CHAPTER TWO
PLANNING WAYS TO KILL Neil Waters had kept Steve Chadwick sane during his three years in prison.
At first he’d sought advice from the murderers he met inside, but they were obviously incompetent. After all, they were in prison. They’d been caught. Amateurs, all of them. Apparently professional killers didn’t often wind up behind bars.
He lay back on his bunk with his hands locked behind his head. Minimum security. At last.
One step closer to freedom.
He’d have to settle on the way to kill Neil soon.
The bunk beside him was occupied by an elderly con named Joseph Jasper, known as “Slow Rise.” He told the other cons he got his name two ways. He was usually easygoing, slow to anger, but his wife had finally pushed him too far. He’d caught her in bed with her lover and was now serving twenty-five to life because he’d picked up his shotgun and “caught him on the rise, like a damn fat mallard.” He said it was a satisfying experience, but not worth spending the rest of his life in prison over.
Slow Rise said the only truly successful murders were listed either as accidents or natural deaths and never investigated at all. He had great respect for the skill and doggedness of homicide detectives once they were alerted that a killing had taken place. He suggested Steve kill Neil with poison, and even mentioned a few varities that could handle the job. Born and bred in the country, Slow Rise knew a dozen ways to turn common weeds into deadly potions.
“If you don’t do it but once and don’t do anything stupid right after like marry his woman or buy a yacht with his money, chances are it’ll be put down to a heart attack,” Slow Rise had advised.
Steve couldn’t use poison. That was the sort of sneaky method Neil might try. Besides, he wanted Neil to know he was being killed, by whom and for what. He wanted Neil to be afraid, to beg for his life.
Steve had expected to have to wait until he was paroled in two years or less to kill Neil, but if he kept his nose clean at the penal farm, he’d probably be sent out on work release soon—maybe in a few weeks if he was lucky. He could easily escape from work release.
To outsiders, two years to serve until parole might seem like no time at all, but Steve didn’t think he could stay sane another two years, assuming he was still sane now. Killing Neil seemed perfectly reasonable. Did sane men think that way?
“Hey.” The man on the other bunk sat up and poked Steve’s shoulder.
Steve ignored him. He loathed Sweet Daddy, a small-time pimp imprisoned for cutting one of his ladies—his “bottom bitch”—when she tried to leave his employ to start her own business. Steve had inadvertently protected Sweet Daddy in the yard at Big Mountain Prison one day when a motorcycle freak had threatened to break him in two for stealing cigarettes. From that moment on, Sweet Daddy had stuck to Steve like a limpet.
Steve couldn’t imagine any woman being attracted to Sweet Daddy’s ferrety face and scrawny body, but apparently he’d run a large and generally loyal stable of beautiful and expensive ladies. Guess he could be charming when it behooved him.
Steve forced himself to stay calm, to keep his eyes closed, to feign patience. The trick was to seem relaxed, uncaring. If they thought you cared about anything, they took it away from you. Prison taught patience.
But now he had resources. He had the contacts to obtain false identity papers that would pass the closest inspection, and he could sign Neil’s signature so well that Neil himself couldn’t detect the forgery. Prison did teach a few useful skills.
Steve would have preferred to see Neil brought to trial for Chelsea’s murder, convicted, sentenced to prison, see his good name, his wealth, his family stripped from him as Steve’s had been.
Steve knew that wasn’t possible. He’d have to be content with exacting his revenge personally. He’d have to spend the rest of his life in Brazil, which had no extradition treaty with the United States. A small price to pay.
Prison had also taught him there were no completely satisfactory endings.
Before he was convicted, he had believed in the United States criminal-justice system, that being an honorable, moral man was all the protection he would ever need. No more.
Everybody expected Brazil to be corrupt. There would be no nasty surprises. He’d be one more crook among many. Bribery would work every time.
His only worry was that actually killing Neil wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable as the hours spent planning it.
“I THOUGHT I GOT TO PICK my own workers,” Eleanor Grayson said to Ernest Portree. She had been formally hired as resident veterinarian at the farm one week earlier. Up to now she’d been filling out reams of paperwork, going over the old cattle barn and the pastures to see what needed fixing and moving her few possessions into her new bungalow.
This was her first real meeting with the warden since she’d been hired. She looked at the list of six names. These men were unknown quantities and would be her “team.” All had only recently been moved into the facility from Big Mountain Prison in East Tennessee.
“Seniority and good time are inflexible criteria in prisons, Eleanor, or at least this prison. These men have shown good conduct or they wouldn’t have been moved here in the first place. We want the inmates to see a carrot, as well as a stick, in this assignment.”
“They think setting up a cattle operation is a carrot?”
“Better than working all day in the hot sun tending chili peppers.”
“But chili peppers and tomatoes and whatever else you’re growing die in the winter. Not much to do except prepare the land for planting in the spring.”
“We already have two hydroponic facilities set up under canvas and expect to have a couple of temporary hothouses before our first heavy frost, so there’ll be even more to do this winter. It would seem there’s a mystique about working with animals, especially large animals, that attracts the men. Better than digging in dirt or wading in muddy water.”
Eleanor sat across from Ernest Portree at his desk—a broad slab of walnut that had been made in a prison woodworking shop. At least she supposed it had—everything else had. If so, the men who built it were craftsmen who should have no problem finding honest jobs on the outside.
“I’ve been doing some reading, Ernest. What Raoul Torres calls his ‘dummy’s guide to psychopaths.’ He’s been a real godsend. He told me I can call him any hour of the day or night if I have a problem. Okay, with those criteria you mentioned, I’m willing to work with the men selected, with a couple of stipulations. First, no arsonists.”
Portree nodded.
“Second, no one with a record of animal abuse.”
“Of course. Why no arsonists?”
“Because they often progress to violence toward animals. Besides, barns are full of inflammable material. I’d rather not have prisoners who like to start fires.”
“You have been doing your homework. How do you feel about murderers?”
“I read that several of the governors used to staff their mansions exclusively with murderers. They were the least likely to commit another crime—unless, I guess, the circumstances of the first one were duplicated. Anyway, I won’t know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Raoul suggested that I not read their charge sheets or their prison records so I won’t be looking for trouble. I won’t know the drug dealers and pimps from the guys who embezzled from the mortgage company. They’ll all start with a clean slate. I also want to be able to toss anyone off my team for cause, but I won’t do it without reviewing my reasons with you first.”
“Agreed.