Читать книгу The Payback Man - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 9

PLANNING WAYS TO KILL Neil Waters had kept Steve Chadwick sane during his three years in prison.

At first he’d sought advice from the murderers he met inside, but they were obviously incompetent. After all, they were in prison. They’d been caught. Amateurs, all of them. Apparently professional killers didn’t often wind up behind bars.

He lay back on his bunk with his hands locked behind his head. Minimum security. At last.

One step closer to freedom.

He’d have to settle on the way to kill Neil soon.

The bunk beside him was occupied by an elderly con named Joseph Jasper, known as “Slow Rise.” He told the other cons he got his name two ways. He was usually easygoing, slow to anger, but his wife had finally pushed him too far. He’d caught her in bed with her lover and was now serving twenty-five to life because he’d picked up his shotgun and “caught him on the rise, like a damn fat mallard.” He said it was a satisfying experience, but not worth spending the rest of his life in prison over.

Slow Rise said the only truly successful murders were listed either as accidents or natural deaths and never investigated at all. He had great respect for the skill and doggedness of homicide detectives once they were alerted that a killing had taken place. He suggested Steve kill Neil with poison, and even mentioned a few varities that could handle the job. Born and bred in the country, Slow Rise knew a dozen ways to turn common weeds into deadly potions.

“If you don’t do it but once and don’t do anything stupid right after like marry his woman or buy a yacht with his money, chances are it’ll be put down to a heart attack,” Slow Rise had advised.

Steve couldn’t use poison. That was the sort of sneaky method Neil might try. Besides, he wanted Neil to know he was being killed, by whom and for what. He wanted Neil to be afraid, to beg for his life.

Steve had expected to have to wait until he was paroled in two years or less to kill Neil, but if he kept his nose clean at the penal farm, he’d probably be sent out on work release soon—maybe in a few weeks if he was lucky. He could easily escape from work release.

To outsiders, two years to serve until parole might seem like no time at all, but Steve didn’t think he could stay sane another two years, assuming he was still sane now. Killing Neil seemed perfectly reasonable. Did sane men think that way?

“Hey.” The man on the other bunk sat up and poked Steve’s shoulder.

Steve ignored him. He loathed Sweet Daddy, a small-time pimp imprisoned for cutting one of his ladies—his “bottom bitch”—when she tried to leave his employ to start her own business. Steve had inadvertently protected Sweet Daddy in the yard at Big Mountain Prison one day when a motorcycle freak had threatened to break him in two for stealing cigarettes. From that moment on, Sweet Daddy had stuck to Steve like a limpet.

Steve couldn’t imagine any woman being attracted to Sweet Daddy’s ferrety face and scrawny body, but apparently he’d run a large and generally loyal stable of beautiful and expensive ladies. Guess he could be charming when it behooved him.

Steve forced himself to stay calm, to keep his eyes closed, to feign patience. The trick was to seem relaxed, uncaring. If they thought you cared about anything, they took it away from you. Prison taught patience.

But now he had resources. He had the contacts to obtain false identity papers that would pass the closest inspection, and he could sign Neil’s signature so well that Neil himself couldn’t detect the forgery. Prison did teach a few useful skills.

Steve would have preferred to see Neil brought to trial for Chelsea’s murder, convicted, sentenced to prison, see his good name, his wealth, his family stripped from him as Steve’s had been.

Steve knew that wasn’t possible. He’d have to be content with exacting his revenge personally. He’d have to spend the rest of his life in Brazil, which had no extradition treaty with the United States. A small price to pay.

Prison had also taught him there were no completely satisfactory endings.

Before he was convicted, he had believed in the United States criminal-justice system, that being an honorable, moral man was all the protection he would ever need. No more.

Everybody expected Brazil to be corrupt. There would be no nasty surprises. He’d be one more crook among many. Bribery would work every time.

His only worry was that actually killing Neil wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable as the hours spent planning it.

“I THOUGHT I GOT TO PICK my own workers,” Eleanor Grayson said to Ernest Portree. She had been formally hired as resident veterinarian at the farm one week earlier. Up to now she’d been filling out reams of paperwork, going over the old cattle barn and the pastures to see what needed fixing and moving her few possessions into her new bungalow.

This was her first real meeting with the warden since she’d been hired. She looked at the list of six names. These men were unknown quantities and would be her “team.” All had only recently been moved into the facility from Big Mountain Prison in East Tennessee.

“Seniority and good time are inflexible criteria in prisons, Eleanor, or at least this prison. These men have shown good conduct or they wouldn’t have been moved here in the first place. We want the inmates to see a carrot, as well as a stick, in this assignment.”

“They think setting up a cattle operation is a carrot?”

“Better than working all day in the hot sun tending chili peppers.”

“But chili peppers and tomatoes and whatever else you’re growing die in the winter. Not much to do except prepare the land for planting in the spring.”

“We already have two hydroponic facilities set up under canvas and expect to have a couple of temporary hothouses before our first heavy frost, so there’ll be even more to do this winter. It would seem there’s a mystique about working with animals, especially large animals, that attracts the men. Better than digging in dirt or wading in muddy water.”

Eleanor sat across from Ernest Portree at his desk—a broad slab of walnut that had been made in a prison woodworking shop. At least she supposed it had—everything else had. If so, the men who built it were craftsmen who should have no problem finding honest jobs on the outside.

