"Carly!"
"What the hell!"
The simultaneous protests erupted from McMann and Adele Samuels. Carly ignored them both to focus on the warden. He was the key. She had to convince him, had to make him give Ryan one last chance.
"You and I have to talk about the allegations against Mr. McMann. Privately."
His glance flicked to the handcuffed prisoner. Carly saw contempt and vicious satisfaction flare in his eyes before he brought them back to her.
"A jury will decide if he murdered Fayrene Preston, Major. There's nothing more for us to talk about."
She let him take three confident strides toward his prisoner before she halted him in his tracks.
"Let's try this one more time. Either we talk now, privately, or I'm going to ensure that the media, the assistant DA, and at least one member of Congress receive those portions of my investigation that detail the complicity by officials at the federal prison in the sex-for-money scheme known as the Afternoon Club."
As a bluff, it was pretty weak. The government agencies, including interested members of Congress, would have access to those details anyway. The bit about the media got his attention, however.
"All right, Major. We'll talk."
A half hour later, a small cavalcade of vehicles left base ops. Special Agent Derrick Greene, chief of Detachment 405 of the Office of Special Investigations, was at the wheel of one vehicle. Warden Bolt sat in the passenger seat of another.
Ryan rode in the back of the third, cuffed, bruised, bleeding. They were taking him to the hangars where the wing commander had bedded down the eight hundred prisoners evacuated from the low-lying prison facilities. He'd only remain there a few hours, Bolt had informed Carly at the end of their terse discussion, a day at most, before they arranged transport for him to Marion.
A few hours. A day at most.
Tired and grimly determined, Carly crossed the tarmac to the midnight blue Lincoln. She ached all over, and would have given a month's pay right then for clean clothes, cooked food, and a stiff shot of something other than peach brandy.
Her mother paced beside her, her face a study in calm concentration. Carly felt a weary smile pull at her heart. How like her mother! No questions. No demands for details. No comments about the kiss her daughter had laid on Ryan before the guards escorted him to the vehicle.
Side by side, they walked through the weak, struggling drizzle. Carly lifted her face to the gray sky, her heart twisting when she spotted a patch of blue. It was almost over. The storm. The terror. The...
"Major!"
The crew chief hot footed it across the concrete, hefting a daisy-patterned pillowcase in one hand.
"You left your cats in the Huey. They're hissing and spitting up a storm, but otherwise seem okay."
The smile tugging at Carly's heart burst into a flame of something so strong, so fierce, she almost shook with it.
"They're not mine, Chief. They belong to McMann by right of salvage, unless or until he returns them to their original owners." She held out her hand. "I'll see that he gets them."
Chapter Twenty-one
With a guard on either side of him, Ryan walked into the hangar where the evacuees from the prison were housed. His shirt hung in tatters from its contact with the rough shingles. His cheek dripped blood onto his bare chest. The cuffs gouging into his wrists behind his back only added to the misery of being back among his fellow malfeasants and transgressors. Jeers and catcalls greeted his return. "Hey, boys, lookee here! We got us a warden killer back among us."
"You didn't let that river float you far enough away, McMann!"
"Hey, hockey star! We heard you done Fay-reen with that big stick of yours!"
He endured the taunts in silence as the guards marched him through rows of mattresses laid out with military precision on the hangar floor. He endured, too, the disgust and condemnation on the faces of those prisoners to whom murder was still evil. "In here."
One of his escorts shoved him into what looked like a small storage area at the far end of the hangar. Partitions and heavy-duty wire caged it off from the rest of the area.
The door clanged shut and was secured with a padlock on an old fashioned hasp. Ryan knew it was useless, but asked anyway.
"What about these cuffs?"
"Warden said to keep you separate from the rest of the men until we ship you out. He didn't say to make you comfortable."
The guard spat a stream of brown tobacco juice on the otherwise spotless, gray-painted floor and yelled across the hangar.
"Hey, Murph! Haul your butt over here!"
