“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….
He’d gotten seventy-four miles down Highway 1, as far as Trinidad, before turning back. As much as he wanted to see his girls, he couldn’t bring himself to go home. He knew how nasty it would get with Mercedes. He also knew, if he left town now, he’d lose Peyton for good, which pretty much took care of his dream of coming out of this mess better off than before.
He wasn’t willing to live with no. He’d never had an honest chance with Peyton. Surely, now that he was cutting himself free of everything that’d held him back, he could beat out a thug like Virgil Skinner. Virgil had nothing to offer a woman, except beefcake.
“It won’t last,” he muttered aloud. She was just acting out some kind of captor fantasy. Maybe she was even punishing him for leaving her lonely for so long. And he’d made the situation worse by handling it with less sensitivity than he should have.
He hoped to make it up to her. He wished she’d come home so they could talk. Every minute that passed made him fear she was having sex with Virgil again, and that whipped him into a jealous frenzy. Why was she so attracted to Skinner? He was arrogant and uncouth and hard to know. He didn’t have two nickels to rub together. He had a terrible past. He couldn’t trust anyone, would never open up.
Maybe Virgil was well-endowed. Maybe he was such a good lover she couldn’t resist him….
Quit it. That was insecurity talking.
He checked his watch. Nearly nine o’clock. Would Peyton stay at the prison all night?
He was thinking he might have to drive over there to see what was going on when his cell phone rang. The area code told him the call originated in L.A., but he didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Rick Wallace with the CDC?” A voice as unfamiliar as it was raspy grated in his ear.
“Yes…”
“Good, because I’d like to make you an offer.”
“Who is this?” he asked in confusion.
“I could be your best friend. Or I could be your worst enemy. Your choice.”
Oblivious of the rain that had bothered him just a few minutes earlier, Rick got to his feet. “I have no idea what that means.”
“Maybe this will help. We want Virgil Skinner. Tell us where he’s at, and we’ll make it worth your while.”
“You’re from The Crew?” He’d never anticipated this.
“I’ve obviously reached the right person.”
They knew he was involved. How? Where were they getting their information? “Who gave you my number?”
“The little girl I just spoke to at your house. For security reasons, you really should get an unlisted number.”
When he chuckled, Rick imagined one of his daughters reciting all seven digits of his cell number to whoever asked, so proud that she could remember it. The people who’d killed Laurel’s babysitter, the men who’d attempted to kill Eddie Glover, had just contacted one of his children!