“I do, yeah.”
“Dude, we don’t need to brainstorm anything. There’s nothing to talk about. You can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you haven’t thought this through. You want to save your brother. Fine. Fair enough. But what’s on the other side of that coin? You need to prove he’s innocent. Straightforward, right? So you find the guy who killed her. You go out in this big, bad world, in the black of night, and you find whatever sadistic, soulless, murderous son of a bitch decided, at some point in life, that torturing women to death is what he really wants to do with his time. To find that guy, you’ll have to ask questions and get up in his business, up in the place he lives, where he eats and hunts and sleeps, and that, my friend”—Chance used a finger to jab me in the chest—“that is some serious, scary, crazy-dangerous business.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should.”
“After dinner,” I said. “After dinner, we figure this thing out.”
* * *
In the subbasement beneath death row, X ate and drank, but tasted little beyond the salt of disappointment and the sweetness of his pride. He saw so much of himself in Jason. Did that make his feelings venal in some way? It felt profounder than that. There was compassion in Jason’s fierceness, and pity, even when he loathed. Such contradictions were rare in fighters so attuned, and X struggled to understand how Jason could be so vicious and tactically brilliant, yet remain a man of such deep feeling. Pushing away his plate, X replayed the first time he’d forced Jason to fight. He’d not expected much. Jason had appeared more or less as they all had. He’d been leaner perhaps, and sad somehow, though X admitted the impression of sadness might be revisionist.
Why? he’d asked.
Why are we doing this?
Why me?
Had X cared enough to explain, he might have used words like dominion, distraction, mechanical release. But there’d been so many fights and fighters, so many conflicts that left him empty.
Jason’s skill had been obvious in the first seconds, and X remembered feeling mild interest. There was some talent. He saw no fear. True understanding came later, as X stood bloodied and awed and nearly beaten. Even now, he could feel that sense of near-religious awakening. Fighting Jason made X want to be more, and X had not wished to be more for a very long time.
“Guard!” he called out, impatient. “Take this away.” X meant the remnants of his dinner. Normally, it was a quick and silent affair. This time the guard lingered. “What?” X could not hide the impatience.
“I’m sorry to bother you…”
“Speak.”
“Your lawyer is here. He’s been waiting.”
X frowned. He’d not summoned Reece, and Reece would not come without reason. “Very well. Send him down.” The guard scurried away, then returned with Reece, and left. “Sit.” Reece looked nervous. That was rare. “Speak, for God’s sake.”
Reece gathered himself, then spoke softly, as if to do otherwise might trap the words in his throat. “I’ve been watching the girl. I know I shouldn’t be. I know that, I do, not without talking to you first. It’s just that I saw her, and she has this look, and she’s stuck in my head, stuck there, and spinning…”
“Just a moment.” X raised a hand, stopping him. “What girl?”
“Um, you know, from the car, the blonde, the other one.”
“The one you didn’t kill? The one I specifically instructed you to leave alone?”
“The blonde, yes, sir. Her name is Sara…”
X stopped him again. Reece was his right hand, one of his many extensions into the outside world. In exchange for his service, X provided money and lawyers and quiet places for Reece to do unspeakable things. Such were the rewards, but there were expectations, too, and penalties should Reece fail. “I find this development troubling,” X said.
“I knew you would. I’m sorry.”
“And you’ve come to me because…?”
“I want your permission.”
That meant permission to take her, to take his time with her. There was need in Reece’s eyes, but a real fear, too. He was not the only fixer, and knew it. X could kill Reece with a phone call, and it would not be an easy death. “This must be important to you.”
“I can’t explain it.”
He didn’t need to explain. X remembered how it felt to be triggered. A glance on the street. The way a woman walked or smelled or how she twisted her hair. X had once tracked and killed a man for whistling a tune reminiscent of a ferry ride X had taken with his grandfather, as a child. He couldn’t say why that had triggered him. It simply had. “What’s your timeline?”
“Now,” Reece said. “Yesterday, if I could.”
X saw all the ways it could play out: the levers and the pieces, strategic moves that went beyond the purely tactical. “I would need something first, and there’s a condition attached.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“Jason has a brother. He was in the car with your blonde.”
Reece nodded, his eyes predatory. “Gibson French. Eighteen years of age. The Mustang is his. I saw him at Sara’s condo, too. It’s possible they’re together.”
“Bring me pictures,” X said.
“Of the brother? Doing what?”
“It doesn’t matter.” X shrugged to make the point. “Reading a book. Walking the dog. What I require is a current photograph of good quality.”
“That’s it?”
“Bring me that, and the blonde is yours.”
Reece licked dry lips, nodding in ill-concealed eagerness. “You said there was a condition.”
“There is, and it’s important.” X leaned closer, so there would be no mistake. “You’ll take the girl after I’m dead, and not before.”
Sudden emotion flared in Reece’s eyes, panic first, then disappointment and anger, his need for the girl as great as any junkie’s need for a fix. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”
“If you think about it, you will. Take a moment.” X studied Reece’s face as the wheels turned. The man’s need was a living thing, and it warred with his very legitimate fear of retribution. He’d seen what happened to men who crossed X—Reece had killed a few himself—and none of those deaths had been slow or easy. X repeated his condition. “After I’m gone, and only then.”
“Yes, sir. It makes sense.”
“Explain it to me so I know you understand.”
“Umm, you want Jason French to remain here at Lanesworth. That means there can be no doubts about who killed the brunette.”
“And if the blonde turns up dead?”
“People might wonder if Jason really is the killer.”
“Police.” X stressed the word. “Prosecutors.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you understand how unhappy I would be if something like that happened?”
“I do.”
“So tell me the terms of our agreement.”
“Bring pictures of the brother. Wait for the girl until after you’re dead.”