Читать книгу Taking the Heat - Brenda Novak - Страница 12

NIGHTS WERE THE WORST. Especially this night, Tucker thought. He lay on his bed trying to tolerate the throbbing of his hand and the snoring of the man in the next cell so he could get to sleep, but he couldn’t manage it. He’d waited until ten o’clock to take the Tylenol that Officer Hadley had given him, hoping that might help, but it wasn’t enough. Rodriguez and his gang had fixed him up good this time. He needed something stronger.

Still, it wasn’t the physical pain that bothered him half as much as the images in his mind—images of Landon taking his first step, Landon playing T-ball, Landon learning to ride a bike.

If a man could die of missing someone, Tucker had one foot in the grave. He’d sell his soul to see his son again, even for only a few minutes. At six years old, the boy had lost both parents. Death had taken one, prison the other. Now the poor kid was being raised by strangers in a foster home in Phoenix, strangers who, in the six months Tucker had been imprisoned at Florence, had never once brought him to see his father. Tucker’s own parents had brought Landon down a few times, but it was a bittersweet experience to see him sitting in a booth on the other side of a piece of thick glass.

The guy next door rattled into a wheeze, then guttered out, giving Tucker a moment’s reprieve from the racket. Wishing he could ease the pain as well, he shifted, but he was in a world of hurt from which there was no escape, at least until his injuries healed.

Perhaps he’d been stupid to let Rodriguez provoke him. He’d known from the beginning that the Border Brothers wouldn’t fight fair. There was no such thing as “fair” in prison. Most inmates did anything and everything they could to hurt and maim. His best defense against the Border Brothers would be to join a rival gang such as the white supremacist Aryan Brotherhood, but he refused to align himself with that group or any other, refused to espouse their twisted ideals. So he had to fight to survive.

Those who didn’t join a gang and wouldn’t or couldn’t fight got shoved so far down the ladder they couldn’t take a piss without permission from someone. And Tucker wasn’t about to ask a fellow inmate’s leave to do anything. Too many things had happened to him that he couldn’t control—the disappearance of his wife, the accusations that followed, the single-minded determination of the district attorney to see him behind bars. At least he could defend himself with his fists. At least he could retain control of that.

His neighbor started to snore again. “Shut up, man,” Tucker hollered. “I can’t sleep.”

His outburst brought no change, except a few curses from those he’d disturbed.

God, he wanted it to be morning. Then, if he was still able to function with his injuries, he could focus on his job making thirty cents an hour as a “skilled laborer”—an electrician. It was a trade he’d basically taught himself since coming to prison. His other alternatives, come daybreak, were to take a walk in the yard, lift weights, read—anything to distract himself from the same subjects he dwelled on every night. Landon. His freedom. His dead wife.

He and Andrea certainly hadn’t been the happiest of couples. They’d split several times, talked about divorce. They’d been going through a rough period right before the police had found her blood spattered on the cement floor of the garage. But Tucker had cared about her and he’d been trying to hold their marriage together for Landon’s sake. They might not have been as much in love as they were at first, but a lot of couples drifted apart during a marriage. The fact that he wasn’t a particularly doting husband certainly didn’t make him a killer. He couldn’t prove his innocence, though, because he’d never dreamed he’d need an alibi.

His thoughts strayed to the strange way his wife had been acting before the night that had changed everything. He was sure she’d been seeing someone else—again. She wouldn’t admit it, of course. But Tucker had known something was different. He’d felt it. The private investigator had proved that she’d cheated on him more than once. But even that evidence had worked against him. The more suspicious of Andrea he appeared, the stronger his motive to kill her. The police hadn’t even considered that one of the men she was sleeping with might have done it. Or they hadn’t cared. They’d had their scapegoat.

He sifted through Andrea’s friends and acquaintances but, as always, drew a blank. He didn’t know anyone who’d want to kill her. She was beautiful, successful, admired by all. If she was also a little selfish, overly ambitious and egotistical, most people didn’t know that. She had no real enemies. Even his friends quickly became her friends.