“I’ve been doing some reading, Ernest. What Raoul Torres calls his ‘dummy’s guide to psychopaths.’ He’s been a real godsend. He told me I can call him any hour of the day or night if I have a problem. Okay, with those criteria you mentioned, I’m willing to work with the men selected, with a couple of stipulations. First, no arsonists.”

Portree nodded.

“Second, no one with a record of animal abuse.”

“Of course. Why no arsonists?”

“Because they often progress to violence toward animals. Besides, barns are full of inflammable material. I’d rather not have prisoners who like to start fires.”

“You have been doing your homework. How do you feel about murderers?”

“I read that several of the governors used to staff their mansions exclusively with murderers. They were the least likely to commit another crime—unless, I guess, the circumstances of the first one were duplicated. Anyway, I won’t know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Raoul suggested that I not read their charge sheets or their prison records so I won’t be looking for trouble. I won’t know the drug dealers and pimps from the guys who embezzled from the mortgage company. They’ll all start with a clean slate. I also want to be able to toss anyone off my team for cause, but I won’t do it without reviewing my reasons with you first.”

“Agreed. All moved into your new cottage?”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “I’m still unpacking, and a good deal of my stuff will have to stay in storage, but at least I can sleep there tonight.”

“Keep your pager beside your bed.”

“Oh, that makes me feel really safe.”

“You’re probably safer in that cottage than you are anywhere in town. But do it, anyway.”

Eleanor stood. “So when do I meet my guys?”

“Tomorrow morning okay?”

“Fine. Early. Right after breakfast. That old barn is going to have to be dug out to the clay and rebedded before we can bring in any stock. It’s knee-deep in rotted manure from twenty years ago when the penal farm shut down. The first day I’ll stick with the guys. Then, until they’re finished, I’ll delegate that to the CO in charge and check on their progress as often and for as long as I can. That way I can still work at the clinic part-time. Once the cows arrive, I may need space to do classroom instruction, as well as the hands-on stuff. Is that possible?”

“Yes, if you don’t think the office in the barn is large enough. I’ve assigned a CO to you. He should be able to keep the men working.”

“But not drive them into the ground?”

“That’s entirely up to you. The guards take orders from you, and it’ll be up to you to monitor them.”

“Fine.”

“J. K. Sanders going to help you pick out the cows?”

“Monday. We should have our first cows in our pasture that afternoon.”

“Good luck. Keep me abreast of your progress.”

“Thanks, Ernest, I will.” She hesitated. “I need one more thing. I don’t know how many changes of uniform the men have, but each man needs a spare set from underwear out that will be kept in the office at the barn.”

“Why? They normally have three. One dirty, one clean and one they’re wearing. You want a fourth?”

“I’m afraid so. There are going to be times when they’ll be in the barn all night without being able to leave. If someone falls in the pond, say, or we have to mend a fence in a driving rainstorm, they’ve got to have a change of clothes available. I, personally, carry two sets in my truck, along with a spare pair of boots and a set of surgical greens for emergencies.”

Ernest rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. That’s an extra expense that’s not in the budget.”

“It’s a very minor expense when you put it against the hospital costs of caring for a prisoner with pneumonia.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“In exchange, we get all that rotted manure for our hydroponics.” He grinned. “Unless you have a better use for it.”

She smiled back “Agreed. We’ll pile it, you move it out.”

She left him working through a stack of paperwork inches high. She nodded cheerfully at his secretary, Yvonne Linden, as she went by. If they knew how terrified she was, they’d fire her before she even got started.

DR. RICK HAZARD CAUGHT ELEANOR on her way into the large-animal area of the clinic late that afternoon and pulled her into his office for one of his “chats.” Eleanor hoped this one wouldn’t take long.

“I’ve heard prisoners can scent fear,” Rick said. “You sure you want to take this job? I’m having second thoughts about recommending you.”

“Not you, too?”

“Come on, Eleanor. You’re finally completely back to top-notch form professionally. I’d hate to see you get too stressed-out.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll still be available to take up the slack here at the clinic. And as to scenting fear, well, so can an angry terrier.”

“The terrier can do a real number on your ankles. A 250-pound man can do a number on your life, just like a lion or tiger. Better make sure you carry your whip and chair.”

As managing partner and the man whose wife and father-in-law had invested a large part of the money to open Creature Comfort, Rick Hazard’s priorities were his clinic first and the remainder of the world a distant second. “I worry that you won’t have time to spend here once your program at the farm gets into gear.”

“I should have guessed that was the real problem. Come on, Rick, how much time can a small herd take once it’s up and going? I’ve never let you or Sarah down yet, have I? I owe you, Rick. If it weren’t for you, I’d never have gotten my nerve back after Jerry died. A year ago I couldn’t have faced all the responsibility alone. I couldn’t decide what shirt to wear.”

Rick slumped in his desk chair and propped his knee on his desk. “You were just worn out.”

“I was exhausted all right. I just didn’t know how badly. Two years of watching Jerry getting sicker and sicker, trying to keep the practice going with interns, arguing with the pharmaceutical companies, losing client after client. I’m a good vet, but Jerry was the shining light in the practice. He was the guy all the old ladies wanted when Muffy had a sore throat or their stallion needed a blood test.

“After he died, I was stupid enough to think it was all over. It took a whole year of fighting with the IRS, the insurance companies, the hospitals about the bills for Jerry’s treatment, and finally losing everything we’d dreamed of in a bankruptcy auction. I suppose it’s no wonder I lost my nerve. It was as if everything I touched went wrong. I’ve been a widow two years, Rick. Sometimes it seems like a lifetime, and others it seems like a heartbeat.” She flashed him a smile. “Anyway, thanks for having enough faith in my professional comeback to recommend me for this job.”

