The Payback Man (4 page)

Newman couldn’t have forgotten he had those gloves. He had withheld them out of pure meanness. And for half the day he’d gotten away with it. She’d be more careful in the future.

She squared her shoulders and walked ahead of the men toward the tractor, which sat on the concrete pad in front of the barn. They followed.

Without warning, she felt a pair of muscular arms around her waist. She was lifted off her feet and swung violently away from the tractor.

“Hey!” Newman yelled.

She was hoisted across Steve Chadwick’s chest. His cheek brushed hers. She could feel the stubble and smell the musky scent of his sweat.

“Snake!” Big screamed.

From her position on Steve’s hip she looked back at the concrete. In the shadow cast by the tractor curled the largest copperhead she’d ever seen. One pace more and she’d have stepped on it. It had been sleeping, but now it lifted its triangular head and prepared to defend itself.

“Damn!” Newman hauled out his gun.

Steve said quietly, “If you plan to shoot at that concrete, I’m sure the doctor and the rest of us would appreciate the chance to take cover from the ricochet behind one of the posts.”

“How else we gonna kill it, smart ass?” the CO hissed.

Gil Jones, as though his dragon tattoo conferred immunity from copperhead venom, took one step to the side, reached down, grasped the copperhead right behind its skull, hefted it one-handed while with the other he kept the writhing tail from wrapping itself around his arm. He took a couple of steps toward the open meadow and hurled the snake end over end the length of a football field into the tall weeds.

He threw an arrogant glance at Newman and returned to his place in the group.

“Thanks. You can put me down now,” Eleanor gasped.

“Right,” Steve said, and let her slide down his body.

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her throat. Her skin tingled where his hands had touched her. Fear. The residue of fear. That was all it was.

To cover her nervousness, she went to Gil. “Thanks. How on earth did you learn to handle snakes? I have to work with them from time to time, but I’m still terrified of the poisonous ones.”

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he looked across the meadow to the general area where the snake had fallen and said so softly that she could barely hear him, “My people’s into snake handling. They say that if you got enough faith, you can drink poison and handle snakes and not be hurt.”

“Have you been bitten often?”

“Hell, no. I had faith, all right, faith that if they sank those fangs into me I was dead. I can throw a rattler clear to the Mississippi River. First chance I got, I run away, and I ain’t never been back.”

He smiled. Eleanor thought it was even more chilling than his normal stony expression.

“I was a great disappointment to my daddy,” he finished.

Not for the first time, Eleanor wondered if she was doing the right thing by not finding out what the members of her “team” had done to wind up in prison. Maybe imagining was worse than reality. Even if Gil looked like an ax murderer, he might be inside for nothing more sinister than stealing motorcycles.

She realized that Big hadn’t moved since the snake was spotted, and his face was ashen. If such a man could cower, that was what he was doing. “Big?”

He made an inchoate sound deep in his throat. He was petrified.

“Big man, scared of a little ol’ snake,” Sweet Daddy crooned.

“Hush, Elroy,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t notice you stepping forward to deal with it.” She touched Big’s shoulder. “It’s all right, he’s gone.”

“He’s out there someplace. He could come back.”

“Unlikely. And hey, we’ve got Gil to protect us, right, Gil?”

Gil shrugged.

“What if there’s more of them in there?”

“Too late in the season for a nest,” Gil answered. “We need us some big ol’ king snakes—keep the bad ones down.”

Until now, Robert Dalrymple had stood silent at the edge of the group. Now he took a step toward Gil. “Snake is snake. I see me another one, I’m gonna chop it in bits.”

“Yeah.” Newman said. “Hey, Jones, why the Sam Hill didn’t you kill the thing when you had it?”

“Got a right to live same as us. Just trying to find someplace warm before dark. This late in the year they get sluggish, can’t run away from you.”

Eleanor hesitated, then turned to Steve. She couldn’t hold his eyes. “Thank you again.”

“My pleasure.”

That deep voice as much as the words sent a jolt of heat through her. The others sounded as though they came either from the country or the “mean streets,” but Steve spoke like an educated man. He must be one of those white-collar criminals. He didn’t seem to belong with the others.

