The Hunted

He attacked the library with curious regularity. The FBI accessed the records and followed his literary pursuits with their own deep interest. The law stacks were a common destination. Little surprise there. All prisoners fashioned themselves Clarence Darrows, able to outdo all those esquired incompetents who screwed up and got them in here. Every other day, it was books on computers, computer languages, FORTRAN and COBOL, and that new thing called the Internet all their kids were raving about. A few times a week, he hopped onto the library computer and typed away at blazing speed, nearly burning up the keyboard. Why, they had no idea.

Hanrahan turned away from the warden and, talking maybe at the wall, maybe at nobody, emphasized, "You know how important this is to us."

"Guess I do. I got a call from Fielder at headquarters. Said your guy, Tromble, wants this real bad."

Still looking away, like this wasn't a conversation. "Find a way to scale back his liberties. Turn up the heat as fast and hard as you like."

The warden, also now talking, not at Hanrahan but at some invisible spot on the ceiling, hypothesized, "Yeah, well, he could, I dunno, maybe misbehave or somethin'. I'd have to come down hard with a few necessary disciplinary measures."

"Yeah, but like what?"

"A few more weeks in solitary will get his attention."

"Don't. Believe me, don't. That was tried at both previous prisons. He folds himself into some kind of yoga posture and goes into a trance. Actually, he seems to enjoy the solitude."

"Two…? Hey, I thought this guy was a cherry."

"Sorry, no, you're the third. The other two prisons he's shown a talent for building coalitions and finding people to protect him. He's clever. We have no idea how he does it."

The warden leaned back in his chair and threw his hands behind his head. "Well, your boy ain't met me yet," he boasted. "Ask around, fellas. The state always sends me the biggest hardasses. I got my ways of making 'em crack."

The two agents on the wall shared quiet smiles. It was the same speech, almost word for word, they had heard from both previous wardens. And in each prison, inside a few weeks, Konevitch was hanging out with the biggest badasses in the yard, getting extra food helpings in the mess hall, the recipient of all kinds of special largesse and favors, even from the guards.

As much as they hoped and plotted otherwise, somehow, some way, they feared Alex Konevitch would find a way to upstage this wingtipped, overconfident ass as well. Bitchy missed football like crazy. All in all, though, prison wasn't all that bad, or even all that different. He more or less spent his time just as he did back in his cherished NFL days, eating voraciously, hoisting enormous weights out in the yard, and bashing heads whenever the impulse seized him. He had packed on another forty pounds of bad mood to the 350 he arrived with, all hard muscle.

Bitchy had scraped by with terrible grades in college, not because he was stupid, because he was smart. A full ride, with all the cute little cheerleaders he wanted, and bright little volunteers to stand in and take his tests. What dork would hide his nose inside books with all that fun to be had? Like many football hotshots, off the field Bitchy had always been spoiled rotten; it shouldn't surprise anybody that he now had a few serious impulse control issues. Anyway, the college was determined to graduate him phi beta pigskin, no matter what, even if he never went near class, which he seldom did.

The new boy was lying on the lower bunk with his nose stuffed inside a book, something about Web site construction. He was cute, real cute. A bit tall for Bitchy's usual taste maybe, but what the hell, variety was supposed to be spicy. So why not? He shifted his vast weight to the side of his bunk and peered down.

"Hey, I heard you're a transfer."

"Third prison this year."

"How come they moved you to this shithole?"

"Mutilation."

"What the hell's that?"

"I mutilated a man. I didn't kill him. Afterward, though, I suppose he wished I had." Alex absently flipped a page and continued reading.

Bitchy scratched his head. "That's a new one on me."

"In the statutes it sits between first- and second-degree assault. You see, in your American laws, it boils down to intent. I didn't want to kill him."

"What are you, a lawyer?" Bitchy hated lawyers. He'd been screwed royally by the five-hundred-buck-an-hour suit he'd hired to defend him, a pompous prick who barely protested when the judge doubled his sentence. He would dearly love to screw one back.

"Hardly."

Bitchy bounced off the top bunk. With incredible agility, both feet hit the floor at once, almost catlike. He was so damned big and blockish, his opponents habitually underestimated his speed, balance, and dexterity. But not after Bitchy got his huge paws on you-suddenly, everything about him came into terrifying focus.

He placed a hand on his zipper and was about to introduce his new cellmate to Mr. Johnson.