But he couldn’t relax, try as he might. His thoughts drifted from calm to agitation, composure to irritation, as he considered the current situation.
His second-in-command, Eugene Griff, known by his so-called associates as “Bones,” had reported back to him. Bones served Anson Stark’s purpose – for the moment. Anson hadn’t liked the necessity of covering for him in the prison yard murder, but he’d done what had to be done for the safety and health of the organization.
A second misstep from Griff would be another matter. Anson would replace him without a thought if he screwed up again.
Griff was a giant hulk of a beast, a white supremacist through and through, born and bred in the hollers of Kentucky. The other Lords respected him, followed him, and paid allegiance to him. That’s why he was useful to Anson. Although Griff wasn’t the most clever of men, he had a cunning wiliness that embraced the basics of leadership organization.
And he was completely loyal to the Professor, another point in his favor.
Anson moved into another position – Bhujangasana, cobra pose. Simple movements, but his brain wasn’t concentrating anyway. Griff’s recent communication had alerted Anson to the rather lovely, but meddling, Dr. Jones. He’d thought he’d taken care of that problem, but hadn’t anticipated how tenacious the troublesome doctor would be.
He wondered about her fierce stubbornness. What fueled such a beautiful woman to enter such a competitive field as medicine, and then choose, of all things, a prison facility in which to work? And what caused her to continue snooping after both subtle and overt threats?
When he visited her in the clinic, he was mildly shocked at her familiarity. Had he seen her before? Somewhere else? She reminded him so much of ... some illusive someone. But who?
He loosened his yoga concentration, just for a slivered moment while he pulled himself back to the present. Although he didn’t like indiscriminate killing, he would do what he must with regard to the good doctor.
He shifted into downward facing dog – Adho Mukha Savanasana – his least favorite pose. It reminded him rather too much of his late wife.
He pondered the recent changes he’d initiated. The “blood price” had been a brilliant idea from the start. Griff had been the first inmate to pay the membership requirement. The rest of the inner circle followed like lambs.
How better to commit oneself to a cause, to the LOD’s, than donating a body part? Though crude, the nurse in the SHU clinic was a far more skilled surgeon than Anson could have hoped to find. The death rate had been negligible and the disposal of the merchandise smooth, thanks to the guards on LOD’s payroll.
Satisfaction all around, and why not? Everyone likes money and no one was seriously harmed. Not really.
That was how the idea of expanding his business had been born.
Once he’d latched onto the idea with the “blood price,” the rest had been simple communication among his members, both inside and outside Pelican Bay.
Although his face showed nothing, the Professor’s thoughts darkened and a slow-raging storm began to build inside him. All was well except for the meddlers.
Like the prodding, resolutely inquisitive Dr. Frankie Jones.
He struggled to breathe deeply, calm the thundering within. He finally succeeded. Standing up from his yoga pose, he stared at the nothingness of the concrete wall through the grated barrier to his cell. His face was impassive, his mind clever and ruthless. He had made his decision.
Clearly Dr. Jones was a problem that had to be eliminated. Too bad. She was a lovely woman. He shrugged mentally. Even beautiful women had to be sacrificed.
Still, he wished he knew who she reminded him of.
Before she had a chance to resist, the stupid bitch went down with a single fist punch hard to the temple. Her eyes rolled back in her head as he pushed her into the car.
The killer planned to have a little fun before he squeezed the life out of her, but the sight of her bony body through the shirt and jeans stirred nothing in him. He just wanted to get on with it, get rid of her, so he pulled off the road and threw her limp body in the truck.
Edgy and anxious, he wondered if taking someone so well known had been a stupid move. All the street people and meth heads knew her – the great, reformed Angie Hunt, who was a savior in their eyes.
Through the window he’d watched her cleaning up the lobby of Jesus Saves, and he lurked in his car until she came out. She’d thrown a careless glance his way, gave a quizzical look, but otherwise barely acknowledged him as she walked down the street to her car. She’d be sorry for the disrespect.
She hardly knew him, but Angie didn’t like him. She made that clear whenever their paths crossed. He didn’t think much of her, either.
Her bleeding heart liberal attitude riled him, and their mutual animosity made her a perfect target. He shifted impatiently in his car seat, watching her with grim satisfaction as he slipped out of the car and quietly tailed her.