1
HUDSON
Thugs, crooks, felons.
A group of eight men and three women stands before me in ill-fitting orange overalls and scuffed work boots. They could be any work crew if it weren’t for their criminal records.
Joel thought it was a great idea to have this group work off their community service by helping at the center, and he pulled me in to help manage the crew. I usually trust Joel’s judgment, but at this, I have to wonder.
“We’re three weeks out from the opening of the center, and we’re behind,” I say, staring them each down, one by one.
Boots shuffle in the dirt, and someone coughs as I continue. “I’ll be overseeing the final work on the grounds.”
A skinny man in the back row spits on the ground. “Not our fault we’re behind. We’ve been working.”
“Knock it off, Boxy.” A heavily tattooed man in the front row glares at “Boxy.” The smaller man mumbles something andlooks at the ground. “What do you need from us?” asks the tattooed giant. He’s in for assault after starting a bar fight at a strip club in Raleigh. He seems to be my new second in command.
Glancing at the clipboard in my hand, I eye the spreadsheet of tasks that need to be completed for the ceremonial space and run my finger down the list of jobs.
Trees need to be planted around the perimeter, the fences need to be painted, the stone gravel needs to go in, and the flagpole needs concreting.
“Form into two groups, one to paint fences and one to plant trees. Those will be your tasks for the next few days.”
There’s a loud clap beside me as the tattooed man snaps his hands together. “You heard the man. Let’s move!”
As the group springs into action, I stare at him, impressed by his ability to get the team moving. It’s like being back on the SEAL teams. Number one gives the orders; number two makes sure they’re carried out. I didn’t expect to find this kind of work ethic in a bunch of lawbreakers working off their community service.
I flip to another page on my clipboard and slide my finger down the names. Twelve names, but there are only eleven people here. I don’t need to roll call to know who’s missing. It’s one of the women. Willow Sanders. In for transporting stolen goods for the Street Kings. She should’ve gotten jail time for that.
“Where’s the paint?” a small woman with a beaky nose asks. Her eyes carry a haunted expression, and she scratches her arm through the overalls. Janelle, in for possession. It’s her first offense, so they didn’t hit her hard.
Random drug testing is part of their parole, but Joel should be doing his own. I don’t want drugs at Jake’s Retreat.
I peer at Janelle, looking for redness in her eyes, but all I see are dark smudges and exhaustion.
“Materials are in the work shed. You’ll need to go get them.”
She trots off with a couple of the guys, and I start after them when the squeal of tires has my head snapping around.
I hear the car before I see it. The radio blasts thumping dance music, and the tires kick up dust from the gravel road. It hurtles past the ceremonial area, going faster than the ten mile per-hour speed limit of the internal retreat roads, and comes to a stop in the main parking lot outside the center.
I stalk over to the parking lot as the woman gets out of the car.
Willow Sanders. Her caramel hair hangs loose, and a gust of wind sends it whipping around her rosy cheeks and tumbling over her shoulders.
I hear her singing, belting the chorus of some popular tune.
Her overalls are unzipped at the front, and her tight white t-shirt can barely contain her chest. Her overalls and boots are splattered with paint, and it’s not the brown paint from the fence.
“You’re late.”
The grin slips off her face when she sees me. “Only by five minutes. I missed the minivan up here.”
The convicts have transport between their hostel in town and the center, because they’ve come in from all over the state.
I glance at my digital watch, which shows 09:07.
“Seven minutes.”