“No good deed goes unpunished as someone once said.”

Rick was not as tall as Mac Thorn nor as handsome, but despite his reputation as being something of a fussbudget about the clinic, he was a formidable administrator and manager when faced with a crisis. He was also a darned good veterinarian, though he also preferred small animals to cows and horses.

“What does Sarah say?” he asked.

“She’s all for it. She’s going with J. K. Sanders and me Monday to pick our herd. She’s promised to help me get set up. And, Rick, remember the clinic will get all the business from the farm as long as I’m there. Plus a ready source of semitrained brawn on work release. Think of it as a win-win situation.”

“Yeah. If you say so.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You planning to take drugs with you? I’ll bet a bunch of those guys would just love to get their hands on some Ketamine or Winstrol.”

“I’ll only carry the bare essentials for emergencies double-locked in my vet cabinet in the back of my truck. They won’t even know I have them. My truck should be in view at the barn nearly all the time—either I’ll be able to see it or one of the COs will.”

“How many of those guys you think can pop a car lock and pick the lock on your cabinet within twenty seconds?”

“Probably all of them. The COs are supposed to keep that from happening.”

“Is the anxiety worth the money you’ll be making? Don’t try to tell me you’re not anxious.”

“Of course I’m anxious, but I’m also excited. It’s the first time since Jerry died that I’ve had the guts to try something new on my own. I don’t expect to do it for more than a couple of years. By that time I should have enough money to buy a partnership in a good practice somewhere, maybe even here, if you have room and I can afford the cost. I can’t go on working part-time forever. I have to build some sort of a life.”

“You picked one hell of a way to do it.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay, but if I see a problem, I’ll let you know.”

“I would expect that. Thanks. You won’t be sorry.”

He stood up and pulled the top of his surgical greens down over his stomach. “Man, I’ve got to go on a diet. Margot feeds me too well. You have time to help me in surgery?”

“A couple of hours. What’ve you got?”

“Skin graft on that silky terrier that got burned. Floor furnaces should be outlawed.”

She followed him out of his office and down the hall, stopping at the storage cabinet to pick up a set of greens. Nancy Mayfield would have everything else ready, including the surgical packs. As she caught up to him at the door of the surgical theater, he asked, “What breed of cattle you getting?”

“Beefmaster.”

“Good God, woman, you pick the biggest breed of beef cattle in the world?”

“They want publicity, as well as a prize herd. J. K. Sanders and I figured Beefmaster would give them that.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You said that before.”

So far nobody except Sarah Scott’s new husband, Mark, who looked after the financial end of the clinic as part of his duties as CFO of Buchanan Enterprises, had encouraged her. He alone saw the financial gains she could make in a short time.

Anyone who thought bankruptcy was a quick and easy way to get out of paying bills had never tried it, but after Jerry’s death, there had been no other way out for Eleanor. Their practice had been liquidated to cover the cost of Jerry’s medical bills, but she had still felt like Sisyphus, sentenced to push a heavy rock to the top of a hill, only to have it slide back to the bottom again and again.

With the help of her friends at the clinic, she could pull off this new job. With Sarah pregnant, she’d have to shoulder more of the inevitable responsibilities at Creature Comfort. Good thing she’d gotten used to making do with little sleep during Jerry’s illness and after.

“MAN, I DIDN’T TAKE THIS JOB to shovel cow manure. I already broke two nails,” Sweet Daddy grumbled. Sweet Daddy worked hard to keep his small hands smooth, his fingernails long. One day shoveling aged cow manure from the old barn, unused for more than twenty years, would destroy his manicure and leave him with blisters.

“Shut up and shovel,” said Mike Newman, known to the inmates and the other COs as “Lard Ass Newman.” He was a bully and a sadist. If his authority was questioned or he felt any personal slight, payback was vicious. Steve had only come into contact with him a couple of times before today, but he’d been warned to avoid even a hint of arrogance.

“When’s this bitch coming?” Sweet Daddy asked.

“Use that word near her and you’ll be walking around with those pretty hands in casts,” Newman snarled.

“Might be worth it,” Sweet Daddy whispered. “Oooh-eee, what have we here? Yo, mama.” He grinned at something over Steve’s shoulder.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I am Dr. Eleanor Grayson. We’re going to be working together.”

Steve hadn’t been called a gentleman in years, and probably nobody had ever called any of the others gentlemen. He rested on the handle of his pitchfork and turned toward the voice. The others had stopped work, as well.

It was that woman he’d seen with the other one—the beautiful black woman who worked with the GED program—the day he arrived at the farm.

This woman was taller, with brown hair pulled back severely, revealing her strong bone structure. Almost no makeup. Oversize sweater and jeans.

Bet she thought that sweater would hide her womanly charms. Not from these guys. Three years without a woman gave a guy X-ray vision and one hell of a fantasy life.

Steve glanced at Sweet Daddy. The little man’s eyes were burning into her, stripping her in his mind with professional skill. From the way he licked his lips, Steve knew that he was assessing Dr. Grayson as if she were one of his women.

Steve loathed Sweet Daddy’s attitude toward women. He longed to smash the pimp’s face, but that would give Newman a chance to smash his in return, probably kick him off this team and maybe out of this facility. He concealed his anger and kept his face blank.

