Accepting the tumbler from Betty with a smile of thanks, she toasted her grandfather with the glass and mentally braced herself. From years of experience, she knew better than to sip the cheap corn mash the Judge bought by the ten-gallon keg from a local distiller. The only way to survive its kick was to down it in a few, heroic gulps.
As anticipated, the whiskey burned a hole at the back of her throat before hitting her gullet with a fiery fist. Her chest contracted. Beads of sweat popped out on her temples. When she could breathe easy again, Carly tucked a foot under her and gave herself up to the pleasure of her grandfather's companionship.
Chapter Three
"Yo, McMann!"
"Yeah?"
"Warden wants to see you."
Even now, almost eight months after his release, that message prickled the skin on the back of Ryan's neck.
"We're almost done here," he replied evenly. "I'll..."
"Now, McMann."
Ryan's jaw locked. Technically he didn't answer to the warden any longer, only to his parole officer. But both he and the short, wiry guard who'd poked his head inside the classroom knew that particular legal nicety carried about as much weight inside the fence as a bucket of spit.
The inmate he'd been tutoring broke the charged silence with an anxious plea. "D... d... don't keep Mr. Bolt waiting, Ry. Please! Not 'c... c... c... cause of m...m...m...!"
Anger shot through Ryan at the kid's agonizing efforts to speak. Billy had made such progress this afternoon. Almost communicated a few coherent thoughts. Now near-panic clouded his pale blue eyes.
He shouldn't be here, dammit! They should've sent him to school, not prison. His nineteen years and heavily muscled frame might qualify him as a man, but his marginal IQ had made him the target for every street tough in his Birmingham neighborhood. Billy had no idea that the stolen Chevy his buddy had told him to drive was being used as the getaway car in a bank robbery. After his conviction as an accessory, the only concession made to his lesser involvement and impaired mental abilities was to send him to a minimum security facility. Someone in the legal system should have recognized his gullibility as well as his complicity.
Yeah. Sure. As if anyone in the legal system gave a shit about anything except scoring wins or making headlines with their tough stance on crime, Ryan thought with a familiar twist in his gut.
"I...I...I..."
"Calm down, kid. I'm going. Just look at these pages, okay? We'll go over them together when I get back."
Ryan left the education center with the guard. Once outside, he hunched his shoulders against the gray drizzle that misted the dormitories and white-painted wooden administration building dominating the north end of the prison compound. The seeping wet hadn't kept the inmates indoors. Their work day officially began at six-forty-five and ended at three. With a couple of hours to kill until dinner, they attended classes, pursued hobbies, or crowded the picnic tables set under the dripping pines to smoke their precious cigarettes.
"Damned rain," the guard groused. "If it keeps coming down and feedin' the rivers, we'll have to put you men to work shoveling sand into bags pretty soon."
Ryan didn't bother to point out that he wouldn't be shoveling anything. He wasn't part of the prison's labor pool any longer. He only returned twice a week to fulfill the community service portion of his parole.
Community service! Christ! If he'd known that his one act of careless kindness as an inmate would force his return week after week, he would have left Billy Hopewell to his narrow world of fear and illiteracy. Boredom as much as a nagging sense of pity for the boy locked in a man's body had prompted Ryan to try to teach him to read from picture books. Gradually, their private sessions had extended to informal evening classes that included other illiterates. Then the prison's educational director had pressed Ryan into service as an unpaid assistant.
She'd also testified on his behalf at his parole hearing, pushing for his early release in exchange for continued community service at the prison. Ryan hadn't asked for her support and sure as hell wouldn't have opted for this type of service if he'd had a choice. He hated coming back twice a week, hated the constant reminder of his own years as an inmate.
Well, he'd complete his probation soon. Two months, two weeks, four days, to be exact. Then he'd hit the road. To where, he didn't know and didn't care. The prospect of going where he wanted, when he wanted, without justifying his every move shimmered like a haze on the horizon as he and the guard cut behind the dining hall.
