“He was a good man.”
A convict who was also a good man? Virgil didn’t believe there was any way to be both. He’d tried. But Peyton’s belief in her father gave him hope that, accurately or not, his sister might be able to remember him in the same light. “Is your dad the reason you went into corrections?”
Peyton offered him a fleeting smile. “That, and I thought I could make a difference.”
Holding his breath for fear she’d think he was coming on to her, he covered her hand with his. “Maybe you are,” he said, then forced himself to let go and turn away. “I guess we’d better get started, huh?”
“This is Buzz Criven.” Peyton slid the picture onto her dining table.
Instead of sitting next to her, Virgil had chosen the seat across from her. Ever since he’d touched her, briefly, while they were out on the deck, he’d been careful to keep his distance, so careful that he stepped wide just to avoid brushing up against her.
Peyton told herself she should be glad of his caution. He was showing her respect. But the way he behaved had the opposite effect. His reluctance made her crave physical contact, if only to see how he might react to it.
Lifting the picture, Virgil studied its subject. “Rosenburg mentioned him in the meeting yesterday. He’s getting out soon.”
“But he’ll be inside for the next thirty days. I’m thinking it might be smart to make him your cell mate. Maybe, since he’s a short-timer, he’ll be more prone to recruit you right away, to help you along, to talk about his activities, that sort of thing.”
“He has power inside?”
“Some. Like the Nuestra Family, the Hells Fury have modeled their organization after the military. Buzz would be considered a captain.”
He put down the picture. “Who’s the general?”
“We believe it’s Detric Whitehead. We’ve kept him in the SHU for the past ten years, trying to curb his activities, but somehow he manages to get his orders wherever he needs them to go. This man—” she pulled out another picture “—Weston Jager, or Westy as they call him, is pretty far up the chain of command. He’s in gen pop, so you’ll meet him when you go in. If it wasn’t Whitehead who put out the hit on Judge Garcia, it could’ve been Weston.”
Virgil rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his left hand. “These guys are skinheads?”
“The Hells Fury are actually a hybrid—part racist skinhead, part street gang and part prison gang. In recent years, they haven’t been as worried about their supremacist ideology as making a profit from their illegal activities. Without strong leadership—and the opposition posed by the Nuestra Family, which unifies them—I would’ve expected them to divide into two camps, the way Public Enemy Number 1 did years ago, with the true supremacists on one side and the crime-for-profit supporters on the other. But…that hasn’t happened. Whitehead keeps them tough and focused.”
“Are there any PEN1 in Pelican Bay?”
He hadn’t met her eyes since they sat down, and that bothered Peyton. She didn’t know why. Maybe it wounded her ego that he could ignore her so easily. “There were, but that was a few years ago. For the most part, the Hells Fury have absorbed them, as well as all the other smaller white gangs.”
He thumbed through the photographs and stats she’d collected on the known members of the Hells Fury. “Their activities are mostly drug-related?”
“They don’t limit themselves. They’re involved in drugs, yes, but also assault, murder, attempted murder, prostitution. Even white-collar crimes like fraud, counterfeiting and identity theft.”
“Where’d they get their start?”
“In the Texas prison system, in the mid-eighties. They’ve grown considerably since then.”
He looked up, caught her eye, but glanced away. “I can’t believe they’ve been able to gain such a stronghold here, of all places. According to Wallace, everyone knows this is Nuestra Family turf.”
“That’s partly why the Fury have grown so fast. Operation Black Widow made a sizable dent in the NF. Since then, anyone hoping to keep them in check, anyone who needs protection from them, joins the Hells Fury.”
“And what’s the NF’s reaction to having another gang rise up to challenge them?”
She noticed a scar on his forearm. Long and jagged, it looked as if it came from a defensive wound. She couldn’t help wondering when he’d received it. “They’re not happy, as you might’ve guessed. These two gangs are always on the brink of war. We keep them apart as much as possible, but that doesn’t stop the violence. It seems as if someone from one side or the other is getting assaulted practically every day.”
He spread out the profiles of the most important members. “What’s the death toll?”
“This year?” She sat back. “A handful, which is damn good considering there’ve been nearly a hundred assaults since January. It says a lot about our medical staff.”
His gaze met hers again and finally held. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but suddenly the men in the Hells Fury felt no more dangerous than their pictures. She was mesmerized by Virgil’s eyes. The pain inside them was unsettling and yet it seemed at home there, even added an unfathomable quality that made him all the more mysterious.
Clearing his throat, he went back to the materials strewn in front of him. “What symbols do they use?”
“As with most supremacist groups, you’ll see the swastika. More specific to the Hells Fury is the HF or a pitchfork.” She fished out a picture of a man with HF inked in fancy script on his pectoral muscle. “The letters fury might be tattooed on the knuckles or across the back.” She showed him that, too. “But their most consistent symbol seems to be a satanic S that looks more like a lightning bolt.” She couldn’t find the photograph she’d planned to bring of the S, so she drew it. “I heard one man say it represents the Destroyer.”
“It’s also the weapon of Zeus,” he muttered.
“You’re familiar with Greek mythology?”
“I’ve checked out a few books.”
“Not what I’d expect you to read.”
“I didn’t have a lot of choices. If it was available to me, I read it. What’re their colors?”
“Orange and black. Ghoulish, huh?”
It was growing late, and Peyton was getting hungry. She could send these files to the motel with Virgil, let him finish on his own. Or she could invite him to dinner and they could continue together.
She didn’t see any reason either of them had to spend the evening alone. “I was going to make some pesto pasta tonight. Would you like to join me?”
She expected an eager response. What man who’d been eating prison rations for fourteen years would turn down a home-cooked meal? A chance to eat all he wanted? But he surprised her by rising to his feet. “No, thank you. I should get back.”
He’d spoken as curtly as though he had an important meeting, but she knew he had nothing scheduled. Nothing until Tuesday. “You’re choosing whatever you’ve got in that grocery bag Wallace provided over my garlic bread and pasta?”
“There’s no need for you to put yourself out.”
“Cooking for two isn’t much different than cooking for one.”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
Refusing to lower his guard, he’d started already walking toward the door.
“Are you trying to prove a point, Virgil?”
He stopped. “What point would that be?”
“That you don’t need anyone? That you don’t want anyone? That you’re fine on your own?”
“I am fine on my own.”
She pursed her lips. “A simple dinner might threaten that? Threaten you?”