Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia
Tuesday, September 9, 12:15 p.m.
Adrian Wulfe sprawled across the cement steps, letting the mid-day sun dry the sweat from his T-shirt.
The steps led from the cellblock door down into the prison yard. He’d just finished his workout out there. Now a group of Hispanics had moved in to pump iron-grunting, clanking the plates on the bars, and spotting for each other. Most of them were big, some bigger than him. But they’d all gotten out of the way when he showed up. Just as the guys entering and leaving the entrance behind him made sure to pass by without touching him or asking him to move.
He closed his eyes, savoring the memory of his first week here, when he’d settled all that. When that Spic giant in the shower had tried to make him his punk. He’d broken the bastard’s nose, right arm, and left tibia.
Nobody ratted him out for it: He knew it was a matter of honor that the Spics would want to settle it themselves. So he was ready when three of them, also big guys, came for him the next day. It happened down in the laundry room, where he worked sorting clothes. He wasn’t as nice about it that time. He left them barely alive, two of them with their own shivs sticking out of their guts. The third would never again walk without crutches or see out of his left eye.
Under questioning later, none of the eyewitnesses breathed a word about who had done it. Not after they saw what he could do. Not after he told them-with that little twisted smile that he had perfected in his youth-just what would happen to them if they did. Of course, he himself had no difficulty lying persuasively to the warden or staff. He could pass a polygraph with ease, and had. He’d once overheard his whore mother tell some John that her brat Addie could lie to God and get away with it. He smiled at the memory: It had been the only clever thing the bitch had ever said in her life.
He stretched and shook his ape-like arms, loosening the tight muscles.
So, from the beginning, things had been at least tolerable here. Not that he wanted to be here, of course. He wanted out. After all, he had plans. But, for the time being, whenever he told somebody to do something, they did it. Nobody had said no to Adrian Wulfe for decades.
At least, nobody did and lived.
Plans… He knew that the first things to do when he was free would be to settle some accounts. The call last night from Valenti had especially cheered him. That kid, at least, was reliable-not like the cokehead, Bracey. All impulse, no self-discipline. Little wonder that he’d gotten himself shot. From the story in the paper, there was little doubt he’d tried to stiff someone on a deal. On the other hand, with Jay-Jay, he’d picked well. The kid had come through for him again, this time with the information he needed about the two women.
He remembered every word they’d said to him. Remembered how, with Frankfurt there, he had to just sit there and smile and take it.
He closed his eyes, let his imagination run. First thing when he got out of here, it would be payback time. Especially with that arrogant Woods bitch. But damn, she was hot. She was going to be such fun…
An image intruded. The guy who’d come after him, out in the hallway. He’d gotten the man’s name easily enough from a guard who owed him, and he immediately recognized it as the name of the reporter who wrote about him in the Inquirer. But Valenti couldn’t find an address or much of anything else about him. Like this Hunter was a ghost or something, the kid said.
Strange. And why did this guy have such a hard-on about getting him, anyway? He recalled the guy’s eyes and voice. Both ice-cold, not at all frightened. How he moved: fast, smooth. No, not one of the usual pencil-neck reporters you run into.
He raised his hands before his face, opened and closed them. They were big, veined mitts, calloused and hardened from years of hard dojo training.
When he got out of here, he’d have to figure out a way to find him, too. After all, the man had threatened him. And in the presence of witnesses. That would never do.
Nobody threatened Adrian Wulfe and lived.