“So, barring unforeseen critters, let’s get back to work,” Eleanor said. She looked carefully around and in the tractor before she climbed aboard.

“I can run a tractor, ma’am,” Slow Rise said. “No call for you to have to do it.”

“Thanks, Slow Rise, you can take over tomorrow or
when I’m not here. Today I’d rather have you on the ground directing where to drive and how deep to dig.”

“Yes’m.”

They worked through the warm afternoon without further incident. Sweet Daddy kept up a litany of complaints, but the others worked in near silence. At one point she looked around for Newman and found him propped against the side of the barn in the sun sound asleep. Great protection. Any of the men could have overpowered him. She didn’t wake him. She’d already made an enemy of him.

Maybe she could get another CO assigned to her. Preferably one that wasn’t vicious or ill-tempered—and one that didn’t sleep on the job.

She was beginning to feel more comfortable with the inmates—at least some of them—than she did with the guard.

E
LEANOR LOOKED DOWN
at her grimy arm and brushed the dirt off the face of her wristwatch. Four-thirty. The men were supposed to work from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon—later if she needed them for something special.

Since Warden Portree agreed to let the men work nights and weekends when necessary—the animals would have to be fed and watered Saturdays, Sundays and holidays—she had to agree to see that they were properly checked in and out of their dormitories. And to have a CO with them. “I’ll set up a roster,” she’d told him.

Today the men must be completely exhausted. They weren’t yet used to the hard physical labor they’d been doing for hours. With the exception of Sweet Daddy, who she was pretty sure goofed off every time her eyes weren’t on him, the inmates had worked harder and longer than she would have believed possible.

Tomorrow she’d have a private talk with Sweet Daddy. He’d either do his share of the work or she’d find someone
else who would. This evening she wanted to give them all a break.

Everybody was filthy and sweating. She was certain her own face was streaked with grime. All she wanted was a shower. No doubt so did the men.

But could they have showers? They might only be allowed to shower on certain days of the week. If so, she’d have to get Warden Portree to make an exception for her crew. Tonight she’d request an exception from Newman. He’d better not refuse, or she’d see that Ernest knew how he’d slept on the job.

The pile of rotted manure and shavings that they’d dug out of the barn was as tall as Big, and looked rich enough to nourish the weakest vegetables. Portree should be pleased about that. He could never buy fertilizer one-tenth as rich for his hydroponic vegetable gardens.

But he could darn well have somebody else move it from the back rear of the barn to his gardens.

“Okay, guys, let’s knock off.” She leaned back in the tractor seat and pulled the kill switch for the engine. “I’ve got a cooler full of soft drinks in my truck if you’re interested.”

“Got beer?” asked Gil. “I could go for a brew.”

She shook her head. “You know better than that.”

Newman grumbled. “You got no call to supply sodas.”

“Sure I do. Big, how about you help me bring over the cooler, then we can all sit in the shade.”

He ducked his head and followed obediently. The cooler was large and full of semi-melted ice and soft drinks, but Big hefted it as though it were a roll of paper towels and carried it back to the concrete pad in front of the barn.

The shed roof over the pad projected ten feet or so beyond the walls so that trucks and stock could be unloaded in bad weather. At the moment that side of the barn was in shade, and the evening was already cooling, but the concrete still radiated warmth. She considered suggesting they bring the cooler inside. The men, however, seemed
to prefer being outside—anywhere outside—to being within walls.

She handed out drinks, then realized as she took one herself that she’d have to sit beside someone. Even so small an action could be misconstrued. She sat on the cooler, instead.

“Plenty more.”

The men had simply opened their throats and poured the soda down. She stood, bent over, and realized all they could see was her upended denim-covered rear. She straightened quickly. “Big, why don’t you hand them out?”

He seemed grateful to be chosen and shuffled over.

When she sat again, she said, “Here’s the plan for tomorrow.” Groans. “The worst part is over. Tomorrow you’ll be helping the painters, setting up the office and the storeroom, and rebuilding the fences that divide the pastures. The old barbed-wire fences are twenty years old but still in fairly good shape in most places. The posts are concrete and broken ones have been replaced during the years. We’ll still have to walk the fence lines, mark the few posts that may need to be replaced, restring wire and enclose the bull’s stall and paddock in electric fencing to keep him in.”

