“You’re not listenin’ to them, are you?” Buzz grumbled. “That bullshit you were spoutin’ before, you wouldn’t really consider it.”
Virgil shrugged. “I’ll consider whatever serves my purposes.” Knowing the HF already suspected him made it impossible to act interested in joining them. His only choice was to play hard to get, to force them to pursue him. If they would. This route would take more time than he’d hoped to be inside this hellhole. But from what Virgil could see, the only way to convince the HF that he was legit was to turn away the very thing they’d expect him to want.
Buzz lowered his voice. “I told you. I’m gonna talk to Westy. I’m gonna get you in.”
Fortunately, Buzz didn’t seem to be as suspicious of him as Weston was. That gave Virgil hope. “Westy’s in the SHU, man.”
“Don’t matter. I’ll get a message to him. Or Detric. Deech is the one who’ll decide, anyway.”
“How will you communicate with him? He’s in the SHU, too.”
His eyes flicked to two guards who were talking in the corner. “How do you think? I’ll hire a little help.”
Virgil needed to learn which guards could be trusted and by whom, so he ignored the growing pain in his gut and paid close attention. “Those guys will help you out?”
“For the right price. They don’t do it ’cause they like us.”
Since they weren’t close enough for him to read name tags, Virgil memorized their faces. “Good to know, in case I change my mind.”
“So you’re interested?”
“Not right now.”
Buzz’s face fell. “What? You can’t be serious! You’re gonna need a posse in here. So what if you can fight? No one wants to be friendless.”
“If you think I’m willing to stab guys for the Hells Fury you’re crazier than I am.”
“It’s better than stabbin’ guys for the NF! You said you like to fight.”
“I like to fight when I have a reason.”
He leaned forward. “Look, I know you’re no green recruit. You’ve got experience, and you’ll be treated with respect.”
Virgil allowed his surprise to show. “What does that mean?”
“It means you won’t be a grunt.”
“No initiation?”
“I’m not sure about that, but I’ll suggest it. I’ll see what I can do.”
Virgil rolled his eyes. “You’ll suggest it? Talk to me when you’ve got some authority. Maybe then I’ll consider what the hell you’re offering. By the way, you suck at chess. I’m done with this.” Leaving the game half-finished, he got up and went back to his cell. He needed to lie down, was afraid he’d pass out if he didn’t. The doctor had told him to rest, but he’d done the opposite. He’d had no choice, not this afternoon. He had to come across as if he was impervious to pain and injury. That was part of the psychological warfare he hoped would ultimately keep injuries to a minimum—especially his.
Someone was coming up behind him—he could hear footsteps—but whoever it was didn’t move fast, so he didn’t turn. He didn’t want to act paranoid. With the stories circulating about him, he didn’t think anyone else would be willing to take him on. At least, he hoped not—because if someone attacked him now, there wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do to save himself. He’d never felt so weak. The shank he’d taken to the gut had shocked his system and he couldn’t seem to recover….
“How you feelin’?”
It was the blond C.O. who’d been conferring with the other guard in the corner.
Virgil didn’t want to be perceived as friendly to the C.O.s. He knew that wouldn’t help his cause. And he needed some space, some privacy to deal with the way he was feeling. So he gave the guy a look that told him to piss off. “You must be bored, because I can’t imagine you’re really concerned.”
He didn’t react like Virgil expected. The guy stepped inside his cell, something most C.O.s avoided without backup, and whispered, “You’re doin’ great, making it all very believable.”
A shot of adrenaline alleviated some of Virgil’s light-headedness. “What are you talking about?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were legit.”
“What?”
“Peyton sent me. She wanted me to tell you that if you ever have any info to pass along, you can trust me. I’ll handle it for you.”
Could that be true? Peyton hadn’t mentioned taking a C.O. into her confidence. And Buzz had just indicated this guard could be bought. But if she hadn’t told him, who had?
Virgil wanted to admit he needed a doctor, but Buzz’s words of a few minutes ago stopped him. He couldn’t trust this guy. “Get outta here,” he said with as much attitude as possible. “You got the wrong guy.”
The C.O.—Hutchinson from his name tag—glanced over his shoulder before continuing. “See?” he whispered, eyes alight with excitement. “You’re so damn believable! I think this was a great idea!”
Virgil waved him away. “You’re nuts, man. Certifiable. I don’t even know who Peyton is.”
“Right.” He winked. “I’ll be around if you need me.”
As the C.O. wandered off, Virgil tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. But spots danced before his eyes. The dizziness had returned, all the worse for that momentary reprieve. He had to steady himself with a hand against the wall so he wouldn’t sink to the floor.
While he was standing there, gathering his strength, he realized that his wound was bleeding again. He was staring at the blood when he heard Buzz talking to someone as he approached the cell.
Turning so his cell mate wouldn’t see the growing red stain on his shirt, he dropped onto his bunk rather than lowering himself as gingerly as he was tempted to do. Then he paid the price for showing off. Pain burned deep, like a ball of fire, so intense it made him nauseous.
Was his wound getting infected? Prisons weren’t the cleanest institutions in the world….
He knew he should see the doctor.
He also knew he wouldn’t even ask.
28
Rick sat on Peyton’s deck, his chair pushed close to the house so he could be sheltered by the eaves. A steady drizzle had begun a few minutes earlier. Wearing his heavy overcoat with the collar turned up, he stared out at a gray, churning sea, tapping his foot on the wood planking. Waiting…waiting…waiting. He’d spent most of the afternoon in meetings with the warden on various issues, going over CDCR mandates, but they had no more business to conduct, so there was no excuse to stay over another day. As soon as the warden left for the night, Rick had climbed into his car to head back to Sacramento and made the mistake of answering a call from Mercedes. They’d screamed at each other about their children, their house, their assets and who was at fault for the failure of their marriage until he couldn’t tolerate the sound of her voice any longer and had hung up—only to hear from his mother immediately afterward. He’d answered that call hoping she’d have some sympathy for him. She and Mercedes had never been close. Instead, she expressed sadness for his girls and pleaded with him to fight for his marriage, to seek counseling, to hang on at all costs.
Mercedes is a supportive wife and a good mother. You don’t throw away a woman like that. Where do you think you’re going to find someone more devoted to you and those kids than she is?
He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to learn how badly she regretted her own divorce, either. It was too late for him to change course. He hated Mercedes with a passion, felt he must’ve hated her for years and never known it. When he pictured her face, her body, he cringed. How could he have been so blind? Why had it taken him so long to consider Peyton as a viable alternative instead of an extramarital temptation? If only he’d realized sooner, before she’d met Virgil….