Falling For The Enemy. Dawn Stewardson

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      CHAPTER TWO

      HAYLEY HADN’T SLEPT WELL. Monsters wearing Sloan Reeves’s handsomely chiseled face had chased her through a series of nightmares, making it a relief when morning stole into her bedroom.

      The first thing she did when she got up was phone Poquette and arrange to have Billy brought to the psych area at nine o’clock sharp. She might not know why Armstrong wanted to make a quick decision, but her job was to cooperate with him.

      Naturally, Max picked this morning to dawdle. He usually ignored Satchmo’s game of always being on the wrong side of the door, but today he let the cat out and in three times before reluctantly sitting down at the table. Then he played a seemingly endless round of eenie-meenie before he decided which cereal he’d have.

      Finally, she managed to get him to finish his breakfast and collect what he wanted for his day at the sitter’s.

      After walking him and his pint-size two-wheeler the few houses down the street to Anne Kelly’s, she headed back to her car.

      Despite Max’s delaying tactics she made it to the highway by 8:00 a.m. Once she started down the peninsula toward Poquette she was able to drive on automatic pilot.

      The surrounding terrain was flat and wet—not completely barren but close to it—so the area wasn’t highly populated. That made for little traffic on the road, which gave her a chance to think through how she felt about this situation Sloan Reeves had dragged her into.

      Peggy had been right in saying that prisons dealt with most requests from inmates at a snail’s pace. Armstrong’s asking for an immediate evaluation was highly unusual, and Hayley couldn’t help but wonder what leverage Reeves had used.

      Regardless of how he’d done it, she was annoyed that he had Armstrong jumping through hoops. She didn’t like the idea of any prisoner, or his lawyer, having the power to force a warden into giving preferential treatment.

      Force.

      As the word repeated itself in her mind, she realized she shouldn’t assume Armstrong was jumping through hoops at all. She’d had enough contact with him to know that, like most wardens, he was hardly the type of man who’d let himself be intimidated.

      Of course, bribery was always a possibility, although she seriously doubted Armstrong could be bought. In fact, she could readily imagine him throwing Reeves out on his ear if he tried either intimidation or bribery. So why this big rush?

      Quite possibly, she’d never know. Armstrong wasn’t obliged to give her any explanations. When it came to things at Poquette, he was in complete charge. Which, in this case, was definitely a good thing.

      As Peggy had said, if Reeves or Fitzgerald wanted to find out what Hayley recommended, they could. So it was just as well they were aware that the ultimate decision on a transfer wasn’t hers. Because, at least based on what she knew to this point, there was no way she could recommend one. Not with a clear conscience.

      When she turned her attention back to her driving she was nearing the tall bridge that lay partway between Port Sulphur and Buras. The structure always struck her as spooky, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

      Possibly it was the weirdness of there being freshwater on one side and saltwater on the other. Or maybe there was just too little land and too much ocean along this stretch.

      Whatever, she was always glad to leave the bridge behind and drive the remaining few miles to the gravel road leading from the highway to the prison.

      A couple of minutes later she could see it in the distance, a tired-looking big brick quadrangle in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by a heavy link fence topped with razor ribbon, it always struck her as utterly depressing—the sight of it frequently reminding her she could have specialized in other areas of psychology.

      But with a mother who taught criminology at Penn State and a father who was a district attorney, her interest in the correctional treatment of psychopathology was hardly surprising.

      And even though the vast majority of prisoners were damaged beyond repair, there were enough she could help to make her work rewarding. In fact, one of her most treasured possessions was a little box containing cards and letters from ex-cons who’d made it on the outside.

      Reaching her destination, she stopped at the concrete post in front of the gate and pressed the button.

      “Yes?” a guard asked through the speaker.

      “Dr. Hayley Morgan.”

      The gate slowly swung open. She drove through, parked and headed for the staff entrance—where she stepped reluctantly from the cheery daylight into the dim interior of the prison.

      After signing in, she passed through the metal detector and started down the hall. At the end of it, a correctional officer unlocked the heavy door and let her into another world. One in which an eerie sense of pent-up danger hung in the air like static before an electrical storm.

      In contrast to the Orleans Parish state government building, with Muzak whispering in the elevators and sunlight streaming through the windows on every floor, Poquette was stark and harsh—the epitome of uninviting.

      It felt...hollow was a good word. The clicking of her heels on the stone floor echoed far too loudly. And even though sounds from the cell blocks didn’t actually reach the admin wing, she couldn’t keep from imagining steel doors clanging and voices calling out from behind bars.

      At Records she picked up Billy Fitzgerald’s file, then proceeded to the psych area. She barely reached her little Tuesdays office before nine o’clock. Minutes later, as prearranged, a C.O. delivered Billy Fitzgerald.

      He was a few inches taller than she was, five foot nine or ten, and somewhat overweight, although СКАЧАТЬ