“At the moment there are only six of you on my team. I know you feel as though you are getting the dirty end, having to clean out this place, but I’ll be driving a tractor with a front loader and scraper blade for you. That should make things go smoother and faster. Also, when we do need additional personnel, those of you who make the grade will remain as supervisors of the new people. You’re getting in on the ground floor, no pun intended. Tomorrow we’re bringing in painters and carpenters to repair everything that needs repairing. The plumbing and electricity have already been done, or redone. There’s hot water in the shower room and on the wash racks. Monday of next week I’m bringing in our first cows. Any questions so far?”

“Yeah.” Sweet Daddy raised his hand. Steve could already see the blisters on his palms beginning to pucker.

“Yes, Doctor,” Newman said with menace.

“Right, yeah. So, Doctor, do we get first choice on the steaks?”

Everybody but Newman laughed. He snarled and started to move forward. The vet stopped him.

“Good question. Not for a long time. It takes time to build a herd, especially a show herd like this one. But I promise you if you’re still here when we slaughter our first cow, you guys will definitely get steaks.”

Everybody cheered.

“Anybody here know how to ride a horse?”

Steve raised his hand. So did a couple of other men whose names he didn’t know.

“What kind?”

“Just horses,” Steve said. “Nothing special.” The last thing he wanted was for these guys to know he’d played polo.

One of the others admitted to riding horses as a child, and another had ridden occasionally many years earlier.

“Okay. The horses you will be riding—” she waited until they’d settled down “—are cutting horses. I guarantee they are smarter and can move faster on a cow than you can think. You will fall off. A lot. You’ll also learn how to take care of horses. That should give you a skill that will be readily usable in this area, given the number of horses we have and the lack of knowledgeable stable help. You won’t be doing much riding until we get set up, and then just straightforward riding, and not much herding. Learning to stay on a cutting horse when he starts ducking from side to side to work a cow will take some time.”

She rubbed her hands together. “Now, how about we go over names? I have a list, but if I go strictly by that, I’ll never keep you straight. If you introduce yourselves, I probably won’t remember your name right away, but I’ll try. Let’s start with you.” She pointed to the giant. Steve had sat behind him on the bus and beside him at meals, but he had never heard him speak.

The big man hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

“I’ll start,” Steve said. The giant gave him a grateful look. “Steve Chadwick. I’m here for—”

“No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what you did. I only care what you do from this point on. Clear?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Clear.”

She nodded and pointed to the man at Steve’s left, instead of back to the giant, who stood at Steve’s right.

“Elroy Long, at your service. Call me Sweet Daddy.” The wiry little black man sketched a deep bow and grinned at her and then at the others. They snickered.

She moved on.

“Joseph Jasper, ma’am—uh, Doctor. They call me Slow Rise. I ain’t young, but I’m strong. Grew up on a farm. Worked cattle most of my life. Rode some years ago. Had my own place.”

“Wonderful.”

The fourth man was completely bald. Like the rest of them, he wore jeans and a work shirt, but all the visible skin, pate included, was covered with elaborate tattoos. Most were prison tattoos. Steve could tell from the black and blue ink and the lack of skill. Some, however, were colorful and beautifully done. A red-and-yellow dragon curled from the back of his right hand all the way up his arm, or at least as far as the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt allowed Steve to see.

“Gil Jones,” he said.

Steve thought he’d look more at home on a motorcycle.

Dr. Grayson waited, but Jones said nothing more.

Next to him stood a very young black man in a stocking cap. He was as tall as a basketball center but scrawny, as though the bone growth had outstripped his muscles. “Robert Dalrymple,” the boy said. His tone and expression were sulky.

She inclined her head and smiled at him. Newman growled in the background. “You rode horses?”

“My granddaddy had a couple of racking horses,” the kid said. “Ain’t been on no horse since.”

“Let’s hope the skill stayed with you.”

Finally she’d come back around to the giant. “You’re our last man,” she said with surprising gentleness. “What should I call you?”

He raised his head and glanced around at the others. “My name is Bigelow Little, ma’am.” He sighed. “See, folks call me Big.”

Sweet Daddy guffawed. “Big Little? Look at the size of him. Word up, man, you a freak.”

Big hunched his broad shoulders again and ducked his head between them like a turtle.

“That’s enough!” Dr. Grayson snapped. “Big, I’m glad to have you on this team. May I call you Big, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Newman snapped.

“It’s okay. When you work as hard as we’re going to work, we can’t stand on ceremony. Now, gentlemen, I’m going to go get the tractor, and we are going to clean out as much of this barn as we can manage before quitting time.”

For a civilian and a woman, Steve thought, she handled herself extremely well. She hadn’t allowed Newman to walk over her, and she’d shown real compassion toward Big Little, who was obviously used to being taunted. There hadn’t been a lot of kindness in Steve’s life these past years, and he realized how much he missed it. And from a beautiful woman…

Allowing Dr. Grayson to become a distraction would be a mistake. He’d have to watch himself.

ELEANOR WAS MILDLY ANNOYED when she found that the men had to march all the way back to the mess hall for lunch. She decided to ask the warden if they could bring their lunches with them in future. Although the cows wouldn’t require a great deal of coddling, she’d need the men on site for as many hours as possible during the day if she was to teach them.

She drove to her cottage for a quick lunch, looked at the pile of packing boxes and the small empty rooms with dismay, and wound up eating her salami-and-cheese sandwich standing at the counter in the galley kitchen before she drove back to the barn.