His eyelids were finally growing heavy, his thoughts slowing. Closing his eyes, Tucker released the tension in his body and started to relax. The pain in his hand ebbed and his neighbor’s snores seemed to fade, along with the other background noise that never ceased in prison. Blessed sleep approached, promising oblivion at last—

Wood clattered on the bars of his cell, jolting Tucker into wakefulness. He opened his eyes to see a guard walking down the corridor, his baton scraping against the cages for no apparent reason. For a moment Tucker wished for five minutes alone with that guard and his baton. But the fact that he’d even think such a thing told him he’d been locked up too long already. Violence was becoming more and more natural to him. The guards were sometimes worse than the inmates, or at least no better. Many of them were cruel, small-minded and shortsighted. It was little wonder Tucker had no respect for them—although Officer Hadley didn’t fit that mold.

Only five feet six or so, maybe one hundred and twenty pounds, she’d jumped into the middle of the fight and started clubbing people. The memory of it made Tucker smile, despite everything. It was quite a sight—something he certainly hadn’t expected to see. The other female guards stood behind their male counterparts, happy, even grateful, to be somewhat removed and protected.

Hadley had more spunk in her than that. She’d stuck to her principles even though she stood alone. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t frightened, Tucker thought. She’d been terrified when she came to his cell. But she hadn’t let her fear, or him, get the best of her. She’d cleaned his cuts and checked his injuries, then bent the rules just enough to let him know that some people still understood the meaning of compassion.

Tucker knew he was stupid to let himself dwell on a woman, on a guard, no less. He’d ultimately only frustrate himself that much more. But he was so sick of the mystery surrounding Andrea’s death and the unfairness of it all, so tired of hating and being angry. What he wanted was to feel a woman smooth the hair off his forehead or to throw her arms around his neck. More than anything he longed to be in love with someone, to be loved in return, and to hear her soft breathing as she slept curled up next to him. Such simple things…things he’d probably never know again. Except in his dreams. When he finally drifted off to sleep, Officer Hadley smiled at him, pressed her lips to his forehead and told him everything was going to be all right.

HE WASN’T GOING TO LOOK at her.

Tucker kept his eyes on his Scrabble tiles and away from Officer Hadley, who was slowly circling the common area. She’d come on duty two hours and eighteen minutes ago, and he’d spent the whole of that time trying to ignore her. But certain things filtered through. Such as her perfume. Or maybe it was her shampoo or even her deodorant. He only knew that she smelled like heaven. After being imprisoned with a bunch of crude, sweaty men for more than two years, including the months he’d spent in the county jail throughout his trial, the scent of Officer Hadley drove him almost as crazy as the memory of her cool fingers on his face.

At least Rodriguez and his gang were still in their cells. He wouldn’t have to defend himself today.

Using his left hand because he couldn’t move his right, he formed the word “parley” on the game board and started counting up his points. Double letter score for the p makes eight—

“Parley! What the hell is that?” his opponent demanded. “That’s no word! You think you’re so damn smart, but I bet half the shit you come up with isn’t even real.”

Tucker shrugged. If he got upset every time Zinger accused him of cheating he would’ve choked the man long ago. And he couldn’t do that. Zinger was the only one who could challenge him at Scrabble or chess, and he knew he’d go stark raving mad without something to distract him. He worked thirty hours a week and spent a couple of hours each day lifting weights, but he had to fill the rest of his time somehow. Fortunately the warden had recently started a pilot program that rewarded inmates who worked hard and demonstrated good behavior with two hours a week to play games. Since prisoners came up for review only once every six months and Hansen hadn’t reported many of the fights in which Tucker had been involved, Tucker still qualified.

“You’re missing the s,” Zinger insisted. “You were thinking of ‘parsley.”’

Maybe he would choke Zinger, Tucker thought. At least then he’d deserve to be locked up in this godforsaken place.

