With a curse, Myles dialed the number he’d just gotten from the CDCR.
A woman answered. “Warden Wright’s office.”
To avoid the noise two of his deputies were making as they reported for work, Myles got up and closed his office door. “Is the warden in?”
“He is, but I’m afraid he’s not available. Can I take a message?”
“This is Sheriff King in Pineview, Montana. Tell him I spotted your boys and believe they’re still in this area.”
“Excuse me?”
He returned to his seat. “The two convicts who cut a hole in the fence and slipped out ten days ago? They’re in Montana.”
“Oh, dear! Um, in that case, hang on. I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you sooner rather than later.”
Two or three minutes dragged by before a male voice boomed across the line. “Sheriff?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for calling. You have something to report on our escapees?”
Propping his elbows on the desk, Myles smoothed his eyebrows with a finger and one thumb. “I wish I had more than I do, but I’ll give you what I’ve got. They stole a red Toyota truck from a Quentin J. Ferguson in Monrovia, which they drove here. A leak in the radiator stranded them on the side of the road. That’s where I found them yesterday.”
“Tell me you have them in custody.”
“I’m afraid not.” Myles explained what had happened, then mentioned Pat Stueben’s murder.
“Eugene Ryder should never have been transferred from Pelican Bay. He’s a level-four prisoner if I’ve ever met one.” The stress in the warden’s voice revealed just how much he wanted to get these particular inmates back where they belonged.
Myles had wondered what someone convicted of so many counts of murder was doing in anything less than maximum security. But it happened sometimes. Due to good behavior, time served, overcrowding or myriad other reasons, their points dropped. “Considering his long list of offenses, why’d they reclassify him?”
“Four years ago, Ryder tried to kill a woman who was going into WitSec. Murdered the federal marshal who was protecting her, but he took a bullet that night that nearly severed his spinal cord. He was never supposed to walk again. He’s done much better than the doctors predicted, but he’s in constant pain. No one dreamed he’d leave his free and ready supply of codeine and head for the hills. When his back gets bad, he can barely limp around. And it’s bad almost all the time.”
Was the warden joking? Prison doctors didn’t have a corner on the painkiller market. “But there are plenty of alternatives to codeine available on the street. Including some drugs, both legal and illegal, that are a lot stronger.”
“He spent two years in Pelican Bay after the shooting, seemed like a different man. And they’re so crowded up there.”
Myles read over Ryder’s arrest record again. They thought he was a different man? This was obviously a screwup, and the warden didn’t want to admit it. So Myles changed tactics. “Who shot him?”
“Don’t know. Until ten days ago, he was just another inmate to me. Now all I care about is dragging his ass back here.”
Myles remembered the stories Mia had shared with her friend at school. Had she witnessed the shooting that’d injured Ryder? Or the slaying of the marshal?
Rex had mentioned that The Crew had been out to get Vivian and her brother for a long time, that they’d been in protective custody. “Was it the woman he was trying to rape who shot him?”
“Could’ve been. I haven’t looked into those details. They don’t matter. All that matters is what’s happening now. We gotta get these boys back in prison before they hurt someone else.”
But they’d have a far greater chance of catching their “boys” if they could figure out where they might be going and why. And that could be linked to their pasts. “What can you tell me that might help me locate Eugene? Does he have family in Montana? Friends?”
“No. His family lives in San Diego, and he lost touch with them years ago. This guy’s a career criminal and not right in the head. His family’s as scared of him as everyone else, especially his mother. When he was only twelve he tried to set her bed on fire while she was sleeping.”
Nice son… “So he won’t be reaching out to them anytime soon.”
“They certainly hope not. But we’ve been in touch, just in case.”
“What about the guy who escaped with him? Beachum? Where’s his family?”
“He’s from Modesto, here in California. We’re in contact with his family, too, or what’s left of it. He was born to a crack addict who lost him to Child Protective Services when he was eleven. From there he bounced around the foster system for three or four years. Finally wound up on the street. Mother claims she hasn’t heard from him, but she’s still on the pipe so who knows if she’d even remember.”
Myles groped for some other way to track Eugene Ryder. “Someone had to help these men escape. Someone on the outside. A girlfriend. A family member. A buddy. Isn’t that how it usually works?”
“More often than not.”
“Have you figured out who that might be?”
“No. They have a lot of friends, Sheriff, but not the type who’ll help us. Ryder and Beachum belong to a gang called The Crew.”
That was the problem, not the answer.
“They must’ve had some wire cutters smuggled in so they could cut the fence,” the warden was saying. “But we could drag every member of that gang into my office and interrogate the hell out of them for hours and not a single one would talk, because nothing we’re at liberty to do can compare with what’ll happen to them if they rat out a fellow member.”
“But you’ve tried to talk to them? Maybe there’s a weak link. Someone who really hates Ryder and would like to see him get caught. Someone who, down deep, wants to do the right thing.”
Laughter crackled over the phone. “I can see you’ve never worked in a prison.”
That told him they hadn’t called in any of Ryder’s or Beachum’s “buddies.” “Look, I already have one dead man here, thanks to your escapees. I expect you to do all you can, no matter how futile it may seem.”
Silence greeted this response. Myles had been speaking out of frustration more than anything else, but he didn’t apologize. When Ryder and Beachum drove that beat-up Toyota into his town and killed Pat, California’s problem had become his problem. And he didn’t appreciate it. “We are doing all we can, Sheriff.” His manner, suddenly wooden and overly polite, indicated any camaraderie had come to an end. His next words confirmed that the conversation had, as well. “Thanks for calling.”