“How is Killer Cronk doing, anyway?” Richie asked. “I heard Chapman stabbed him before Billy wrestled the shiv away.”
“He’s still in surgery to repair the tears to his intestines. One of the knife thrusts passed between the bowels but nicked the outer wall of his colon. The doctors are concerned about sepsis if there was leakage into the body cavity.”
“Leakage!” She made a sour face. “I mean, that sounds like a horrible way to die. Can one of you get me a drink from that sippy cup?”
Klesko held the straw to her lips. When she was done slurping, she shimmied herself upright.
“Are we done?”
“Almost. Do you have any idea why Chapman and Dow tried to kill you?”
She laughed until she began to grimace from the pain it must have caused her damaged body. “Do I have an idea? Yeah, I have plenty of ideas, starting with the fact that they hated my guts.”
“What was the nature of their grievance?”
She smirked at Klesko’s turn of phrase. “Those two had grievances coming out their sphincters.”
“Can you be specific, Sergeant?”
“When I first started at the prison, I got catcalls. You expect that as a female CO. But if you rap a few knuckles, mace a few tear ducts, it mostly stops. But Chapman and Trevor never bent the knee. I gave them some time to rethink their attitudes in the Supermax.”
Klesko loosened the knot of his tie. “Can you point to any specific occurrence—say in the past few weeks—that might explain the timing of the attack?”
“Why does it have to be something recent?” she said sharply. “For all you know they’ve been working on their master plan for months. What’s that Klingon proverb? ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’”
“Isn’t that a line from The Godfather?” asked Klesko.
“The wops stole it from the Klingons. Excuse me if anyone here is Italian.”
There seemed nothing left to say after that.
Outside, in the hallway, I found myself studying the ceiling tiles as if I were a certified ceiling-tile inspector.
“What’s on your mind, Mike?” asked Klesko.
“Did you notice she never commented on being slashed across the face?”
“No.”
“I know plastic surgery can fix scars. But what kind of woman—what kind of person—doesn’t give a shit about being disfigured? Either she’s good at hiding her feelings, or she’s one of the most cold-blooded people I’ve ever met.”
The hospital staff were trying to return to normal operations, but the media had caught wind of the story, and journalists were now attempting to talk their way inside the building. Through the nearest window, I saw three news vans with satellite antennas lined up in a pretty little row.
With Klesko’s help, I secured permission from the officer in charge to hang out in the waiting room until Aimee and the kids arrived. The deputies blocking the entrance were instructed to let the hero’s family inside.
“I’d like to be in the room when he wakes up,” I told Klesko.
“That, I am afraid, is a bridge too far.”
“Why?”
“I need to get his statement before he talks with anyone else, which means we have to wait for the anesthesia to wear off. Given your relationship, I can’t have you in the room for that conversation.”
“You’re still worried that Billy might have played a part in the attack?”
“I can’t dismiss the possibility outright.”
“Even though Dawn Richie said he was too dumb to conspire in anything?”
“I think it’s safe to assume that the dead prisoners hated your friend. There’s also the matter of potential lawsuits. If Mears’s family—or, hell, Dow’s or Chapman’s—decides to sue the state, how is it going to look if you were in the room for the interview, potentially coaching him.”
“Understood.”
After Klesko had moved off to confer with his colleagues, I noticed a familiar pale person in a midnight-blue uniform at the soda machine. Aside from the COs assigned to Billy, most of the other guards had returned to the prison. Those who remained I took to be friends of Dawn Richie’s. Maybe, like me, they were waiting for a chance to visit with their injured comrade.
But something about the way Pegg was standing was odd; slightly hunched, muscular arms hanging at his sides, he gazed with fascination at the shelves of Coke and Sprite. It wasn’t the posture of a man struggling to make a decision. It was the posture of a man frozen in place by a magic spell.
“Pegg.”
He didn’t react until I tried again, my voice louder.
“Oh, hey, Warden Bowditch.”
His eyes, I had noticed, tended to be on the pink side. But his sclera were fully bloodshot now.
“Are you OK?”
“Me? Yeah, I’m chill. You can call me Tyler by the way.”
“Hell of a thing this morning. Were you there when it happened?”
“No, but I saw the laundry room after. That was some bad shit that went down. Mears getting stuck in the throat. Dude fell hard, too. We all thought he was bulletproof, you know? Like, no way could any con take down Mountain Man Mears.”
Despite Pegg’s jive-talking, there was no missing how shaken up he was.
“How long have you been working at the prison?”
“Four months.” He offered a shaky smile. “The cons call me a newjack.”
“So this was probably the worst thing you’ve seen?”
“The worst? More like the latest.”
“We don’t know each other, but if I were in your shoes, I’m sure I’d be reconsidering my career choice after something like this morning.”
He turned his gaze to his boots. “Nah, I’m chill.”
“Let me ask you something then. Had you heard anything about prisoners conspiring against Sergeant Richie?”
He shook his head vigorously from side to side: a no. But he didn’t say the word, I noticed.
“Are you sure about that?”
“One hundred percent.”
“It sounds to me like she’s made a lot of enemies since coming over from Machiasport.”
His cheeks darkened, the color close to wine. “I already
