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taking notes. So was Yarber. Spicer began pacing around the small room like a bear stalking prey. The ideas came slowly, the language, the opinions, the strategy, but before long the letter took shape.
    In rough draft, Beech read it: “ ‘Dear Quince: So nice to get your letter of January fourteenth. I’m so happy you got the gay cruise booked. It sounds delightful. One problem, though. I won’t be able to make it, and there are a couple of reasons for this. One is that I won’t be released for a few more years. I’m in a prison, not a drug treatment clinic. And I’m not gay, far from it. I have a wife and two kids, and right now they’re having a difficult time financially because I’m sitting here in prison, unable to support them. That’s where you come in, Quince. I need some of your money. I want a hundred thousand dollars. We can call it hush money. You send it, and I’ll forget the Ricky business and the gay cruise and no one in Bakers, Iowa, will ever know anything about it. Your wife and your children and your father and the rest of your rich family will never know about Ricky. If you don’t sendthe money, then I’ll flood your little town with copies of our letters.
    ‘It’s called extortion, Quince, and you’re caught. It’s cruel and mean and criminal, and I don’t care. I need money, and you have it.’ ”
    Beech stopped and looked around the room for approval.
    “It’s beautiful,” said Spicer, already spending the loot.
    “It’s nasty,” said Yarber. “But what if he kills himself?”
    “That’s a long shot,” said Beech.
    They read the letter again, then debated whether the timing was right. They did not mention the illegality of their scam, or the punishment if they got caught. Those discussions had been laid to rest months earlier when Joe Roy Spicer had convinced the other two to join him. The risks were insignificant when weighed against the potential returns. The Quinces who got themselves snared were not likely to run to the police and complain of extortion.
    But they hadn’t busted anyone yet. They were corresponding with a dozen or so potential victims, all middle-aged men who’d made the mistake of answering this simple ad:
    SWM in 20’s looking for kind and discreet gentleman in 40’s or 50’s to pen pal with.
    One little personal in small print in the back of a gay magazine had yielded sixty responses, and Spicerhad the chore of sifting through the rubbish and identifying rich targets. At first he’d found the work disgusting, then he became amused by it. Now it was a business because they were about to extort a hundred thousand bucks from a perfectly innocent man.
    Their lawyer would take a third, the usual cut but a frustrating percentage nonetheless. They had no choice. He was a critical player in their crimes.
    They worked on the letter to Quince for an hour, then agreed to sleep on it and do a final draft the next day. There was another letter from a man using the pseudonym of Hoover. It was his second, written to Percy, and rambled on for four paragraphs about bird-watching. Yarber would be forced to study birds before writing back as Percy and professing a great interest in the subject. Evidently, Hoover was afraid of his shadow. He revealed nothing personal, and there was no indication of money.
    Give him some more rope, the Brethren decided. Talk about birds, then try to nudge him to the subject of physical companionship. If Hoover didn’t take the hint, and if he didn’t reveal something about his financial situation, then they’d drop him.
    Within the Bureau of Prisons, Trumble was officially referred to as a camp. Such a designation meant there were no fences around the grounds, no razor wire, no watchtowers, no guards with rifles waiting to nail escapees. A camp meant minimum security, so that any inmate could simply walk away if he chose. There were a thousand at Trumble, but few walked away.
    It was nicer than most public schools. Air-conditioned