“No, I was thinking of parley. Check the dictionary,” Tucker responded, knowing Zinger would, anyway. The five-foot-two, dark-eyed Chilean took nothing on faith. He looked up every word, even if it had only three or four letters.

“It’s a word.” Officer Hadley had come to stand over Zinger’s shoulder and was studying the board. “If I remember right, it has something to do with meeting one’s enemy, doesn’t it?” She directed her question to him, but Tucker refused to glance up at her. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to look away.

“I don’t know what it means. I just know it’s a word,” he mumbled, hoping his answer would suffice and she’d move on.

Instead she came a step closer. “How’s your hand?”

Tucker scowled and studied the tiles he’d drawn, hoping his silence would encourage her to leave. After his fantasies last night, he was even more convinced that a woman like Officer Hadley had no business in a prison. She was too soft, too friendly, too temptingly beautiful. What did she want, anyway—to be every convict’s wet dream? To have them close their eyes at night and see only her?

Well, he’d been to that party once already, and it hadn’t made his life any easier. He wasn’t going back.

At last assured that he wasn’t being cheated, Zinger set the dictionary aside and began trying to come up with his own word. Tucker wasn’t worried. He had him beat. They were getting down to the last few tiles, and he was fifty points ahead.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?” Hadley asked.

Tucker ran his left thumb over the smooth finish of a blank tile. “My hand’s broken. What do you want me to say? That it hurts like hell? Well, it does. Happy?”

Ignoring their conversation, Zinger muttered to himself as he rearranged his tiles again and again.

“Come on, you’re taking too long,” Tucker snapped.

“‘Thanks for asking’ would’ve been nice,” Hadley said.

Zinger cursed, a frown of concentration on his face. “Shit, man, I can’t do anything. I’m going to have to pass.”

Tucker leaned back in his chair, finally giving Officer Hadley his full attention. “You don’t want to hear what I have to say. Because if I said what I think, I’d tell you to find another job. You don’t belong here.”

She blinked in surprise. “I guess you were pretty glad I worked here yesterday when I stopped those thugs from killing you.”

“I thought you were just doing your job.” He purposely lowered his lids halfway, feigning indifference, and looked at Zinger. “So you pass? It’s over?”

“There’s nothing else I can do,” Zinger said. “I’ve got a z, a t, a q, a g, two a’s and a u. What can be made with that?”

“Quagga,” Hadley supplied. “It doesn’t use the z, but you can play it off this g here.” She pointed to the word “grab” on the board.

“Quagga?” Tucker repeated.

She raised the finely arched brows above her green eyes and nodded toward the dictionary. “Check it out if you don’t believe me. I used to play Scrabble by the hour.”

Tucker wasn’t about to rise to the bait, but Zinger eagerly seized the tattered paperback and fanned the pages until he found q. “Quadrennial…quaester…quaff…quagga.” He glanced quickly at Officer Hadley before continuing. “‘An extinct mammal of southern Africa related to the zebra.”’ He started placing his tiles. “Now, how the hell would she know that?”

Hadley folded her arms across her chest. “Double letter score on the q. Double word score on the whole thing. That makes fifty-four points. I’m afraid you lose this game, Mr. Tucker,” she said and walked away.

Tucker watched her go, telling himself he didn’t care if he’d offended her. At least he’d win the only game that really mattered—survival. She wouldn’t be smiling at him or asking after him or offering him any more kindness. And without her to remind him of what he was missing, he could remain strong and endure his sentence as he had in the past. He’d survived by not letting himself feel anything, least of all the kind of want that could harrow a man’s soul as nothing else.

The kind of want he’d known last night for the first time since Andrea was killed—all because Officer Hadley had been compassionate enough to give him some Tylenol.

“I HEARD we had a little excitement here yesterday.”

Gabrielle put her sandwich down and swallowed so she could answer Officer Bell, who’d just entered the yard office, ending her precious solitude. Normally part of her shift, Bell had been off yesterday, so she’d missed the Tucker beating. But Gabrielle was sure the other guards had already shared every detail, including her role in it.