The stink from the Dumpsters and recycling bins lined up like tanks outside the kitchen door brought Ryan crashing back to reality. From the clatter of pots from inside the screen door, he knew the prisoners assigned kitchen detail that month were at the stainless steel counters and huge black range, helping prepare the evening meal.
Ryan and his escort were almost past the Dumpsters when the screen door banged back on its hinges. A beefy inmate in the prison green broadcloth work pants and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his armpits shouldered his way out, dragging two hefty garbage sacks behind him. Sweat glistened on his shaved head. When he spotted the other two, a sneer dragged up his lip.
"Well, well, lookit here. Our big-time hockey star's come back for another visit."
Ryan ignored him, as he had for the better part of the past two years. Red streaked up the bull-like convict's neck.
"Hey, man, I'm talking to you!"
Ryan didn't break stride. The prison at Maxwell was designated a minimum security institution. With nothing except a chain-link fence separating it from the military base it had been built to support, the facility accepted only criminals with no prior record of escape, violence, or major medical or psychiatric problems. A few slipped through the screening process, however. Billy Hopewell was one. Gator Burns was another.
"I see you still got that hockey stick of yours up your ass," the street thug jeered. "Why don't you bend over and let me and the boys see if we can't—"
"Shut up, Burns," the guard rapped. "McMann doesn't have time to trade insults with you. The warden's waiting for him."
"The warden?"
Gator's eyes narrowed. Ryan felt them boring into his back until he rounded the corner. A few steps later, the guard peeled off.
" I gotta go see the doc. You know the way."
Ryan knew the way. He sure as hell knew the way.
"Hello, Mr. McMann."
The warden's secretary gave him the same polite smile she paraded out for all visitors, in or out of prison uniform.
"Hello, Mrs. Reeves."
"Mr. Bolt is waiting for you. Go right in."
Ed Bolt hadn't changed either his style or his tie in the years Ryan had known him. He still sat ramrod straight. Still wore his buzz cut so close that his scalp gleamed through the salt-and-pepper fuzz. Still didn't invite the man he'd summoned to his presence to sit.
This time, Ryan didn't wait for an invitation. He folded his long frame into a comfortable slouch in the chair in front of the desk and crossed one jean-clad leg over the other. To his immense satisfaction, tiny white lines of annoyance bracketed Bolt's mouth.
"I received a phone call a few minutes ago," the warden said without preamble. "I understand you're refusing to cooperate in the investigation of the Smith woman's murder."
Ryan's lip curled. The major hadn't wasted any time whining to her friends on the parole board. What had he expected? The lady might have the face of a Southern belle, all soft brown eyes, pink lips, and vanilla ice-cream skin, but she had the soul of a street lawyer.
"You've always been a hard-ass, McMann, but there's no reason for you to refuse to cooperate in this investigation." Bolt paused. "Unless, of course, you know something about the murder that you don't want to tell."
The ground shifted. Ryan felt it move and silently cursed the treacherous terrain beneath him. Jesus! Did Bolt know? Was he part of it?
No. He couldn't be. Ryan had heard no hint, no whisper of complicity by the warden. Wil
ling himself not to sweat, he lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug.
"I have cooperated. I gave the military a statement the day of the murder, and talked to their special investigators a week later. That's all I'm required to do unless or until I'm subpoenaed to appear in court."
Bolt put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. It was a familiar gesture, one Ryan had seen many times before. As it always did, the warden's carefully precise pose set his teeth on edge.
"The subpoena can be arranged, McMann. We can also arrange to have you serve out the rest of your sentence. Just to ensure your availability for the court hearing, you understand."
"I'm not going anywhere for two more months."
"You're not going anywhere for a lot longer than that if you don't cooperate."
Ryan knew what was coming even before Bolt's mouth curved in a small, tight smile.
"This isn't the NHL, McMann. We're not negotiating your next contract here."
