country. And, at the harbor in the small bay—the only calm in a restless sea—fishing boats bobbed next to shiny new recreational craft.
He took in every detail as if he hadn’t seen anything like it in years. Because, other than on the long drive from Sacramento this morning, he hadn’t. He’d read all the books, leaflets, newsletters and pamphlets he could lay his hands on when he was inside, but experiencing a place like this made a real and very different impact. He especially enjoyed the salt-laden air and the smell of the loamy earth and towering trees.
While Wallace parked at Raliberto’s Tacos on M Street, Virgil wished he could’ve visited Crescent City back when it was teeming with lumberjacks and salmon fishermen. It would have felt innocent then. But, according to Wallace, who’d picked him up at the airport in Sacramento, it was only because of Pelican Bay that Crescent City had survived. In the early ’80s, the salmon fishing had died and thirteen of the seventeen sawmills went out of operation. The prison, which opened in ’89, supplied much-needed jobs. Now nearly half the town’s population resided behind bars and most of the other half worked in a capacity related to that.
“You as hungry as I am?” Wallace continued to strive for camaraderie.
“Hungry enough.” Virgil yanked on the heavy jacket intended to hide his build and got out. “You staying all weekend?”
“I haven’t decided.” The car chirped as he locked it and came around the front. “Is that necessary?”
“If you think it’s your presence that’s keeping me here, you’re delusional.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Wallace jingled his change. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But my job’s on the line and—”
Virgil broke in with an incredulous laugh. “You’re worried about your job? I have a lot more at risk than that, so stop whining. It’s this simple—you take care of Laurel, I’ll do my part.”
“A U.S. marshal will arrive at her door on Monday.”
“Does she know that?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I want to tell her.”
“You can’t contact her. And we’re not going to advise her, either.” He held up a hand before Virgil could protest. “We don’t want her to do or say anything that might tip off your friends, do we?”
Friends… The Crew had once been his friends. Now they were his greatest enemy. Good thing there weren’t any Crew members at Pelican Bay. Of course, if there were, he wouldn’t be doing this. As with most gangs, they were connected to a specific region—mostly L.A., with an offshoot in Arizona. “What if Monday’s not soon enough?”
With a sigh, Wallace shook his head. “Fine. I’ll leavefirst thing in the morning, get her moved and be back on Tuesday to effect your ‘transfer.’”
Three whole days of freedom. It wasn’t a lot. Especially when he had to lie low and make sure he wasn’t noticed. But it was something. Simeon couldn’t wait.
Ducking into the restaurant to keep his suit from getting wet, Wallace turned to see why he hadn’t followed. But there was no one in their immediate vicinity, so as far as Virgil was concerned, Wallace could wait all day. He’d go in when he was good and ready. For now, all he wanted was to stand in the rain.
Removing the bogus glasses, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes and let the drops fall on his face.
Whenever staff who worked for the department came to Crescent City, they stayed at a garden-style motel of twenty-four rooms called the Redwood Inn. Peyton knew this because she’d gone out to dinner with Wallace and various others three times in the past and had driven them back to the motel twice when they’d had too much to drink. She’d even had a room there herself when she’d been sent to interview for her current position. She assumed that was where she’d find Bennett. Habits were tough to break.
“Hey, look who it is!” Michelle Thomas, who managed the inn,
He took in every detail as if he hadn’t seen anything like it in years. Because, other than on the long drive from Sacramento this morning, he hadn’t. He’d read all the books, leaflets, newsletters and pamphlets he could lay his hands on when he was inside, but experiencing a place like this made a real and very different impact. He especially enjoyed the salt-laden air and the smell of the loamy earth and towering trees.
While Wallace parked at Raliberto’s Tacos on M Street, Virgil wished he could’ve visited Crescent City back when it was teeming with lumberjacks and salmon fishermen. It would have felt innocent then. But, according to Wallace, who’d picked him up at the airport in Sacramento, it was only because of Pelican Bay that Crescent City had survived. In the early ’80s, the salmon fishing had died and thirteen of the seventeen sawmills went out of operation. The prison, which opened in ’89, supplied much-needed jobs. Now nearly half the town’s population resided behind bars and most of the other half worked in a capacity related to that.
“You as hungry as I am?” Wallace continued to strive for camaraderie.
“Hungry enough.” Virgil yanked on the heavy jacket intended to hide his build and got out. “You staying all weekend?”
“I haven’t decided.” The car chirped as he locked it and came around the front. “Is that necessary?”
“If you think it’s your presence that’s keeping me here, you’re delusional.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Wallace jingled his change. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. But my job’s on the line and—”
Virgil broke in with an incredulous laugh. “You’re worried about your job? I have a lot more at risk than that, so stop whining. It’s this simple—you take care of Laurel, I’ll do my part.”
“A U.S. marshal will arrive at her door on Monday.”
“Does she know that?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I want to tell her.”
“You can’t contact her. And we’re not going to advise her, either.” He held up a hand before Virgil could protest. “We don’t want her to do or say anything that might tip off your friends, do we?”
Friends… The Crew had once been his friends. Now they were his greatest enemy. Good thing there weren’t any Crew members at Pelican Bay. Of course, if there were, he wouldn’t be doing this. As with most gangs, they were connected to a specific region—mostly L.A., with an offshoot in Arizona. “What if Monday’s not soon enough?”
With a sigh, Wallace shook his head. “Fine. I’ll leavefirst thing in the morning, get her moved and be back on Tuesday to effect your ‘transfer.’”
Three whole days of freedom. It wasn’t a lot. Especially when he had to lie low and make sure he wasn’t noticed. But it was something. Simeon couldn’t wait.
Ducking into the restaurant to keep his suit from getting wet, Wallace turned to see why he hadn’t followed. But there was no one in their immediate vicinity, so as far as Virgil was concerned, Wallace could wait all day. He’d go in when he was good and ready. For now, all he wanted was to stand in the rain.
Removing the bogus glasses, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes and let the drops fall on his face.
Whenever staff who worked for the department came to Crescent City, they stayed at a garden-style motel of twenty-four rooms called the Redwood Inn. Peyton knew this because she’d gone out to dinner with Wallace and various others three times in the past and had driven them back to the motel twice when they’d had too much to drink. She’d even had a room there herself when she’d been sent to interview for her current position. She assumed that was where she’d find Bennett. Habits were tough to break.
“Hey, look who it is!” Michelle Thomas, who managed the inn,
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