“Four members of the Border Brothers ganged up on Randall Tucker. It wasn’t pretty,” she said, taking a drink from her water bottle.

Bell dropped some change into the soda machine, pressed the Pepsi button and retrieved the can that clunked into the small opening. Then she threw a furtive glance over her shoulder toward the gray steel door that stood open to the hallway beyond. “That kind of thing’s been happening a lot lately,” she murmured.

Gabrielle watched as Bell took a seat across from her. “Why do you suppose that is?”

She popped the top of her soda and lowered her voice. “Hansen’s out of control, if you ask me. Thinks he can get away with anything.”

“You’re saying he’s responsible for what’s going on?”

Bell didn’t answer immediately. “Well, it’s not something in the water. You know what I’m saying?”

“But if he’s staging fights, all we have to do is go to the warden and—”

Bell interrupted her with a disbelieving look. “Oh, yeah? Good luck. Hansen’s the warden’s nephew.”

Gabrielle let her breath seep out. No wonder Hansen felt so comfortable in his job. She remembered the “survivor” speech he’d given her in his office after the fight yesterday and did a mental eye roll. I’ve been workin’ here since college, nearly fifteen years, and I’ll be workin’ here in fifteen more. It’s only the weak who have to worry, the young, the old, the fairer sex… As though being related to the warden had nothing to do with his longevity!

“So the warden knows Hansen is abusing his power?” she asked.

Bell took a drink of her Pepsi, then played with the condensation on the outside of the can. “Abusing his power? That’s subject to interpretation. So far, no one’s been killed or seriously injured.”

“So far? ‘So far’ acknowledges that it could happen in the future,” Gabrielle said, finishing her tuna sandwich. “Randall Tucker’s injuries might not be life-threatening, but I’d call them serious. And they could’ve been much worse.”

Bell grimaced, took another drink of her Pepsi and adjusted the ponytail that held her long dark hair off a rather plain face. “He’s an inmate. Life on the inside isn’t supposed to be pleasant. You want pleasant, work at a day care, that’s Hansen’s philosophy.”

“Is it the warden’s?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked him. We have a chain of command here.”

“Will it do any good to go to the lieutenant?”

“Are you kidding? Whitehead and Hansen spend their weekends together barbecuing and drinking beer. You could try one of the captains, but I doubt you’ll get anywhere with them, either. Or the assistant deputy warden, for that matter.”

“Then the warden is our only option.”

“Believe me, he’s no option.”

“So you don’t want to do anything?”

“What can we do?” Bell demanded. “Our jobs are tough enough as it is. You know what it’s like being a woman in a place like this. We make waves, and we won’t be around long.”

“But what Hansen’s doing is serious and you know it. Tucker could’ve been killed! I could have been killed trying to stop something that never should have happened in the first place. Next time, it might be you or someone else—unless we do something.”

“Listen, I’m not involved in what Hansen’s doing,” she said, growing angry. “I just put in my time and collect my paycheck so I can feed my little boy. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“We can’t close our eyes just because we’re women,” Gabrielle replied, finally understanding why Bell had opened up to her in the first place. She’d thought they could commiserate because they were both women and therefore fighting the same battles. But she’d wanted Gabrielle to come to the same conclusion she had—that she was justified in ignoring the guards’ abuses—so she’d feel better about avoiding responsibility. Bell wanted her to say, “Yep, it’s not our problem, nothing we can do.”

But Gabrielle didn’t agree. Someone had to stop what was going on, and she sure as hell knew it wouldn’t be Brinkman, Roddy or Eckland. “We could see the warden together,” she suggested. “I’m not excited about going over Hansen’s head anymore than you are, but if we—”

“No.” Bell shoved away from the table and stood, glaring down at her. “I’m not a whistle-blower.”

“Do you realize what could happen if we don’t?”

“I don’t care. I need this job.”

“But—”

“Forget it. I’m sorry I said anything. I think the others are right. You’re nothing but trouble.” She threw her can in the trash and stalked out.

