A laugh escaped Reece’s lips, but sounded more like a high-pitched, disbelieving titter. In X’s world, there were unspoken rules and unforgivable sins. Reece was a dead man walking, and starting to feel that way. How much money did X have? Hundreds of millions? A billion? No one could escape that kind of reach. He’d spend his life afraid and running.
Sweet Jesus, he thought. Is this how it feels?
He couldn’t simply run. X’s people would find him, no question. Besides, Reece had too much pride for that. Too much faintheartedness, too—that was becoming sadly evident: the liquid insides, a certain weakness in his limbs. He had to get ahead of this, of X. Reece tried to think it through.
Why did X want him dead?
Because he’d taken the girl after X gave specific orders not to do it.
Why did X care if Reece took the girl?
Because if Sara died, reasonable minds might doubt that Jason French had killed Tyra Norris. Cops might look elsewhere.
But why did that matter?
Because X wanted Jason at Lanesworth.
Why?
Unknown. Unknowable.
What made Jason so important to a man like X?
Good question.
Just how important was he?
That was the rubber on the road.
An hour later, Reece was behind the wheel of a jet-black BMW, peering through darkened grounds at the house where Gibson French lived with his parents. The structure was set back from the road, but undoubtedly had a high-end security system. Plus, the father was a cop, and Reece hated cops.
Ticktock, motherfucker …
Reece was hard on himself, but things were moving fast, and he had to move faster.
How long until X learned that Reece was still breathing?
Not long.
For a moment more, Reece stared up at the big house, then U-turned across the road, heading for the poor side of things. That’s where Gibson’s friend lived.
He was the weak spot.
That’s how it would happen.
* * *
Chance spent the night alone and wide awake, most of it cross-legged on an old blanket, huddled where the bedside lamp spilled yellow light in a broken circle. Magazines littered the blanket around him—more war porn—but Chance couldn’t look past the photograph cupped in the palms of his hands.
“Fuck you, Martinez.”
He blinked away a tear, but the photograph remained: Tyra Norris, or what was left of her. He could only see her in parts. The ruin of her body was so … immediate. It hadn’t happened on a battlefield far away or in some distant, other city. Whoever did this to Tyra was in the here and now.
“Goddamn it.”
Chance sniffed loudly, and scrubbed his face with a sleeve. Martinez had come to the house twice, and the first time, Chance had claimed to be a minor whose mother should be there for him to answer questions. The second time was different. Late at night, a shit-slick grin on his face.
You’re eighteen, kid. I checked.
Then he’d started with the questions about Gibby, easy ones at first, things like places and timing, and when did Chance last see his best friend. Eventually, he’d asked about Gibby’s brother, killed in the war.
Did Gibby view the body? How did that make him feel?
Does he blame the government?
Society?
Tell me about the funeral …
He had a real hard-on for Jason, though, and got there pretty quick.
Does he talk about him?
Admire him?
Does Gibby want to go to war like Jason?
How often do they speak? See each other?
I know he’s been to Lanesworth …
Questions like that came hard and fast. Ten minutes’ worth, at least. Then the questions got dark.
Does your friend like dirty movies?
Those flat, cop eyes.
Magazines, I bet. The really nasty ones.
Are girls afraid of him?
What about animals? Does he like to kill things?
Martinez went down so many twisty dark holes Chance decided he must be screwed in the head to think of those questions.
Is your friend into ropes and knots?
What about chains?
How about in the locker room? Does he pay a little too much attention in the shower?
Does he do drugs?
What about booze?
Let’s go back to the pornography question …
Turned out they were still on the easy part. When Martinez finally lost his cool, he’d pulled out a picture of Tyra’s murdered corpse, and made Chance look at it. Closer, he’d ordered, his hand on the back of Chance’s neck. Get up in there, good and close. You see that? You freaking taste that?
It took the partner to pull him off.
When dawn came at last, it gathered like a fist, and Chance pulled himself into the shower, water beating down as he imagined mountain roads and a girl on the back of a brand-new motorcycle, maybe someone as pretty as Becky.
Why couldn’t it happen like that?
He wasn’t ugly.
He wasn’t stupid.
Out of the shower, Chance twisted a towel around his waist, thinking he would never have that new motorcycle. His mother was pulling two-and-a-half shifts, all night and most of the day. She needed a new car. They were two months down on the rent, but she wouldn’t let him work until the schooling was done …
Chance pulled on jeans, and got a comb through his hair before he heard music, a hint of it from down the hallway. He wasn’t imagining it. His mother had come home early, he thought. A forgotten something. An unexpected shift change. Either way, it was all for the good. He’d make her breakfast, and put her to bed.
But that’s not how it went down.
The man in the living room chair looked like Jason said he would: narrow and seamed, with eyes too old for such a bland face. That was the first thing Chance saw. Second was the gun.
“This will be easier,” the man said, “if you do not scream.”
Chance closed his mouth; couldn’t feel his fingers.
“Good boy. Sit down.” He gestured with the gun, and Chance sank into a chair. “Tell me your name,” he said.
Chance told him his name.
“There is no car in the driveway. Is there anyone else in the house? Mother? Father?”
“Mother. At work.”
“Does she come home during the day?”
Chance couldn’t answer. His mind had stopped working.
“Yes or no,” the man said. “It’s a simple question.”
“One o’clock. She comes home at one.”
“What about housekeepers? Friends?”
“Just me.”
Grunting once, the man produced a pair of handcuffs, and held them out. “If you would, please. Behind your back.”
Chance didn’t move. His fingers were numb; he couldn’t feel his arms or legs, either.
“Here, I’ll help you.”
The man stood, his eyes damp, flat and gray. He pressed the gun to Chance’s neck, and manipulated the cuffs one-handed. One wrist. The second. He sat again, and the room tilted.
This can’t be real …
But the man was right there, dry-skinned and pale, with those street-puddle eyes. “I need a favor,” he said. “A phone call. You have a friend, Gibson French.” Chance nodded; felt drool at the corner of his mouth. “Is it Gibby or Gibson?”
Chance blinked slowly. “Gibby.”
“I’d like to meet him. Now. This morning. I’d like him to come here, and I want you to make that happen.”