21

An hour after we climbed from the creek, I was back in the car, and Becky, again, was leaning above me. The sun hung below the trees. The light was soft on her face. “This was good,” I said.

“Come anytime, Gibson French.”

Without intending it, my gaze slid to the house behind her. The porch had collapsed on one side. The screens were rusted and torn.

“Hey, handsome. Eyes front.” Becky touched my cheek, and turned my head. “It’s just a house. It’s not who I am.”

“Chance told me not to come.”

“And I told you, Chance is an idiot. Will you stay a little longer?”

“I need to go.”

“Important business?”

“Kind of. Yeah.”

A hint of doubt showed in her eyes. She sensed my unease, but misunderstood the reasons. “I’m a cool girl, you know. We can talk about other things. It doesn’t have to be so heavy.”

“I think you’re the coolest.”

“So let’s go somewhere. Sunset. Dinner. The place doesn’t matter.”

Her words made sense, but others did, too.

Be a man …

For once in your sheltered life …

“I’m being pushy,” she said. “And that’s not normally my thing. Just tell me you’re not blowing me off.”

“I’m not.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It is.”

She bent low, her elbows crossed on the window frame. “Tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you’re a gorgeous, beautiful girl, especially in your underwear.”

She blushed and looked away, but was not unhappy. When she turned back, we kissed, her lips softly parted, her breath warm and sweet. When she drew back at last, the grin was in her eyes, and she held up two fingers.

My second kiss …

That’s what she meant.

I held up the same two fingers, then put the car in gear, and watched her dwindle in the dusty light. She shielded her eyes to watch me, too; and I considered how fast the world was changing. A week ago, life was the quarry, the dive, a few cold beers with Chance. Now there was Becky and Jason, my father and mother, a house full of lies.

Maybe this is how it feels, I thought.

Adulthood.

I preferred the clarity of single-mindedness, so I thought about the best way to help my brother. Before, the answer would have been simple. My father was a cop, with his own kind of clarity. But I couldn’t ask for his help—he’d worry more for me than Jason, and act accordingly. Should I visit Jason in prison? I debated as I drove, then stopped at a pay phone and lied to my mother.

“How late?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. A few hours.”

“What are you doing?”

“Something with Chance. Nothing big. Hanging out.”

“But your father—”

“Just tell him for me, okay?”

I hung up because I knew how the rest of it would play. On Chance’s street, I parked a half block down, and watched my back as I walked to his house. It was that kind of street. His mother came to the door when I knocked, her hair streaked with gray and pulled back in a kerchief. She’d worked two shifts already, but none of that tiredness touched her eyes when she saw me. “Gibby, sweetheart. Come inside. You’re in time for dinner.” She gave me a hug, then called out to Chance. “Chance, come say hi to Gibby.”

Chance emerged from the back hall, surprised to see me.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. Mom?”

“Dinner in ten minutes. Gibby, do you like creamed chipped beef on toast?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Chance led me to his room, a small space with a single window. “Have you ever had creamed chipped beef on toast?” He closed the door. “Dried beef, milk sauce, and Wonder Bread. Your basic staples.”

“I’m sure it’s awesome.”

“I guess you’re here for a reason.”

I said that I was, and told him what I wanted to do.

“Are you nuts?” he demanded. “Are you fucking high?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“You want to figure out who killed Tyra Norris? You? Not the cops?”

I nodded.

“Then yeah, I’d say you’re nuts, like off-your-rocker, nuthouse nuts. Leave it for the cops, man.”

“The cops think Jason did it.”

“Not your dad, though.”

“I don’t know. I think maybe he does. He won’t talk about it, but he’s got this grimness, like he’s braced for it. And the other cops are watching him. I can tell you that. They’re looking at him strange.”

“Dude, you’re just a kid…”

“Am I, though? I can vote, drink, go to war.”

“Forget that bullshit. Let’s break the rest of it down. We have a murdered woman—”

“Tyra.”

“Tyra, fine. I know her name. This Tyra’s been seriously, hard-core murdered, and you want to prove your brother didn’t do it.” He leaned into the next word, pausing with one hand up, as if to throw a dart. “How?”

“That’s why I need your help. It’s why I’m here.”

“Who am I? Kojak? Columbo?”

“Screw those TV guys. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“All right, that part’s true. So what? You want to brainstorm this thing?”

“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 quick 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.”

“It’s very simple.”

Reece nodded a final time, and stood. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Just the pictures, please.”

Reece said he would handle it, and X knew he would do it quickly. Calling the guard, X waited as he led Reece to the world outside. When the guard returned, X was pacing restlessly. He felt better with Jason inside, not alive but close enough to remember how it felt; and right now, it felt good.

“I want a fighter,” he said. “Now. Tonight.”

The guard asked for a preference, and X thought for a moment. He knew everything about Jason French, and much about the doings of the prison.

“A Pagan,” he said at last. “The biggest one you can find.”