Gabrielle sat with her lunch wrappers spread out on the table in front of her, staring after the other woman. She felt more alone than she ever had in her life—and she was used to feeling alone. No matter how many people surrounded her growing up, she’d always remained detached, a guest in her adoptive parents’ home, an outsider looking in. She’d married David to escape the emptiness, but even that hadn’t worked. When she’d left him, she did it believing there had to be one place in life where she’d fit, in a down-to-the-soul kind of way, but she was beginning to think she’d never find it.

At least she wasn’t going to find it here, at the prison. Especially if she ratted on Hansen.

She pictured Randall Tucker’s face when he’d finally looked up at her while playing Scrabble. He was a hard, unfeeling man. He hadn’t been very receptive to her help. And he probably was getting exactly what he deserved. Why risk anything for him?

Dropping her head in her hands, Gabrielle pressed her palms to her eyes. Why? Because it was the right thing to do.

GABRIELLE LET HER CAR IDLE, hoping the air-conditioning in her late-model Honda Accord would stave off the incredible heat that shimmered up from the asphalt. The magnificent Arizona sun was melting into the horizon like butter, creating streaks of red and gold far more vivid than anything she’d ever seen in Oregon. But Gabrielle hadn’t come to watch the sunset. She was parked across from a Spanish-style stucco house on the other side of town, waiting for Naomi Cutter, her birth mother, and hoping for something else: the courage to approach her.

Sitting in her car seat in the back, Allie clapped her hands and kicked her feet. They’d taken this drive several times already; Allie loved the movement of the car, loved seeing everything fly past her window. But it wasn’t as joyful a ride for Gabrielle. Watching her birth mother arrive home from wherever she worked during the day, gather her things from her silver Toyota Camry and enter her small, neat house at 1058 Robin Way was a bit like pressing on a bruise—it hurt, but Gabrielle just couldn’t leave it alone.

Today she’d knock on the door and demand to know why her mother had given her up, she decided. David was right. She needed to get it over with. Her adoptive parents had told her that Naomi had been having financial difficulties, but she’d also been twenty-four at the time, old enough to figure out some way to keep them together.

As a child, Gabrielle had made up plenty of excuses for her mother. Naomi had cancer and was going to die. She’d placed Gabrielle in a good home so she wouldn’t be sent to an orphanage, or some variation along those lines. But Naomi was only in her early fifties and looked alive and well. Other than the somber expression she wore, and a certain weariness in the way she moved, she seemed perfectly healthy and capable.

Gabrielle noticed the sound of a motor and checked her rearview mirror. Sure enough, her mother’s silver Camry was coming up from behind.

Without so much as a glance at the Honda waiting just past her house, Naomi turned onto her drive and pulled into the garage. A moment later she appeared carrying her purse and a bag of groceries, which explained why she was a little later today than usual, and walked out to the mailbox.

Now, Gabrielle told herself. There wasn’t any point in waiting. It had already been far too long.

She paused, trying to visualize approaching the woman in the black pants and short-sleeved button-up blouse and telling her who she was, then shuddered at what her mother’s reaction would probably be. A blank look, followed by recognition, horror and finally repugnance. Gabrielle had imagined the scene at least a million times, hoping her mother would smile or show some hint of regret for what they’d lost. But if Naomi felt any of the emotions Gabrielle did, they wouldn’t have spent twenty-five years apart. Her mother wanted nothing to do with her, never had, and in Gabrielle’s imagined confrontation, the question Naomi always asked first was “How did you find me?”—as though being found was the single worst thing in the world.

Gabrielle didn’t think she could bear the rejection. It was easier to live with not knowing, wasn’t it?

No, she’d come this far. She had to know. It was time to deal with the past and to put it behind her.

Bracing for whatever would follow, she shut off the ignition, got out and started to unbuckle Allie when another car pulled up and parked in the drive.

“Mom! Hey!” a tall blonde called from the shiny red convertible.

