“The only person who thinks you’ve failed is you,” said Gabe in his level way, that reminded Marston, in that moment, quite uncomfortably, of Leland. “Like I said, we might be able to move some men, get you some parolees to work with. In the meantime, your workshop is just about set up, right? Those signs still need to be made and Leland wants you making them.”
The wordyouwas said in conjunction with Gabe pointing his finger right at the center of Marston’s chest. It was as if he was being marked with all the power of Leland’s will. His intention was fully focused on Marston being the one to complete the task assigned to him, simply because Leland willed it so. Leland had a will like nobody Marston had ever met. Impossible to resist, impossible to break.
“Fine,” said Marston, giving Gabe a dismissive wave.
“The new arrival will be here this afternoon, right after lunch,” said Gabe, one foot on the ground, one foot still on the wooden platform. “Royce and I thought it might be good if everybody, team leads and parolees, were on hand to greet the new guy.”
“Just one guy?” asked Marston, puzzled. Royce was the other team lead, and while Marston had met him a few times, they’d never really associated outside of work. As for the parolees, he could count them on two hands and have four fingers left over.
“Well,” said Gabe with a small shrug. “There were three new arrivals, as we know, but now there is only one. Special case, evidently, as well.”
“How so?” asked Marston, though still dejected about his now non-existent team and not really giving two fucks about it. “Aren’t they all special?” This asked with just a touch of sarcasm.
“He’s young,” said Gabe. “Like, really young. He served sixty days of a ninety-day sentence for train hopping. They figured he’d learned his lesson and so are turning him loose, and now he’s on my team.”
That was fine by Marston because the last thing he’d want to deal with was some guy who thought hopping on a moving train was a smart thing to do.
Truth was, all criminals were missing brain matter to be dumb enough to imagine that committing crimes was the way to get through life. Even when Marston had been at his poorest, he’d never stolen so much as a stick of gum, though sometimes he’d come close to it, desperate enough to reach over the counter at the gas station and just grab every single bit of money he could out of the cash register.
He hadn’t done that, of course, but the line separating him from someone who would have was sometimes very thin indeed. And going dumpster diving for a loaf of day-old bread did not count.
“Fine,” said Marston, making waving motions of his hands to get Gabe to go away. “I’ll be there.”
“Okay, good,” said Gabe, evidently not fazed by Marston’s bad mood. “See you at lunch then.”
“See you.”
He’d have lunch with the gang, then he’d stand in the back of the group when the new parolee showed up. Then he’d go to his workshop in the woods and start making signs, so at the very least, Leland wouldn’t be disappointed in him.
Chapter5
Marston
Lunch had been the usual selection of luxurious, organic food, some of which Marston wondered at the cost of, like the organic carrots cooked in butter and drizzled with local honey, which always seemed over the top to him, but which tasted good.
Even after a season working the guest ranch, the food made him shake his head while part of him wondered if they were ever going to run out. And who neededorganichot dogs, anyway?
He ate his fair share, just the same, then went to his tent to change into a clean shirt for the valley’s new arrival, hurrying to the gravel parking lot just as the white prison van pulled up in a small cloud of gravel-spit dust.
Marston stayed toward the back, since he didn’t have any responsibility for the new arrival and was just there to thicken the crowd.
He was further disenchanted by the fact that this little arrival party would delay him getting to work, which, in spite of everything, he was looking forward to. Working with his hands was going to be the best part of the summer and, frankly, nothing else mattered.
Everybody was gathered at the parking lot: Gabe and his team, consisting of Blaze and Wayne, Royce and his team, Jonah, Duane, Tyson, three scary looking ex-cons who nevertheless followed Royce around, doing Royce’s bidding like giant and very obedient dogs. And Gordy. And then himself.
All eyes were on the van as the driver and the guard got out, sliding back the heavy door and gesturing inside to the occupant. Finally, the guard reached in and tugged the new arrival out, a guy, barely out of kid-hood, it looked like, his dark hair a sprawl over his forehead, clutching a beat-up backpack to his chest.
He wore standard prison issue clothes, down to those dumb slip-on sneakers Marston had seen when he’d gone to Wyoming Correctional for the two-week training session that every team lead attended. But the fact that the guy was wearing prison issued clothes meant that his own clothes hadn’t been returned to him.
The backpack looked like he owned it and had carried it around for a while, so they had returned his things to him, but not his clothes. Which meant that the clothes had probably been too messed up or befouled to be worn.
So what had happened to them? Marston had no idea.
“Here you go,” said the guard, holding out a clipboard. “Who wants him?”
“He’s with me,” said Gabe, reaching out for the clipboard. He signed it and then handed it back. “We can take it from here, Dave.”
“Fine by me,” said Dave. “See you fellows in a couple of weeks.”