They couldn't resist it. Any of them. The guards. The other prisoners. The warden. They loved to slide in that little dig, that sly reminder of how far the mighty could fall. Ryan had heard variations of the same theme so many times, the barb bounced off his hide.
Almost.
"I'm giving you a piece of advice, McMann. Report to Major Samuels before you leave the base today. Or plan on serving the rest of your sentence, with the possibility of a few more months tacked on for failure to cooperate in a federal investigation."
He dropped his hands and jerked his head dismissively. "That's all."
That wasn't all. Not by a long shot. They both knew it. Animosity hung in the air between them like an evil, many-headed chimera. It had sprung into life mere weeks after Ryan's arrival, when he flatly refused to help organize or participate in the prison Olympics. He'd been barred from professional sports for life, he reminded the warden. He wasn't going to be trotted out and made to jump through hoops like a pet dog in an amateur contest.
His stubborn refusal sparked an enmity that built between him and Bolt each week, each month, and made the years Ryan had spent under this man's jurisdiction a test of fortitude and endurance. He'd held his cool. Performed the extra duties meted out for every so-called infraction of the rules. Swallowed the guards' subtle insults and taunts. But never, ever, would he give another human being that kind of power over him again.
He was so close to freedom. He could taste it. See it hanging just above the horizon ahead of him. Almost hear the hum of his car's tires on the pavement as he headed to nowhere.
He left the warden's office without another word.
The sound of the door scraping open jerked Billy's head up. His muscular body was wedged too tightly in the one-armed writing desk to allow any other part of him to move. Futilely, he twisted around.
"Wh... what did the w... w... warden want, Ry?"
The door shoved back against the wall. Gator strolled into the classroom, followed by two other inmates in green and white.
"That's what we want to know. What did the warden want to see your buddy about?"
Gator ambled across the room and propped a boot on the chair seat next to Billy's.
"You talking to McMann, Billy-Boy? 'Bout things you shouldn't oughtta be talking about? "
The mists Billy had lived with all his life parted for a moment, only a moment. His momma had instilled a sense of right and wrong in him before she died. Sometimes he got confused and couldn't remember what was right and what wasn't, but he knew the things Gator and these men made him do were bad, real bad. Then fear hazed his mind once more. Only a gray curtain remained.
"I...I...I..."
Gator leaned closer, sweat and rain glistening on his bald head. The sour stink from his armpits stung the younger inmate's nostrils.
"Don't go all stupid on me, boy. You can talk when you want to. I heard you prattling on to McMann Trout your momma often enough when we was in the same bay. You been prattling Trout anything else during these little sessions with your buddy?"
Billy didn't answer. He couldn't. Gator's words fuzzed in his head, turned him all around. He wasn't s'posed to talk about what they did in the woods to nobody, no time, nowhere. Gator said so. Did... did he want to talk about it now?
"You want us to beat it out of you, boy? You're big, but not so big me and Jimbo and Pauly here can't hurt you."
" Why don't you try beating it out of me, Burns? "
Gator's boot hit the floor with a thud. He spun around, his teeth baring in a smile as he spied Ryan framed in the open doorway.
"Well, well, it's our big hockey star. Have a nice, cozy chat with the warden? Why don't you tell me all about it?"
"Why don't you go to hell?"
"I will, McMann, I surely will. I 'spect I'll see you when I get there." The grimace that passed for a smile dropped from Gator's face. "What did you and the warden talk about?"
"That's my business."
"Yeah? Maybe me and the boys think it's our business, too." His black eyes glittered. "You talked to him about that bitch who got herself shot, didn't you?"
When Ryan didn't respond, Gator shifted on the balls of his feet. "What'd you tell him, McMann?"
The pride he'd been forced to eat a moment ago surged hot and raw into Ryan's throat.
"Go take a shower. You stink worse than the garbage you've been hauling."
"Oh, yeah? Maybe me and the boys should feed our big fucking hockey star some of that garbage."