Naomi turned and the weariness that had existed in her demeanor immediately fell away. “Hi, honey,” she said, smiling in obvious pleasure. “What a nice surprise. I thought you had too much work to make it today.”

“Are you kidding? You said you made me a German chocolate cake. I couldn’t miss that.”

Gabrielle realized she wasn’t breathing. She stood in midmotion, transfixed, watching as this beautiful woman stepped out of her car and embraced her mother—their mother. Gabrielle had been right. She had more family than just Naomi. She had a sister, and there could be more….

Longing made her knees weak, and she put a hand on the car to steady herself. What would it be like, she wondered, to someday walk up to this person and smile that easy smile—the smile that denoted familiarity beyond friendship—and say, “Hi, sis, how was work?”

“Was traffic bad getting here?” Naomi asked.

The blonde shrugged. “I was visiting a client in Chandler, so I didn’t have that far to come. And traffic’s never bad this late, unless there’s an accident or something. How was the Historical Society today?”

“Oh, you know I like working at the museum. They need volunteers so badly. Today someone donated some dental instruments that date back to the 1880s. Should go well with the chair we already have.”

“Great. Here, let me get that for you.” She took the bag of groceries Naomi carried and began to follow her to the house.

Gabrielle knew she should say something, catch their attention. But she felt like such an outsider, as though she was watching them through the front window with her nose pressed to the glass. She had no idea whether she’d be welcomed. Whether they’d invite her to come any closer.

Allie whimpered, frustrated that she hadn’t been set free after the promising motions Gabrielle had already made, but Gabrielle couldn’t move. Approaching her mother would be difficult enough when they were alone, she decided. She couldn’t do it with her sister there and the two of them laughing and talking. Unless…unless one of them looked up. She’d do it if they noticed her, she promised herself.

She stared after them, willing them to give the slightest indication that they’d seen her. But neither of them even glanced in her direction. They were too caught up in each other. Their voices dimmed as they neared the house, the door opened and shut, and they were gone.

A truck rattled past on the street, windows down, its single occupant visibly sweating. Gabrielle let her breath go and closed her eyes. It was over. It was too late.

Allie started to cry, letting her know she wasn’t happy about this strange neglect, but Gabrielle felt too numb to comfort her. She tugged mechanically on the car seat to make sure she hadn’t loosened the strap, then slid behind the wheel, still hesitant to go anywhere when what she wanted was inside. If she could only witness whatever her mother and her sister did when they were together, see the house, gain a sense of who these people were so she could know more about herself…

Her mother was married, or at least she lived with a man; that much Gabrielle knew. She’d seen him pass in front of the windows before, wearing a plain white T-shirt and holding a can of beer or soda. She guessed he was retired, spent most of his time doing yard work and watching television. But today she could see nothing. The blinds were down to keep out the sun.

Gabrielle started the car, adjusted the air-conditioning vents and gazed off to the other side of the road, where sand-colored desert spread in front of her as far as the eye could see. It gave her the impression that her mother lived on the edge of the civilized world. Paloverde trees, palm yuccas, mesquites, cacti, brown parched earth, it went on for miles and miles….

Go home, she told herself. You have plenty of other things to worry about for one night. And it was true. The warden’s secretary had responded to her phone call, informing her that he’d agreed to see her. They had an appointment first thing in the morning.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she said to Allie, “I’m as disappointed as you are. But we’ll do it someday. Someday soon, I promise. Now let’s go home and give you a bath.” Shifting into Drive, she made a U-turn and headed back to her trailer.

WARDEN CRUMB reminded Gabrielle of Jack LaLane. Five feet ten, or so, he was nearly sixty but took great pride in his appearance. Even though he wore a suit, Gabrielle could tell he had the body of a much younger man and, while his hair was gray, he’d managed to retain most of it.

“How’s our new corrections officer?” he asked, flashing her a poster smile as soon as his secretary showed her into his office. Their appointment had been scheduled for seven o’clock, but he’d kept her waiting almost an hour.

“I’m fine,” she said as the secretary withdrew and closed the door.