The gray-haired guard moved at his normal unhurried pace. Ryan's mouth salivated at the sight of the mug in Murphee's hand. He'd give his soul for a cup of hot coffee right now... if he had one to give. He didn't bother to ask for any though. In these men's eyes, he was a brutal, sadistic cop killer. He'd be lucky to make it out of here without severe damage to his internal organs.
"That McMann?" Murphee asked, peering into the dimness of the cage.
"Yeah, we got the bastard. Warden says he wants him kept under visual observation at all times until we ship him out to Marion. He's making the arrangements now. Take the first shift, will you? "
"Yeah, sure."
"Here's the key, but you won't have to use it. He's got no privileges. No telephone, no food, no water, no nothing until we get the word from Bolt. And no talking to anyone. Anyone, understand? That includes any lady lawyers who might come poking around. Got that?"
"I got it."
While the two escorts made their way back to the hangar doors, Murphee took a leisurely sip, eyeing the prisoner through the steam rising from his cup.
"Looks like you're in one helluva mess, boy. I thought you were too smart a coon to let yourself get treed again like this."
Ryan leaned against the partitioned wall, not bothering to answer or even look at the paunchy guard.
"The assistant warden wasn't high on my list of favorite people, either," Murphee confided. "Always nagging at folks to get back to work. But what you did ain't gonna earn you any privileges at Marion."
The prisoner's stony silence brought a touch of red into Murph's cheeks.
"That swim in the river sure didn't loosen you up none, boy. You always were a cocky bastard. Can't say as I won't enjoy seeing you shipped off with shackles on your wrists and ankles. I know a few other folks who'll enjoy it, too. Might even have to call a reporter friend of mine and tip him off when they get ready to haul you outta here so I can watch it again on the nightly news."
Ryan's mouth twisted sardonically. "So you can make a few bucks on the side from your reporter friend, you mean."
The red in Murphee's cheeks deepened. "A man's gotta live. Now you better think about modulatin' that mouth of yours, boy, 'cause where you're going, a crack like that would earn you some real nasty consequences. It might yet, if you're not careful."
Dragging a chair across the hangar, the guard propped it against the wall beside the wire cage and made himself comfortable.
Ryan tried to do the same. Back to the partitioned wall, wrists bruised and aching behind him, he slid down until he could stretch out his legs on the bare concrete floor. An eerie sense of deja vu swept over him. For a moment, he felt the same shame, the same writhing humiliation he'd experienced the first time he'd been brought in in cuffs. That experience had seared his pride and cost several years of his life. This one, he thought with a swallow that scratched at his dry throat, might well cost him what was left of it.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the gray partitions, the wire cage, the long, echoing hangar. He couldn't shut out the discomfort of the brutally tight cuffs or the ache in his shoulder from hanging on to Carly so long on that roof. Instead, Ryan used the pain, let it carry him back to the roof, to the farmhouse, to those incredible, glorious moments in the kitchen.
If he didn't beat this, if he spent whatever days were left to him in maximum security, he'd have those moments to take
with him. Just savoring them now tightened his body. He could picture Carly's head flung back, her perfect breasts quivering at his touch, her eyes dilated from the shock of her pleasure. He could hear her astonished gasps. Feel her slender, supple legs gripping...
"Well, well, whadda you got here, Murph? Looks like some kinda river rat to me."
Ryan didn't have to open his eyes to identify the sneering drawl.
"Beat it, Gator," Murph said mildly. "The warden doesn't want him talking to anyone."
"Me and Pauly and Jimbo here don't wanna talk to him, Murph. Nossir, we don't wanna talk. We just wanna finish some business McMann started before he took to bashin' in people's heads. How 'bout lettin' us in?"
"I can't do it, Burns."
"Sure you can." Gator's voice dropped. "How much you want? Fifty? A hundred? You know I'm good for it."
Ryan raised his lids then, curious to know how much it would take. The sight of Gator's left eye all purple and swollen shut gave him a jolt of intense satisfaction."
"No can do, Burns. I got orders."