The men had returned before her. Like soldiers detailed to dig latrines, they didn’t seem anxious to start without her. They lounged on the grass, enjoying the late-October weather. She heard Sweet Daddy groan as she got out of her truck, and she motioned him over to her. He smirked at the others and sauntered toward her truck.

“Move it!” the CO snapped. She knew from Precious that Newman had a reputation for sadism, and that his nickname was Lard Ass. She doubted he’d be pleased if she called him that.

Sweet Daddy’s saunter changed to a lope.

“Hold out your hands,” Eleanor said when he reached her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I noticed you seemed to be having difficulty earlier. I don’t know how you’ve managed to avoid manual labor thus far in your sentence, but at the moment you’re courting a bad infection in those blisters. Possibly some of the rest of you are, as well. Mr. Newman, I believe I asked that these men be issued heavy leather work gloves.”

Every head turned toward the guard. For a moment he said nothing, simply glared at Eleanor with angry, piggy eyes. “Yeah. Some kind of mix-up.”

Eleanor inclined her head. “You don’t by any chance have the gloves with you, do you? It would certainly be easy to forget to give them out.”

Newman glared at her.

“Oh, well, I can call the supply office on my cell phone. No doubt they’ll issue the gloves in the morning,” Eleanor said. She kept her voice mild, but she could see Newman knew a threat when he heard one. She was furious with herself for not checking on the gloves earlier.

She also didn’t know why she guessed that Newman might have the gloves, but one look at his enraged face told her she was right. She had to fight to keep her eyes on his. He looked away first. Good thing. She was starting to shake.

“Yeah. Maybe I forgot I had ’em.”

“Perfectly understandable. But I’d appreciate your distributing them now. Elroy, let me clean those hands and put some bandages on them.”

“And I get to sit down, right?”

“No. You’ll be fine with gloves.”

She heard the snickers from the other men. Sweet Daddy curled his lip and threw her a glance of such malevolence that she stepped back a pace.

She treated his hands and watched as Newman gave him a pair of heavy gloves, which he pulled on with a grimace.

“Anybody else have bad blisters?” she asked. No one answered.

“Fine, then put on your gloves and let’s go back to work. I think we can finish cleaning out this muck before quitting time if we really try.” She knew she sounded like a schoolmarm with a bunch of kindergartners, but she couldn’t seem to strike the right note with them.

The way they watched her and moved around her reminded her of Rick Hazard’s remark about her whip and chair. It was like being in the midst of a pride of lions. She had no way of knowing whether they’d had their fill of prey or not.

Newman couldn’t have forgotten he had those gloves. He had withheld them out of pure meanness. And for half the day he’d gotten away with it. She’d be more careful in the future.

She squared her shoulders and walked ahead of the men toward the tractor, which sat on the concrete pad in front of the barn. They followed.

Without warning, she felt a pair of muscular arms around her waist. She was lifted off her feet and swung violently away from the tractor.

“Hey!” Newman yelled.

She was hoisted across Steve Chadwick’s chest. His cheek brushed hers. She could feel the stubble and smell the musky scent of his sweat.

“Snake!” Big screamed.

From her position on Steve’s hip she looked back at the concrete. In the shadow cast by the tractor curled the largest copperhead she’d ever seen. One pace more and she’d have stepped on it. It had been sleeping, but now it lifted its triangular head and prepared to defend itself.

“Damn!” Newman hauled out his gun.

Steve said quietly, “If you plan to shoot at that concrete, I’m sure the doctor and the rest of us would appreciate the chance to take cover from the ricochet behind one of the posts.”

“How else we gonna kill it, smart ass?” the CO hissed.

Gil Jones, as though his dragon tattoo conferred immunity from copperhead venom, took one step to the side, reached down, grasped the copperhead right behind its skull, hefted it one-handed while with the other he kept the writhing tail from wrapping itself around his arm. He took a couple of steps toward the open meadow and hurled the snake end over end the length of a football field into the tall weeds.

He threw an arrogant glance at Newman and returned to his place in the group.

“Thanks. You can put me down now,” Eleanor gasped.

“Right,” Steve said, and let her slide down his body.

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her throat. Her skin tingled where his hands had touched her. Fear. The residue of fear. That was all it was.

To cover her nervousness, she went to Gil. “Thanks. How on earth did you learn to handle snakes? I have to work with them from time to time, but I’m still terrified of the poisonous ones.”

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he looked across the meadow to the general area where the snake had fallen and said so softly that she could barely hear him, “My people’s into snake handling. They say that if you got enough faith, you can drink poison and handle snakes and not be hurt.”

“Have you been bitten often?”

“Hell, no. I had faith, all right, faith that if they sank those fangs into me I was dead. I can throw a rattler clear to the Mississippi River. First chance I got, I run away, and I ain’t never been back.”

He smiled. Eleanor thought it was even more chilling than his normal stony expression.

“I was a great disappointment to my daddy,” he finished.

Not for the first time, Eleanor wondered if she was doing the right thing by not finding out what the members of her “team” had done to wind up in prison. Maybe imagining was worse than reality. Even if Gil looked like an ax murderer, he might be inside for nothing more sinister than stealing motorcycles.

She realized that Big hadn’t moved since the snake was spotted, and his face was ashen. If such a man could cower, that was what he was doing. “Big?”

He made an inchoate sound deep in his throat. He was petrified.

“Big man, scared of a little ol’ snake,” Sweet Daddy crooned.

