told Virgil the man had a weapon hidden somewhere. Otherwise, consider
ing their difference in size, he’d move with more caution. “What? What’s so damn funny?”

“Quit whining. At least you’re getting out.” In a show of contempt for any threat Buzz might pose, Virgil rolled over and presented his cell mate with his back.

“I could kill you in two seconds,” Buzz growled, obviously offended by Virgil’s lack of fear.

“You could try.” Virgil knew he was extending a challenge Buzz might not be able to resist. Parole pending or not, Buzz could lash out to save face, vent his anger and hatred or impress his Hells Fury pals. But Virgil
had
to establish superiority. And forcing him to fight or stand down from the very beginning was the fastest way to do it. That approach would also reveal certain aspects of Buzz’s personality—how volatile he was, whether he’d act with more than his mouth when cornered and exactly how far he was prepared to go to salvage his pride.

Hoping he’d have the chance to retaliate if he was shanked, Virgil listened for any movement that might alert him. But Buzz defused the tension instead.

“Those tattoos you got,” he said.

Virgil faced him again. “What about them?”

“You part of the Brand?”

“No.” Buzz was referring to the Aryan Brotherhood, the most dangerous of all prison gangs. Small but ruthless, they didn’t accept many new members. Virgil had heard that Tom Mills and Tyler Bingham—two of their most powerful leaders—were incarcerated at Pelican Bay. Probably in the SHU.

“You belong to another gang, then. I can tell.”

Virgil hadn’t tattooed any obvious Crew insignia on his body. He hadn’t been that indoctrinated. The gang was the best social network USP Tucson had to offer, and once Pretty Boy, Shady and a guy they called
Tucker, who’d since died in a police shootout, became his brothers it was tough to let go. He still missed Pretty Boy and a couple of the others. But his tats weren’t the same quality you could get on the outside. Anyone who knew that would realize they signified some type of affiliation.

“What’s your point?” Virgil said.

“My point is you better clique up in here right quick.”

Virgil shrugged as if he’d heard it all before. Truth was, he had. “Why?”

“Something’s gonna come down.” He scowled. “I was hopin’ to get out of here first, but…I think it’s gonna happen sooner rather than later.”

So that was what had Buzz on edge. It wasn’t just getting a new cellie. “What is it? Trouble with the Nuestra Family?”

“What do you know about the NF?”

“They’re in charge here, right?”

“Hell, no! Who’s been telling you that shit? They’re afraid of
us.
”

“And who’s us? Public Enemy Number 1?”

Buzz bared his arm to show off a pitchfork tattoo. “The Hells Fury, that’s who.
We’re
the ones runnin’ this place.”

“So what’s going down?”

He shook his head. “Ain’t sayin’.”

Virgil gave Buzz a few seconds to think before speaking again. “Who should I clique up with?”

“Someone you can trust, man.”

“What if I can’t trust anybody?”

“That’s your problem.”

There was no time to say more. A loud buzz sounded as the locks retracted and the doors slid open. It was mealtime.

Virgil sat alone at a table in the dining hall, his back to the wall so he could protect himself if need be, and watched the other inmates. It was important to note who hung out with whom, where each group sat, how they interacted. The next few days would be the most dangerous of his life, even more dangerous than when he’d gone to prison the first time. He was better able to defend himself now, but that could convince him to take risks that might not be wise. Or, because he hoped to change his life and had plans for the future, he could have the opposite problem. He might hesitate when he shouldn’t, reveal his reluctance to fight or kill, and destroy any chance he had of gaining the respect he needed. Although he couldn’t be too reckless, he couldn’t be too cautious, either, couldn’t lose the edge his anger had always given him. Those who held power, on both sides of the law, would want to establish where he belonged in the pecking order. And the only way they could determine who he was and what he might do was to test him.

Virgil wasn’t looking forward to proving himself. Even if he managed to survive and convinced Buzz to sponsor him, he’d have to assault an HF enemy for initiation purposes and make it brutal enough to be decisive and believable. That would be tricky to orchestrate without actually hurting someone. He’d have to work out the details with Peyton if he hoped to make a fake stabbing look real; he wasn’t sure that
could
be faked. Coordinating with her wouldn’t be easy. The more often he contacted her, the more often he risked exposure. He couldn’t call her unless they were allowed on the tier. If there was really as much unrest here as Buzz had intimated—and Virgil saw no reason to doubt him—he
might not have the opportunity to use the phone. Pelican Bay could go into lockdown and stay that way for months. The prison had a long history of resorting to those measures. Wallace had said as much while they were driving to Crescent City from Sacramento. All conversations from pay phones were taped, anyway. Virgil had known they would be, of course, but the associate director had warned him of that, too. Wallace had filled him in on a lot of things…including how badly he wanted to get into Peyton’s pants.