Crumb didn’t get up, but he waved to a seat across from his desk. “Would you like to sit down?”

Gabrielle perched on the edge of an upholstered chair and took a deep breath to ease the tension in her stiff muscles. She might become a pariah among her peers, but she was doing the right thing—wasn’t she?

She knew David wouldn’t think so. He’d asked her to lie low, and she’d lasted only two days. But someone had to take a stand, even if Hansen was the warden’s nephew.

Crumb rested his elbows on the arms of his high-backed leather chair and laced his fingers together. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his blue eyes sharp and focused on her face.

Gabrielle swallowed against the dryness of her throat and told him what had happened in Cell Block 2. She mentioned Hansen and the others allowing the fight to continue, Tucker’s injuries and Hansen’s refusal to call the doctor. As she spoke, she expected a look of surprise or dismay to cross the warden’s face, but his pleasant expression never wavered.

“I can understand how you might be concerned by what you saw,” he said when she finished. “But fights break out in prison all the time. It might be easy to blame the other guards for not paying more attention to who doesn’t like whom, but those kinds of things change, depending on which way the wind blows. Today two men might get along perfectly, tomorrow one might slit the other’s throat with a homemade knife. We’re dealing with hardened criminals here—rapists and murderers. That’s just how things are on the inside.”

“But Hansen and the others did nothing to break up the fight,” Gabrielle repeated. “They didn’t even report it.”

He chuckled softly. “There probably wasn’t any need. Prison life isn’t always as…straightforward as they paint it in training, you know. Give yourself some time to learn your way around before you panic and cry wolf.” His smile widened until his teeth glinted in the sun streaming in through the window that overlooked the prison yard, but his eyes had grown cool, and Gabrielle was no longer fooled by his friendly manner. He’d been prepped by someone—probably Nephew Hansen—before she arrived. He hadn’t shown one iota of surprise at her story. He’d taken it in stride, as though he’d heard it all before, then he’d dismissed it.

“I’ve spent nearly forty-eight hours thinking about what I should do regarding this incident, Warden Crumb,” she said, refusing to let him invalidate her feelings or her opinion. “I’d call that concern, not panic. I’m concerned that Hansen and the others would allow a man to be injured. And I’m concerned that they’d deny Tucker medical treatment for those injuries, injuries that should still be looked at, by the way.”

The warden’s smile finally faded at her persistence, and he leaned forward. “Are you a doctor, Officer Hadley?”

“No, and that’s why—”

“Then perhaps you should keep your medical opinions to yourself. I don’t appreciate you going around trying to stir up trouble in my prison. You’ve been here less than a week, which is why I’ve been willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. But one week hardly qualifies you as an expert on anything. I’m not going to let you tell Hansen how he should be doing his job, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you tell me how to do mine. So I’ll reiterate what I tried to say before. Let it go.”

Gabrielle stared at him for several seconds. “That’s it?”

“More or less. Tucker’s a troublemaker. Even if Hansen was at fault, it would be difficult to blame him or anyone else when Tucker gets into so many fights.”

Gabrielle remembered the grudging admiration in Hansen’s voice when he’d said that Tucker could take two or three men at a time and seriously doubted Tucker deserved full blame for all the fighting. Entertainment value, possibly even gambling, played at least some role in those incidents, she felt sure. But she had no proof. “So you’re not going to do anything about it?”

He began to straighten his desk. “The only thing I’m going to do is transfer Tucker to Alta Vista and let them worry about him there.”

Gabrielle’s spine stiffened at this announcement. Alta Vista was a private prison that housed some of the most violent criminals in the country. For Tucker, it was definitely a step down, and she got the distinct impression it was all in the name of sweeping Hansen’s actions under the rug. Better to transfer Tucker, claiming he was a behavioral problem, than to risk a scandal. “Alta Vista?”

“It’s near Yuma, not far from the California border.”

“I know where it is,” she said. “When’s he going?”

“Monday.” He smiled. “And you and Eckland are driving him.”