Gator shifted his gaze. When he caught Ryan's eye, a smile creased his bruised face.
"Five hundred, Murph, for five minutes."
"Jesus!" The guard shot a quick glance around. "All right, but make it quick." The padlock rattle on the hasp. "Just don't leave any marks where they can be seen."
"Don't worry," Gator purred. "Unlike McMann here, me 'n the boys are experts at this."
The door opened and swiftly clanged shut again, caging Ryan in with the other three. Gator strolled forward, flanked by his lieutenants. He didn't say anything for several moments. Rocking back on his heels, he simply enjoyed the sight.
Then, without warning, his boot whipped back and swung forward, slamming into Ryan's ribs with a force that knocked him onto his side. Clenching his jaw against the splintering pain, he used an elbow to roll himself back into a sitting position.
"I was sure disappointed when I heard the river didn't take you, McMann."
Ryan pulled in a slow, painful breath. "Yeah, I bet you were."
The boot swung again, but this time he was ready for it and took it on the hip. He wasn't as lucky the third time. The toe caught him square in the stomach with all the force of Gator's squat, barrel-chested body behind it.
He was grinding his teeth against the bruising agony when Burns crouched down, dangling his hands between his knees. The stink of his body odor came with him.
"Too bad I can't mark up your face the way you marked mine, pretty boy, but I can still have me a little fun."
"The same... kind you had... with Preston?"
Gator's lips pulled back in a wide smile. He leaned even closer, his breath a foul wash on Ryan's face. He was flying high, his glee at bringing McMann down shining in his black eyes.
"Just between you and me, boy," he confided in a low, smiling whisper, "she weren't no fun. I had to bash her in the head before I could get me some of that ass. Damned if I didn't hit the bitch too hard. Knocked her right out and spoiled my sport, if you know what I mean. I couldn't even get off on her."
In tight, pain-laced grunts, Ryan told him what he could do with himself. Gator merely laughed.
"Accommodatin' of you to leave your prints on that tie-down rod, by the way. It sure come in handy." He dangled his fists between his knees. "I s'pose I couldda wiped your prints off, the way I wiped Billy-Boy's off after he shot that Smith bitch, but I figured that there iron rod would be just the ticket to send you to the Big House. Afore you go, though, me 'n Pauly 'n Jimbo wanna give you a little somethin' to take with you."
He straightened, signaling his two lieutenants forward. Their faces alight with anticipation, they took up positions on either side of Ryan.
"When we're done with you, pretty boy, you're gonna wish you never came outta that river."
"You're already done with him, Burns! Back off!"
The shouted order spun the three prisoners around. They went stiff with shock as the warden rushed in through the hangar's side door. A small army of uniformed and plainclothes personnel followed on his heels.
An ashen-faced Murphee jumped to his feet, sloshing coffee across his shirt and knocking over his chair in the process. "Warden! I was, uh, just letting these men have a few words with their buddy. McMann and them are, uh, old pals."
"So I heard." Bolt slapped out a hand. "Give me the key, then get the hell out of my sight. I'll deal with you later."
Gulping, Murphee fumbled in his pocket.
The door slammed back against the wire. Bolt strode into the cage, followed by two guards, one of whom shoved Gator up against the partition wall and patted him down before jerking his arms behind him. Sweat sheened the prisoner's shaved head when he was spun around.
"Look, Warden, I was just payin' McMann back for what he done to me before he bashed in Fayrene Preston's head. Maybe I shouldn't oughtta done it, but—"
"Save it, Burns." Bolt jerked his chin at one of the guards. "Get McMann up and those cuffs off."
With the guard's assistance, Ryan controlled his wheezing and got a foot under himself. White, dizzying spots danced in front of his eyes with every breath. He used the few seconds it took for the guard to unlock the cuffs to regain his equilibrium.
The sight of Carly pushing her way into the crowded cage helped considerably. Face scrubbed, hair tamed into a smooth, sleek sweep, she rushed to his side. Ryan gave her a ragged smile.