Catching himself, Virgil tried to put Peyton out of his mind. It required constant effort, but thinking of her made him more anxious than he already was. Especially when he acknowledged that Wallace was set on making his desires real, and he wouldn’t be around to do anything about it.

While drinking some milk, he let his gaze circle the room again. Blacks ate in one corner, Mexicans in another. There were some stragglers in between—fags, misfits, even a couple of transvestites.

Buzz ate with a group of whites across the room. Not all of them were tatted up to the degree Buzz was, but the amount of ink extending beneath the sleeves of their prison-issue blue shirts and on their necks and heads added to the intimidation factor. They counted on that; it was part of the reason they got so many tattoos.

As Buzz spoke to those around him, he nodded toward Virgil. When the group realized he was paying attention, they rose to their feet and openly glared at him. One even called out, “You think you’re a badass, huh?”

Virgil wanted to ignore them and eat his dinner, but he couldn’t. Such aggressive behavior was the equivalent of throwing the first punch. They were disrespecting
him to see if he’d take it. If he didn’t retaliate, it would be that much harder to win their respect later. Maybe it would be impossible. And if he couldn’t gain any power in here, there’d be no purpose in staying. It would all be over. For him. For Laurel. For Laurel’s kids.

So instead of finishing his meal, he shoved the tray aside and, with a grin, gave them the finger.

Fortunately, Peyton hadn’t been in any hurry to leave the prison. She’d worked late, then lingered in her office, trying to figure out a way to see Virgil before she went home. She thought it might put her mind at ease to know he was okay and in good spirits. But before she could make any arrangements, she received a call from an officer named George Robinson in Facility A letting her know there’d been an altercation in the dining hall.

Four men had attacked one. “Simeon Bennett” had been involved and was injured. Robinson gave her the names of the others, too—names she recognized as members of the Hells Fury. Virgil had jumped into the thick of prison politics and created a disruption, because that was what he had to do.

Either he’d get what he wanted or he’d die trying.

She feared it would be the latter.

“How badly is he hurt?” she asked.

“Which one?” Robinson wanted to know.

Aware that she was pressing the phone too tightly to her ear, she eased up. “The new transfer, Simeon Bennett.” She knew it might seem strange that she’d ask about one convict specifically, but she didn’t care. She had to know if he was okay.

“Hard to tell,” he responded. “He’s covered in blood. We’ll know more once we get him cleaned up.”

Oh, God, it’s happening,
she thought. But that wasn’t
what she said. She kept her voice as cool and impersonal as she could, given that her heart was beating in her throat. “I’ll be right there.”

He didn’t bother to respond. The phone clicked and she jumped to her feet.

She was rushing down the hall when the warden hailed her from behind. “Peyton?”

Reluctant to stop, she considered ignoring him but couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was far too apparent that she must’ve heard him. “Yes?” she said, turning back.

“May I have a word with you?”

He wanted to tell her what he’d come to her office to discuss earlier, no doubt. But she didn’t have time for it. “I’m afraid I’m in a hurry, sir. Could we discuss it tomorrow?”

His expression told her he didn’t appreciate her response. “Where are you going?”

Most of the administrative staff was already gone, but she still hesitated to discuss Virgil in the open, where someone might overhear. “To the infirmary.”

His eyes widened. “Why? Is everything okay?”

“There’s been a fight in Facility A.” She couldn’t prevent the accusation that crept into her voice. She’d tried to warn the warden that Virgil wouldn’t be safe at Pelican Bay; she’d tried to warn them all.

“How many were involved?”

“Five, from what I’ve been able to gather.”

He shook his head but his sympathy didn’t seem genuine. “How bad is it?”

“Don’t know. The C.O.s have it under control, but several men are injured. Simeon Bennett is one of them.”

She thought he might show some concern by going to the infirmary with her. Virgil didn’t even deserve to
be in prison. He was risking his life to save his sister and her kids and bring down the Hells Fury. But Fischer didn’t care about that. No one did. “If it’s under control, there’s nothing you can do.”