“Release Jason’s brother unharmed, and I will cancel the contract on your head. I won’t hire anyone new. I won’t spend a dime.”
“And after tomorrow?”
“Once I am dead, you have nothing to fear.”
Reece closed his eyes as a wave of relief swept over him. “I have your word on that?”
“You can consider it a solemn promise.”
“I appreciate your promise. To be safe, though, I’ll keep Jason’s brother until after the execution.”
“So long as we have a deal.”
“Once you’re dead, I’ll let the kid go.”
“Unharmed.”
“Yes.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear it,” Reece said; but thought, Maybe.
* * *
X felt better after the phone call. Decisions had been made, events put into motion. He checked himself, though, afraid self-deception might wear a mirror for a face.
No, he was good.
Maybe better than good.
“Warden Wilson. Come down, please.”
“Yes?”
“Send down the lawyers, but don’t go far.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Things are fine,” X said. “But plans are changing.”
* * *
When X summoned him back, hours had passed.
“Warden Wilson, if you would join us.”
That from one of the lawyers, a tall, spare man who disappeared back into a cell, leaving the warden no choice but to trail along behind. Inside, X sat at a table lined with rows of documents, the second lawyer across the table, saying things like, Sign here, thank you, now initial here …
X said, “Warden Wilson. Just in time.” He kept his head down, dashing off signatures on trust accounts, transfer documents, letters of incorporation. Numbers seemed to leap from the pages.
Ten million to the Bank of the Caymans.
Forty million to fund a revocable trust.
Two hundred million to Zurich Cantonal Bank.
The warden could barely process the numbers, and there were others, so many others.
X signed a final document, and one lawyer notarized it, adding it to a stack for the other attorney to sign as witness. That done, X held out a hand, saying, “Mr. Preston.”
The attorney handed X a sheaf of papers, and X, in turn, offered them to the warden, who took them numbly. “What you’ll find there,” X said, “is an account at Mellon Bank in New York, established in your name, as well as transfer documents, a notice of verified funds from the transferring bank, and a letter of authorization signed by me, notarized and witnessed. You’ll see that the transfer documents are dated for tomorrow.”
“After your, uh…”
“Yes,” X allowed. “After the scheduled execution.”
Warden Wilson looked down at the documents, but words swam on the page. He tried again, but only one thing sprang into focus. “This is for twice the amount we discussed.”
“Because I’m changing the terms of our arrangement. The numbers should reflect that.”
Papers trembled in the warden’s hand. “What changes?”
X smiled, but it was thin as a dime. “Gentlemen, a moment.”
The lawyers rose, and left. When they were alone, X put a hand on the warden’s shoulder in a manner so unexpected and intimate, it was absolutely terrifying. “I need something more from you,” he said. “Something I never expected to ask for or want.” X laid it out for the warden. What he wanted. When it should happen. He spoke slowly for the warden’s sake, and repeated it twice. “I’ll leave the how of it to you.”
The warden stared dumbly. “The how of it?”
“Shall we go through it again?”
“No. No.” The warden shook his head. Nausea. Cold sweat. “I’m not sure I can manage that.”
“I’m giving you forty million dollars.” X squeezed the shoulder until it hurt. “Of course you can.”
“But tomorrow … I mean … the timing.”
What he meant was, I can’t do it, I won’t, I’m not fucking insane.
X, though, had no patience for fools and their feelings. “We spoke recently of your youngest son, Trevor. We’ve never really talked about his older brother. Thomas, I believe.”
“Thomas, yes.” The warden nodded stupidly.
“He lives at home, I’m told.”
“He helps his mother.”
“He has a girlfriend? A job?”
“No. Neither.”
“Physically, though…” X sat, and laced his fingers. “How is young Thomas?”
41
Nothing changed until the phone rang. After that, we drove for a long time, open roads at first, and then traffic sounds, starts and stops that felt like the city. By the time we stopped for real, Chance had been too quiet for too long, and I was half-dead from the heat. The car rocked when the driver got out, and it was another bad moment, because it felt so final.
I didn’t die, though.
He left us in the trunk.
Ninety degrees on the outside, maybe one-forty in the darkness. Chance was as loose as a dead man.
Was he breathing or not?
I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know.
I thought maybe I was dying.
* * *
When the trunk opened, it was dusk, and I was still alive. I saw black trees and that purple sky, everything fuzzy at the edges. I couldn’t move, and he knew it. Maybe that’s why he’d left us in for so long. Or maybe he wanted us dead the easy way. It wouldn’t take much more. He stood there for a few seconds, and then was gone; and I drank down cool air, lustful, lost, and drowning. When sound came, it was a slaughterhouse sound, like a pig squealing. He hauled me out and dropped me down, folding Chance like a blanket beside me, dead or alive, I still couldn’t tell. His heat could be trunk heat, his movements involuntary as wheels squealed again, and he rolled us toward a house I’d never seen, then down a ramp to a room filled with tables, cages, and horrible things made of bright metal so they glittered in the light.
At the first cage, he rolled us inside, and then dragged us onto the floor. I hit hard, but couldn’t feel it. Chance’s head bounced. A knife appeared, but cut tape instead of skin. He didn’t look at my face or say a word, just closed the cage, and locked it with a hunk of brass the size of my fist. I thought he would leave us then, but he ran a hose and sprayed us down with cold water, the shock of it like a slap as it hit my face and mouth, and choked me. It was water, though, and when he was gone, I sucked it off the floor.
I couldn’t feel my arms or legs.
Chance never moved.
* * *
For French, the day was tough, but not impossible. He did have friends, and good friends would risk a lot. Late afternoon, he met one of those good friends in an alley two blocks from the station, a narcotics detective named James Monroe. After the old, white dude, he liked to say. A ten-year cop, he was dark-skinned and lean, with a hard face under gold-rimmed shades and eight inches of Afro.
“The APB went out ten minutes ago. Citywide. All departments.”