“Just like us,” Robert said.

She caught her breath. He was right, but what could she say to that? “This electric fence will simply give him a jolt when he touches it.”

“Yeah, up at Big Mountain, we touch the fence, we get a lot more than a jolt.”

“Will it stay on all the time, ma’am?” Slow Rise asked.

“Good question. Depends on the bull we get, as I’m sure you know, since you raised cattle.”

“Yes’m.”

She turned to the others. “Bulls are as individual as people. Some of them will test the electric fence a couple of times and never go near it again. Others will try it every
time they go out to pasture. Still others will take the jolt and keep right on going—straight through.”

“And some jump over.” Slow Rise grinned at her.

“If we get one like that, we send him back where he came from. Once a bull learns to jump out, there’s no way to keep him in.”

Robert again. “Come on, man. Bulls can’t jump.”

“Hell, they can’t,” Slow Rise said. “Why, I’ve seen a bull jump a five-foot fence soon as look at you.”

“Nah, old man, you’re crazy.”

Slow Rise surged to his feet with blinding speed for a man who had to be over sixty. In an instant he stood over Robert, his fists clenched, his face dangerously red. “You take that back.”

The kid raised his hands in front of him. “Hey, man, chill, okay?”

“Sit down.” Newman’s voice was dangerously hard and flat.

The moment passed, but Eleanor realized how close to the surface violence flowed among these men. She glanced over at Steve, who hadn’t moved, his knees drawn up, his fine-boned hands dangling between them.

He was watching her, possibly had been watching her throughout the exchange. She felt her skin flush and looked away quickly. The connection between them had been—was—visceral. As though they were alone. She shivered and knew he’d seen her reaction.

“Okay, guys, drop the empties into the cooler, and, Big, would you put it back in my truck for me? Thanks.”

“Up.” Newman prodded Sweet Daddy with the end of his baton.

“Ow, man, ain’t you got nothin’ better to do with that thing?”

“Don’t you sass me, little man.”

The men stood and formed a ragged line.

“Oh, La—Mr. Newman—the men will be allowed to
shower and change into fresh clothes when they get back to the compound, won’t they?”

“Huh?”

“Let me rephrase that. They—we—all smell like goats. We’re filthy. They should shower and change before they come in contact with any of the other inmates, not only for comfort but for health reasons.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Steve caught her eye. He raised one eyebrow and nodded almost imperceptibly. She raised her chin. Apparently she’d done something right, and though she shouldn’t give a darn what Steve thought of her or her decisions, she felt a glow from his approval.

She climbed wearily into her truck and watched as the men trudged up the hill toward the compound.

She’d expected them to turn from mere inmates into people to her, but not this soon and, in one case especially, not so personally.

“Y
OU BASTARDS THINK
you gonna have it easy ’cause she’s a civilian and a female. You ain’t, not with me around,” Mike Newman said. “Showers! Shee-ut.”

“But she said we—” Robert clamped his mouth shut as Steve’s hand fell hard on his forearm.

“She said, she said. What she said don’t mean squat. What I say’s what counts.”

“If we show up dirty in the morning, she’s gonna be pissed.” Slow Rise’s voice was plaintive.

“Shut your yap, old man. Or you gonna find out what this here stick’s for.”

“He’s right, you know,” Steve said mildly, and knew the moment the words left his mouth that he shouldn’t have spoken.

Newman already disliked him. He’d recognized that immediately. Steve tried to be just one of the cons, but he’d never managed to get the shuffle down quite right. Newman saw attitude and arrogance in him and hated both.

He was also looking for revenge after Dr. Grayson called him about the gloves. Someone had been almost certain to take a beating over that. Steve had just broken the cardinal rule of prisoners the world over. He’d called attention to himself.

“You saying I’m wrong? Huh? Yeah, you saying ol’ Mike Newman is wrong. My, my. Well, I do apologize. Sure wouldn’t want to trample on no civil rights of any of you
gentlemen,
now would I?”