“Hush, Elroy,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t notice you stepping forward to deal with it.” She touched Big’s shoulder. “It’s all right, he’s gone.”

“He’s out there someplace. He could come back.”

“Unlikely. And hey, we’ve got Gil to protect us, right, Gil?”

Gil shrugged.

“What if there’s more of them in there?”

“Too late in the season for a nest,” Gil answered. “We need us some big ol’ king snakes—keep the bad ones down.”

Until now, Robert Dalrymple had stood silent at the edge of the group. Now he took a step toward Gil. “Snake is snake. I see me another one, I’m gonna chop it in bits.”

“Yeah.” Newman said. “Hey, Jones, why the Sam Hill didn’t you kill the thing when you had it?”

“Got a right to live same as us. Just trying to find someplace warm before dark. This late in the year they get sluggish, can’t run away from you.”

Eleanor hesitated, then turned to Steve. She couldn’t hold his eyes. “Thank you again.”

“My pleasure.”

That deep voice as much as the words sent a jolt of heat through her. The others sounded as though they came either from the country or the “mean streets,” but Steve spoke like an educated man. He must be one of those white-collar criminals. He didn’t seem to belong with the others.

“So, barring unforeseen critters, let’s get back to work,” Eleanor said. She looked carefully around and in the tractor before she climbed aboard.

“I can run a tractor, ma’am,” Slow Rise said. “No call for you to have to do it.”

“Thanks, Slow Rise, you can take over tomorrow or when I’m not here. Today I’d rather have you on the ground directing where to drive and how deep to dig.”

“Yes’m.”

They worked through the warm afternoon without further incident. Sweet Daddy kept up a litany of complaints, but the others worked in near silence. At one point she looked around for Newman and found him propped against the side of the barn in the sun sound asleep. Great protection. Any of the men could have overpowered him. She didn’t wake him. She’d already made an enemy of him.

Maybe she could get another CO assigned to her. Preferably one that wasn’t vicious or ill-tempered—and one that didn’t sleep on the job.

She was beginning to feel more comfortable with the inmates—at least some of them—than she did with the guard.

ELEANOR LOOKED DOWN at her grimy arm and brushed the dirt off the face of her wristwatch. Four-thirty. The men were supposed to work from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon—later if she needed them for something special.

Since Warden Portree agreed to let the men work nights and weekends when necessary—the animals would have to be fed and watered Saturdays, Sundays and holidays—she had to agree to see that they were properly checked in and out of their dormitories. And to have a CO with them. “I’ll set up a roster,” she’d told him.

Today the men must be completely exhausted. They weren’t yet used to the hard physical labor they’d been doing for hours. With the exception of Sweet Daddy, who she was pretty sure goofed off every time her eyes weren’t on him, the inmates had worked harder and longer than she would have believed possible.

Tomorrow she’d have a private talk with Sweet Daddy. He’d either do his share of the work or she’d find someone else who would. This evening she wanted to give them all a break.

Everybody was filthy and sweating. She was certain her own face was streaked with grime. All she wanted was a shower. No doubt so did the men.

But could they have showers? They might only be allowed to shower on certain days of the week. If so, she’d have to get Warden Portree to make an exception for her crew. Tonight she’d request an exception from Newman. He’d better not refuse, or she’d see that Ernest knew how he’d slept on the job.

The pile of rotted manure and shavings that they’d dug out of the barn was as tall as Big, and looked rich enough to nourish the weakest vegetables. Portree should be pleased about that. He could never buy fertilizer one-tenth as rich for his hydroponic vegetable gardens.

But he could darn well have somebody else move it from the back rear of the barn to his gardens.

“Okay, guys, let’s knock off.” She leaned back in the tractor seat and pulled the kill switch for the engine. “I’ve got a cooler full of soft drinks in my truck if you’re interested.”

“Got beer?” asked Gil. “I could go for a brew.”

She shook her head. “You know better than that.”

Newman grumbled. “You got no call to supply sodas.”

“Sure I do. Big, how about you help me bring over the cooler, then we can all sit in the shade.”

He ducked his head and followed obediently. The cooler was large and full of semi-melted ice and soft drinks, but Big hefted it as though it were a roll of paper towels and carried it back to the concrete pad in front of the barn.

The shed roof over the pad projected ten feet or so beyond the walls so that trucks and stock could be unloaded in bad weather. At the moment that side of the barn was in shade, and the evening was already cooling, but the concrete still radiated warmth. She considered suggesting they bring the cooler inside. The men, however, seemed to prefer being outside—anywhere outside—to being within walls.

She handed out drinks, then realized as she took one herself that she’d have to sit beside someone. Even so small an action could be misconstrued. She sat on the cooler, instead.

“Plenty more.”

The men had simply opened their throats and poured the soda down. She stood, bent over, and realized all they could see was her upended denim-covered rear. She straightened quickly. “Big, why don’t you hand them out?”

He seemed grateful to be chosen and shuffled over.

When she sat again, she said, “Here’s the plan for tomorrow.” Groans. “The worst part is over. Tomorrow you’ll be helping the painters, setting up the office and the storeroom, and rebuilding the fences that divide the pastures. The old barbed-wire fences are twenty years old but still in fairly good shape in most places. The posts are concrete and broken ones have been replaced during the years. We’ll still have to walk the fence lines, mark the few posts that may need to be replaced, restring wire and enclose the bull’s stall and paddock in electric fencing to keep him in.”

“Just like us,” Robert said.

