Oliver retrieved his flashlight—prisoners who weren’t a behavioral problem and performed as many services as he did were allowed more possessions than the average inmate—and pulled the blanket over his head so he could study the notes he’d made in ciphertext. He’d gotten so good at forward substitution that he no longer needed the key he’d created; he knew it by heart.
His cellmate snorted and rolled over. “Damn, Ollie, go to sleep. What are you doing up there? Jerking off again?”
Oliver ignored him. He had a right to jerk off if he wanted to. It was certainly better than his other options at the moment. His small size and soft-spoken manner had proved to be a real attraction to the men in prison, but homosexual encounters left him more disgusted than satisfied. Except for Larry. He’d met Larry in the library one day. They’d had a lot in common—liked the same books and music. Larry was gentle and quiet, and he knew how to make Oliver feel like somebody. But in the end he’d turned out to be a big disappointment. Sometimes Oliver regretted what he’d had to do to Larry. Sometimes he missed Larry more than Jane.
Putting Larry from his mind, he flipped back several pages and read over what he’d written, quickly translating it into plaintext. He’d created his method of encryption years ago so he could put his thoughts on paper without worrying that someone might get hold of his notebooks and read them. He remembered doing it when he was as young as ten. But the simple alphabet substitutions he’d started with had grown into a much more elaborate cipher system that included numbers and even geometric symbols. He doubted there were many people, in San Quentin, anyway, who’d be able to crack it. Jane had certainly never managed to figure it out. And, just in case, he was careful to use initials and never full names when referring to people who had the dubious honor of being mentioned. People such as Detective Willis, Mrs. Grady, the teacher who was giving Jane so much trouble over Kate’s recent behavior and, at the front of the book, Miranda Dodge. He’d never properly thanked her for the rejection that still ate at him.
But that was because he’d been so undecided about her. What punishment would be best? He still wanted to be with her. If she’d give him half a chance, he’d show her what a good friend and passionate lover he could be. He’d always felt they were meant to be together, since that first day when she’d walked into his fifth-grade class with her auburn hair pulled back in those pretty purple barrettes.
He could definitely forgive Miranda. If she’d let him.
But not Skye. He hated Skye more than anyone, because no one had wronged him as badly as she had. She’d gone to the police, testified against him and cried in happiness and relief when they led him off to prison. The way she kept appearing in public, talking about what he’d done, was an embarrassment, and he doubted it’d end anytime soon. She was making a calling out of their little skirmish.
At least she’d given him plenty to think about in prison. Closing his eyes, he eagerly relived the heart-pounding excitement of peering in her windows and watching as she moved from room to room…. Pictured her talking on the phone, laughing, lifting her long hair off her neck. Imagined getting the key he’d seen her use, silently opening the door and stepping inside.
Scarcely able to breathe, he slipped his hand into his shorts, feeling the tension, fear and excitement coalesce until his nerves vibrated with power and exhilaration. He had to have Skye; he had to hurt her.
He smiled as he imagined using his knife to hold her still while he touched her. The whites of her eyes showed clearly in the dark room and her lips moved, begging him to stop. Her helplessness was the best part. It fed some need he couldn’t understand or deny. He wanted to punish her, pinch her, claw her, even bite her.
Skye…Skye…Skye, his mind chanted. But it wasn’t until he heard her cry out in pain and anguish, completely broken, that his body finally shuddered in release.
“Your wife doesn’t care?” his cellmate asked when it was all over.
Oliver had been so caught up in his memories of Skye he hadn’t realized T.J. hadn’t gone back to sleep. Lying perfectly still, he tried to recover while wondering how to respond.
“Every guy has his fantasies,” he said at last.
“Yours is a freakin’ obsession. You pant the name Skye almost every night.”
“No, I don’t.” But the knowledge that he’d soon be able to even the score had made tonight’s fantasy more visceral than ever. “We have unfinished business.”
T.J. chuckled low in his throat. “You attack her again, you’ll get a life sentence.”
They wouldn’t catch him. He’d see to that. If not for those damn scissors, they wouldn’t have caught him the last time. Willis suspected him of killing those other women—young women who wouldn’t have had to die if only they’d been decent to him. Oliver felt bad about Meredith. But the detective hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about it because he hadn’t left any evidence. “I’m not going to touch her.”
“Sure you won’t.”
Oliver didn’t respond. He wanted T.J. to go back to sleep and leave him alone. But that didn’t happen. T.J.’s bedding rustled as he rolled onto his back, and his tone grew friendlier.
“Hey, Oliver.”
“What?” he said, hating T.J. almost as much as Vic.
“All that moanin’ turned me on, man. Why don’t you help me take care of the problem? We could call it a going-away present.”
Oliver found his pen. He knew what “taking care of the problem” entailed. As T.J.’s “bitch,” he’d had to perform sexual favors for him before. It was the only way he could ensure he had a protector. And he needed T.J. more than ever now.
But it enraged him to feel so powerless, so cornered. “Caused me to perform in prison,” he wrote next to T.J.’s name. It wasn’t the first time he’d recorded this offense, but writing it down siphoned off some of the rage. He liked keeping count. Then, when he settled the score, he’d be able to cross off each entry, which would make his victory even more meaningful.
“Come on,” T.J. snapped.
“Will you keep Vic and his friends away from me till I get out of here?” Oliver asked, knowing he had little choice regardless.
“Make it the best I’ve ever had and Vic won’t touch you.”
Setting his precious book aside, Oliver got up and cleaned himself with a few pieces of the cheap thin toilet paper provided by the state. Then he glanced through the bars at the upper gun rail opposite the bank of cages. The guards stationed there were supposed to watch for any sexual activity. Theoretically, they were also supposed to stop it. But enforcing that rule wasn’t very practical. If they watched too closely, just about every guy in the place would end up being sent to solitary, and they didn’t have the facilities. Unless someone cried rape, they mostly turned a blind eye.