The savage need to put his fist down someone's throat sliced through Ryan. His hands curled at his sides.
"You're welcome to try, Burns."
The last, feeble rays of the sun fought their way through the drizzle and slanted into the windows of the conference room appropriated for Carly's use. Great, she thought, her gaze on the trickle of sunlight. The first time the sun had shown its face in days and it waited until almost dusk to do it.
Sounds of desk drawers banging closed and the last conscientious employees finally departing for the day drifted down the hall. She barely registered either the time or the emptiness of the building. One elbow propped on the table, she played absently with the little pearl stud in her left earlobe and mulled over the statements she'd taken today from Smith's friends and classmates.
On the surface, they painted a damning picture. Several eyewitness accounts detailed the Smiths' last, violent argument at a party the night before Elaine Dawson-Smith's murder. Her husband had accused her of sleeping with someone. She'd laughed in his face and left. Another witness confirmed seeing the murder weapon in Elaine's possession. Her husband had bought the .38 for her, and knew she carried it in her purse. Even his friends described Mike Smith as a man hard enough and bitter enough to put a bullet through his wife's heart, wipe the murder weapon clean of prints, and drive away.
Carly was ready for her interview with Smith tomorrow. More than ready. She wanted to watch his face when he explained away the fact that he'd been seen driving along River Road at approximately the time of the murder.
Or had he?
Carly pushed out of her chair and moved to stand at the window. McMann's face hovered in her mind, tight with disgust, too damned handsome for his own good. Had he really seen a dark green Taurus? Had he lied to protect himself? Someone else?
McMann was smart, very smart, according to all reports. Smart enough to skew the results of the lie detector test he'd taken. Smart enough to concoct the story about seeing Michael Smith's car.
During his years as an inmate, he would have pulled work details all over Maxwell; around the stables, the on-base quarters. Did he know that the victim's husband drove a dark green Taurus and pull that salient and very damning fact out of his head when the police questioned him? If not, why had he refused to give Carly a statement?
That one wasn't hard to answer. He held her in the same contempt he did all members of her profession. He wouldn't throw her a tree branch, much less a rope, if she were drowning in the muddy river that surged closer and closer to
its banks every day.
A phone shrilled in the distance. Once. Twice. A third time. The unanswered ring grated on Carly's nerves. She shagged a look at her watch. Five-fifty. It hadn't take the building long to empty.
All except for the boss. The 42nd Air Base Wing commander and his personal staff were still hard at it. She could see the shine of fluorescent lights through the windows across the courtyard.
She'd better get to work, too, if she was going to meet the deadline for completing her report. Frowning, she sorted through the files on the conference table. She'd start putting her notes in order, weigh the facts as presented so far on their face value. Then she'd...
Afterward, Carly could never pinpoint the sound that penetrated her consciousness at that particular instant. The whisper of footsteps in the carpeted hall, perhaps, or the brush of an arm against the doorframe. Whatever it was, she lifted her head and turned toward it.
McMann stood framed in the doorway, his body coiled under a blue denim work shirt, his expression as tight and angry as the last time they'd squared off. But this time his face held more than contempt. This time, he sported a darkening bruise on one cheek, a split lip, and a look in his eyes that set Carly's heart to hammering with sudden, painful intensity. She got to her feet, all too conscious of the empty building behind him.
"What are you doing here? "
"Responding to your phone call."
"What phone call?"
He stopped two feet away. So close Carly could see the perfect crimson teardrop beading his cut lip. Too close for her to take more than short, shallow breaths.
"Don't give me that crap, lady. You know damn well what phone call. The warden relayed the message from your friends and strongly suggested I cooperate."
Shocked, Carly gaped at his battered features. "Are you saying prison officials used brute force to coerce you into coming here?"
"No."
"But your face...?"
"My face isn't your problem. But the fact that I don't play your games by the same rules you do most definitely is."
River Rising Page 4