"You were right, sweetheart. Gator's kind can never resist bragging."
A taut silence filled the cage while an air force special investigator in civilian clothes unscrewed a metal vent cover and retrieved the bug the OSI had inserted into the air duct at Carly's insistence.
Bellowing with rage, Gator lunged. "You sonuvabitch, you set me up!"
With the coordination of a born athlete, Ryan moved Carly aside, sidestepped the charge, and used the bull-like convict's own momentum to send him crashing headfirst into the partition. Gator hit a stud and dropped like a stone.
"Bastard," Carly snarled at his inert form with an unlawyerlike lack of cool. "I hope you burn in hell."
She was still shaking with the force of her fury a half hour later. She couldn't quite believe that the nightmare was over, that Ryan had been cleared of all charges. She'd congratulate herself for forcing Bolt to agree to the bug later. Right now, she had one more piece of business to take care of before she joined her mother for a hastily called news conference.
Relatively clean and neat in a uniform rushed from her house by her brother Dave, she forced big gulps of air into her lungs to steady herself before entering the small conference room where she'd begun her Article 32 investigation two weeks ago.
The three people in the room looked with varying degrees of wariness and welcome when Carly strode in. Sergeant Hendricks, the court recorder, smiled warmly at her over his array of equipment.
"Hey, Major, glad you're okay."
"Thanks."
G. Putnam Jones echoed his sentiment. "I know I speak for both myself and my client when I say how relieved we are that you're safe. I must say, though, that this abrupt summons to the base came at a highly inconvenient time." He checked his Rolex. "I'm due in court in less than an hour."
"And I'm due at a press conference in twenty minutes," Carly threw back. "It's in your client's best interest that he tell me the truth now, before I step in front of those TV cameras."
Her eyes on the stiff-spined lieutenant colonel standing by the windows, she slapped a microcassette recorder on the conference table and hit play. Gator's guttural growl jumped into the tense silence.
I s'pose I couldda wiped your prints off, the way I wiped Billy-Boy's off after he shot the Smith bitch, but I figured that there iron rod would be just the ticket to send you to the Big House. Afore you go, though...
She stabbed the off button. "I'm asking you again for the record, Colonel Smith. Did you drive along River Road at approximately two o'clock on the afternoon of April twelft
h?"
Michael Smith dragged his stunned gaze from the recorder. The muscle under his left eye began a jerky dance. He swallowed once, twice, and dragged his answer from deep within him.
"Yes."
His lids came down, shutting out Carly, his lawyer, the conference room. When he opened his eyes again, the relief and regret were almost indistinguishable.
"I knew Elaine had gone to the stables. I thought... I suspected..." He swiped a hand down his face. "I found her car parked in the lot and her gelding still in his stall. Then... then I heard a shot. I raced through the woods, thinking she might be in trouble. She was already dead when I found her."
"So you left her there?"
The question held no hint of condemnation or blame, but Smith obviously felt both. His head reared back, and the coldness Carly had sensed in him before descended like a curtain.
"Yes, I left her. I couldn't help her, and I knew I'd come under suspicion after all the vicious fights and accusations."
Carly merely nodded. "You were right. Now, if you'll excuse me, my mother's called a press conference to announce my safe return from the flood. I won't discuss the status of your case, but you can expect a swarm of reporters to converge on you if and when Mr. McMann chooses to make a statement."
Tucking the recorder into her bag, she swept out of the conference room for the last time. She'd completed the Article 32 to her satisfaction.
Now, another, even more important matter awaited her.
Chapter Twenty-two
"Pull over."
At Ryan's gruff command, Carly slowed the vehicle her mother had put at their disposal. The Lincoln rolled to a stop fifty yards from the hangar situated next to the one Ryan had walked into such a short time ago.
Sweat slicked his palms as he studied the vans that jammed the parking lot outside the hangar. Antennas and satellite dishes bristled from their roofs. Carly had warned him that every television station in the city had responded to her mother's announcement that she'd be holding a press conference at the base.
River Rising Page 24