Unable to argue with that, Westy sobered. “I’ll need more than what you’ve told me.”
“Like what?”
“Some way to be sure. I don’t want to get Deech involved in this, have him risk his ass by ordering a hit if this is all some bullshit you’ve dreamed up to make a quick buck.”
They’d reached the SHU. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Westy stopped before it was too late to talk. “Wait a second…”
“What?”
“It’s gonna be easy.”
John held the door. “What’s gonna be easy?”
Westy tapped his head as if he’d just had the most brilliant idea in the world. “Do as I say and we’ll know whether he’s a snitch within twenty-four hours.”
24
After leaving the infirmary, Peyton had returned to her office. She’d been too unsettled to go home and face Wallace and had needed a place to relax for a few minutes. But then she’d started going through the stack of items awaiting her attention and wound up working another two hours. Fatigue weighed heavily as she packed up to leave.
Her phone rang. Curious as to who would even know she was here, besides the skeleton medical staff working graveyard and the people she’d passed coming and going from the prison, she checked caller ID. It was an internal call.
“Hello?”
“Chief Deputy? It’s Sergeant Hutchinson.”
Peyton made a face. McCalley had given John the word that he was no longer under disciplinary action. He’d left her a voice mail notifying her that it had been handled. But she didn’t feel good about it, so she didn’t want to talk to John. “Yes?”
She wondered if he could hear the dislike in her voice.
“I just transferred Weston Jager to the SHU as you requested.” He sounded like the old John, the one who’d tried so hard to befriend her. But she didn’t understand why he felt he had to call her to report this. He had a line supervisor.
“Thank you. How does his face look?”
He chuckled. “Like he’s been hit by a train. That new guy, he really packs a punch.”
Peyton thought of Virgil’s knife wound. “I think he sustained his share of damage.”
“Still, for three on one, he handled himself pretty good.”
Irritated without fully understanding why, she clenched her teeth. “John, I’ve got to go. I’m exhausted. I was about to leave.”
“I’ll let you get some rest,” he said. “I just called to tell you that Weston passed me a note as I was moving him.”
“A note? What’d it say?” She covered a yawn. “That we have the wrong guy?”
“To ask you to come see him in his new cell as soon as possible.”
She didn’t want to go back inside the prison. “Did this note say why?”
“It said he has something very important to tell you.”
“Then why didn’t he share it with you?”
“I can’t say. Maybe he didn’t want me to hear. He was trying to keep his request to see you on the down low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to find out. I don’t know if it makes any difference to you, but I got the impression it might be worth your time.”
“Don’t tell me the prospect of spending the rest of his sentence in the SHU has caused a change of heart about his gang activities.”
“That’s possible. Maybe he’s ready to debrief.”
She doubted it. Things were never that easy. Not with someone as hardened as Weston. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she said. “But I’ll stop by before I go. Anything else?”
“Nothing, just a quick thank-you.”
“For…?”
“Agreeing to waive disciplinary action,” he said. “I’m really not the kind of person that whole thing made me out to be. And I want you to know I’m going to do everything I can to prove it.”
She felt too guilty taking any of the credit for his reprieve, or even letting him believe she’d been in agreement with it. “I’m afraid that wasn’t me, John. That was Fischer. He overrode my recommendation.”
“I see.” The stilted John was back. “Well, however it came down, I’m grateful.”
“You caught a break. Make it count, huh?”
“Thanks for your faith in me,” he said.
The sarcasm in his parting words echoed in her head long after she hung up. There was something about him she didn’t like, although she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. But maybe she was being too hard on him. He’d tried to be nice to her. And anyone could make a mistake, especially in the heat of the moment.
She just hoped a simple mistake was the extent of it. Because, inside a prison, mistakes like that could cost lives.
Skin’s sister was the spitting image of him. And that only made what Pretty Boy had to do harder. He couldn’t believe he was finally coming face-to-face with her and it had to be under these circumstances. Over the years, he’d imagined their meeting so differently. Since his own family didn’t give a damn about him, Skin had been generous enough to share her letters and pictures. Pretty Boy felt as if he knew her, and he would’ve liked her even if she wasn’t attractive, simply because he admired Skin so much. There’d even been a time when he’d thought maybe, just maybe, they’d wind up together someday. The idea of becoming Virgil’s brother-in-law, of helping take care of Laurel and her children, made him feel useful, as if he belonged.
And now he was going to kill her? It’d only been eighteen months since he and Virgil were cellies in Tucson. Shortly after he was paroled, Virgil was transferred to Florence and talk of his exoneration began to swirl. Pretty Boy remembered how eagerly he’d embraced the possibility because it meant they’d be able to see each other more often. The future had looked bright—until everything reversed itself. Now no amount of wishing would change it back. Skin had betrayed The Crew—betrayed him. He had to believe that or he couldn’t do what had to be done. The others believed it, didn’t they? Duty, loyalty, the oath he’d given demanded he retaliate. And if he didn’t follow through, he’d be the next to die. Or he’d have to go on the run and ramble around America with no friends, no support group, no job—always looking over his shoulder for fear someone from his past would catch up with him.
If only he’d been able to see this coming….
“Oh, boy, look what I found.” Ink squeezed past him to get into the room. “Pretty, ain’t she?”
Laurel shrank into the corner.
“You gonna tell me you haven’t heard from your brother now?” Ink sauntered closer. “He’s obviously up to somethin’ if you’re hangin’ out with a U.S. marshal.”
“Wh-where is the marshal?” she stammered, shaking.
“Where do you think?” Ink responded.
Terrified though she was, she glared up at him with the same stubborn defiance Pretty Boy had seen so often in Skin. “He’s d-dead?”
“Yep.” He dusted off his hands. “Pointblank made sure of that.”
“And the l-loss of a man’s life means n-nothing to you?”
Ink grinned. “Nothing at all. One minute he was creeping out to check on a noise. The next…” He whistled as he drew an imaginary line across his throat.
What little color there was in Laurel’s face drained away. “You’re an animal, you know th-that? You make the p-perfect argument for c-capital punishment.”
Pretty Boy resisted the urge to intercede as Ink yanked out his gun and strode forward. He told himself to let this happen, to get it over with so they could go back to California and he could try to forget. His situation gave him no other choice.
But Ink didn’t fire. He paused, glanced at the beds, then looked in the closet. “Where’re the kids?”