She caught her breath. He was right, but what could she say to that? “This electric fence will simply give him a jolt when he touches it.”

“Yeah, up at Big Mountain, we touch the fence, we get a lot more than a jolt.”

“Will it stay on all the time, ma’am?” Slow Rise asked.

“Good question. Depends on the bull we get, as I’m sure you know, since you raised cattle.”

“Yes’m.”

She turned to the others. “Bulls are as individual as people. Some of them will test the electric fence a couple of times and never go near it again. Others will try it every time they go out to pasture. Still others will take the jolt and keep right on going—straight through.”

“And some jump over.” Slow Rise grinned at her.

“If we get one like that, we send him back where he came from. Once a bull learns to jump out, there’s no way to keep him in.”

Robert again. “Come on, man. Bulls can’t jump.”

“Hell, they can’t,” Slow Rise said. “Why, I’ve seen a bull jump a five-foot fence soon as look at you.”

“Nah, old man, you’re crazy.”

Slow Rise surged to his feet with blinding speed for a man who had to be over sixty. In an instant he stood over Robert, his fists clenched, his face dangerously red. “You take that back.”

The kid raised his hands in front of him. “Hey, man, chill, okay?”

“Sit down.” Newman’s voice was dangerously hard and flat.

The moment passed, but Eleanor realized how close to the surface violence flowed among these men. She glanced over at Steve, who hadn’t moved, his knees drawn up, his fine-boned hands dangling between them.

He was watching her, possibly had been watching her throughout the exchange. She felt her skin flush and looked away quickly. The connection between them had been—was—visceral. As though they were alone. She shivered and knew he’d seen her reaction.

“Okay, guys, drop the empties into the cooler, and, Big, would you put it back in my truck for me? Thanks.”

“Up.” Newman prodded Sweet Daddy with the end of his baton.

“Ow, man, ain’t you got nothin’ better to do with that thing?”

“Don’t you sass me, little man.”

The men stood and formed a ragged line.

“Oh, La—Mr. Newman—the men will be allowed to shower and change into fresh clothes when they get back to the compound, won’t they?”

“Huh?”

“Let me rephrase that. They—we—all smell like goats. We’re filthy. They should shower and change before they come in contact with any of the other inmates, not only for comfort but for health reasons.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Steve caught her eye. He raised one eyebrow and nodded almost imperceptibly. She raised her chin. Apparently she’d done something right, and though she shouldn’t give a darn what Steve thought of her or her decisions, she felt a glow from his approval.

She climbed wearily into her truck and watched as the men trudged up the hill toward the compound.

She’d expected them to turn from mere inmates into people to her, but not this soon and, in one case especially, not so personally.

“YOU BASTARDS THINK you gonna have it easy ’cause she’s a civilian and a female. You ain’t, not with me around,” Mike Newman said. “Showers! Shee-ut.”

“But she said we—” Robert clamped his mouth shut as Steve’s hand fell hard on his forearm.

“She said, she said. What she said don’t mean squat. What I say’s what counts.”

“If we show up dirty in the morning, she’s gonna be pissed.” Slow Rise’s voice was plaintive.

“Shut your yap, old man. Or you gonna find out what this here stick’s for.”

“He’s right, you know,” Steve said mildly, and knew the moment the words left his mouth that he shouldn’t have spoken.

Newman already disliked him. He’d recognized that immediately. Steve tried to be just one of the cons, but he’d never managed to get the shuffle down quite right. Newman saw attitude and arrogance in him and hated both.

He was also looking for revenge after Dr. Grayson called him about the gloves. Someone had been almost certain to take a beating over that. Steve had just broken the cardinal rule of prisoners the world over. He’d called attention to himself.

“You saying I’m wrong? Huh? Yeah, you saying ol’ Mike Newman is wrong. My, my. Well, I do apologize. Sure wouldn’t want to trample on no civil rights of any of you gentlemen, now would I?”

The last rays of sunshine had given way to twilight. Steve knew the blow was coming, but not where or with how much force. He tried to brace himself, but he wasn’t fast enough. The steel baton slashed across the backs of his knees and dropped him. As he fell forward and gritted his teeth to keep from howling, the baton slammed across his kidneys.

Now he couldn’t howl. He couldn’t even breathe. The pain was electric, as though he’d been hit with a cattle prod rather than a baton. He tried to gather strength to roll over, to resist somehow, or at least to present a smaller target, but Newman was nothing if not expert in delivering pain.

Newman could crack his spine with that baton, and there was nothing, not a damn thing, that Steve could do to stop him.

“Enough.” The voice was Gil’s.

God, Steve thought, now Newman would go for Gil. Although Steve barely knew the man, he didn’t want to be responsible for another man’s pain. He groaned and tried to struggle to his hands and knees.

He expected to hear the whish of the baton, to feel it across his shoulders or his hips.

Instead, Newman said with the kind of bluster that usually covers fear, “Ain’t nobody tellin’ me I’m wrong.”

Steve felt hands under his armpits. Sweet Daddy on one side and Slow Rise on the other barely managed to hold him up. His back felt as though it had been broken, but he could still feel his legs, so he supposed it hadn’t.

Newman tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled. “Hell, even when I’m wrong, I’m right. You remember that. You go on, git, and take your damned showers.”

Steve didn’t turn around. He didn’t think he could move without help, but after a couple of steps he managed to keep his legs straight, to put one foot in front of the other. He gulped in air with every step. He felt like an old man who’d had a stroke.

“Man, you stupid.” Sweet Daddy sounded put out. “Man hates yo’ ass, fool. Next time he gonna kill you.”

Steve turned to Gil. “Thanks,” he managed to choke out.

Gil shrugged. “Hey, man, the bastard kills you, we gonna be up to our asses with Internal Affairs and union reps. I’m not lying for Newman. Easier to keep you alive.”

“Yeah.” Steve managed a faint grin. They reached the door of their dormitory.

Originally an old army barracks, the room now held cots for twenty men. So far only fifteen had been assigned. A two-drawer chest with a lock sat at the end of each cot, and beside it, a single bedside table with a lamp. No posters on the walls, no personal possessions in the open where they could be stolen, nothing to enliven the drab green of the walls or cover up the scars on the old wooden floors. At the far end of the room were latrines and a gang shower that could hold ten men at a time.

The men who were already lounging on their bunks waiting for the call to dinner looked up curiously, then quickly dropped their heads back to their books or porn magazines. Something had obviously happened. Nobody wanted to know what.

“Can you get your clothes off without help?” Slow Rise asked.

Steve nodded. “I think so. I’ll be better after I stand in the shower awhile.”

And he was. He managed to carry his own tray through the chow line and sit down at one of the long tables to eat. As usual, he didn’t speak, and afterward walked slowly and hesitantly to his bunk, lay down and prayed his kidney damage wasn’t permanent. He knew he was leaching blood, probably would be for several days.

Work tomorrow would be difficult if not impossible, but he didn’t dare go to the infirmary. He’d have to explain what had happened or make something up. He suspected the people at the infirmary would take one look at his bruises and recognize precisely what had happened to him.

That would not be a good thing. Either Newman would make up some excuse to deprive him of the good time he’d accrued, or Newman would be brought in and disciplined. Then he’d really be out to get Steve. Either way Steve would lose.

He couldn’t tell Eleanor, either—he already thought of her as Eleanor. She’d tear into Newman with the same effect. Newman would take out any dressing-down he got on the men.

Most of them could fend for themselves. Sweet Daddy was small, but he was wiry and fast. He was also cagey. He usually talked his way out of trouble, or whined his way out, if need be.

Obviously Newman had decided not to mess with Gil Jones. Steve had no idea what Gil had done to land behind bars, but he suspected this wasn’t his first trip. From the tattoos, Steve guessed he was well allied with others in the prison. Newman apparently knew it, too. Together Gil’s people could take on Newman or any of the other guards, take them out if necessary, and nobody would ever know who did the actual killing. Best to keep on Gil’s good side.

Slow Rise was simply a decent man who had a bad temper. Prison had made it worse. He was also an aging con among young men. He had to seem invulnerable to survive.

Robert was an unknown quantity. He could be a kid who went for joy rides in other people’s cars, or a gang member who had gunned down someone on an opposing gang. Steve was fairly certain drugs played some part in his sentence, but whether Robert was a consumer or a supplier, Steve had no way of knowing.

And Big? Despite his size he seemed like a shy, frightened child. Forrest Gump in extra, extra large. If so, why was he in prison?

Steve had taught reading at Big Mountain. He’d written letters for illiterate cons, helped with their business problems. Many knew they owed him. If and when he got a chance to talk to any of them, he’d try to get some information about the team members he did not know. Inside the fences, knowledge was definitely power.

He’d been offered a job teaching here, as well, but working inside the compound all day didn’t serve his purposes. He had to seem trustworthy on his own, away from the group, even if that meant passing up chances to escape in favor of better chances down the road.

He had always worked out and, besides polo, had played handball, tennis and golf. He’d run in charity races. He was already in shape. When he discovered the weight room at Big Mountain, he put on twenty pounds in six months—all of it muscle.

One con had tried to attack him with a knife, but Steve had countered him successfully and won grudging respect. His knowledge of business eventually won him some measure of protection, as well. As long as he kept his mouth shut, he was moderately safe at Big Mountain.

The prison farm, however, was a new environment. He didn’t understand the rules or know many of the people, and they didn’t know him. He’d met sadistic guards before, but not one who had an unreasoning personal grudge against him.

Eleanor had to be the catalyst. She was the outsider, the female among males. A peahen for a Lard Ass Peacock to preen in front of. Newman’s ego had taken a beating from her. Maybe he’d picked Steve for his scapegoat because he and Eleanor seemed to have an affinity.

The CO was right. Steve and Eleanor did have a connection. Steve had felt it the moment his eyes met hers in that parking lot. Nothing that happened since had changed his mind. Today, when he’d snatched her away from the snake, he’d felt her in his marrow. Newman had punished him tonight not so much for touching Eleanor as for Eleanor’s response. He’d nearly forgotten what a woman’s soft voice sounded like, how she thought, the way she felt.

He’d have to be more careful.

The problem was that he wasn’t certain he could be. It wasn’t simply that she was an attractive woman, someone with the same kind of background as his. Not even that she was the first woman he’d touched in three years.

No, not even that.

If he had met her at a cocktail party or a polo game before…well, before, he knew he would have felt the same pull. She stirred his blood, yes, but more than that, she stirred his imagination. He could hear her voice in his head, see the gentle smile she’d given Big. Wished that smile had been for him.

He couldn’t afford to lose his objectivity, his separateness, his focus.

He was going to escape and kill a man. He needed to husband his anger, hone his bitterness, remember his grief.

He did not want to feel anything but hatred.