Warden Wilson rose early, showered, shaved, and dressed. It was a big day, with a bigger one coming.
“Twenty-four hours. Maybe a little more.”
He spoke to the mirror as his fingers worked a dark tie into a Windsor knot. The suit was brown. So were the shoes. For color, he put a fresh rose in his lapel, cut in the darkness from a small garden he kept beside the house. By noon, the petals would begin to droop. Then they would curl and dry, and he would mark time with those petals, increasingly lighthearted as they withered, shrunk, and died. Thinking of X, he hummed quietly as he adjusted the flower just so.
“Perfect.”
That’s what his life would become. X would die, and the warden’s family would find its heart again. They would travel; they would heal. Eventually, they would choose a place to start over, France or maybe Italy, some high, windswept place with views of the Mediterranean.
First, he had to manage the day.
“The last day.”
He offered his reflection a solemn nod, then turned off the bathroom light, and moved quietly through the still-sleeping house. At the bedroom door, he peered in at his wife. She knew only that X would die the following day, nothing about the money or the new life it would afford them. He wanted to surprise her with the news, to make the grand gesture. Maybe she would look at him like she used to. Maybe her eyes would sparkle.
More determined than ever, he took his heavy heart into the light, sweet air of a perfect daybreak. The car started easily. The drive was thoughtful but pleasant. At the prison, he cleared security, and was ushered through an armored door, and into an underground parking garage beneath the administrative building. It was a small garage—eight spaces—and he only allowed a few others to use it. One of them was there and waiting.
“Warden.”
The warden locked his car, frowning. “Captain Ripley. Is there some kind of problem?”
“Not necessarily a problem. Something you should know about, though.”
“Walk with me.”
So early in the morning, the subbasement corridors were empty, not that the warden worried about Ripley’s discretion. They’d both endured too many hard lessons for that. It was no accident that X had contrived to live as he had for so many years. The warden, alone, could not guarantee the liberties X enjoyed. No warden could. But if a guard spoke out of turn, he paid a heavy price. Same with other prisoners. Even rumors were quashed without mercy, and the first time a reporter had come sniffing after a story of favoritism and graft, he’d disappeared as quietly as a setting sun. A second reporter showed up six months later, and died within the week. No one knew how many informants X had on the inside or how many enforcers worked for him beyond the walls. He knew so many things, touched so many things.
Ripley waited until they were in the corridor, then said, “X has had four visitors already.”
“Four?” The warden stopped mid-stride.
“It makes me nervous.”
It made the warden nervous, too. Surviving X was about understanding X. “He’s never had so many in one day.”
“And never so early.”
“What’s his mood?”
“Like he could eat a baked baby for breakfast.”
“Explain.”
“White-lipped. Agitated. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Ripley’s concern made a lot of sense. X was the most disciplined man either of them had ever seen, so in control of thought and emotion that he rarely showed more than pursed lips or a lifted eyebrow. For those who understood the man, little more was ever needed.
“You have the names of his visitors?”
Ripley rattled off four names, and the warden recognized two of them. Enforcers. Killers. “Where are they now?”
“Off-grounds, and thank God for it. He’s been asking about Byrd, though.”
“What about our arrangements?” The warden started walking.
“Prisoner French will attend the execution. It’s not the normal thing. We’ll need an excuse.”
“I’ll come up with something. What about after?”
“Like we discussed.”
“Good. Good.” The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “Did he, uh … Did X want to see me?”
“He didn’t mention it.”
Nodding in relief, the warden stepped into the elevator, and waited as it carried him to his office. This early, he was alone there, so he made the coffee, and stood at the east window, looking out across the prison as color bled into the world. He wanted peace of mind, but had so many concerns about the execution, so many demands on his time. The governor would attend, and that alone had caused a week of sleepless nights. He also expected two state senators, the U.S. attorney general, and twenty-nine family members of X’s long-dead victims. And they all needed to be handled.
Then there was the media. He’d already denied forty-one petitions to attend the execution, some from outlets as influential as The New York Times and NBC News. Those outlets had powerful friends in the state of North Carolina, and pressure had come in every conceivable form, from long editorials to brute, political force. The execution had already been front-page news in The Charlotte Observer for four days straight: profiles of X’s family and its fortune, details of the murders, more profiles on the victims. They’d delved into X’s past, and run photographs of his early days, pictures of him with models, movie stars, and politicians. The drumbeat was incessant. But a decision on the media was entirely the warden’s prerogative, which made it X’s prerogative. And he’d been clear on that point, as well.
I’ve sold enough of their newspapers …
Of course, the newspapers would sell, regardless. So would the airtime. The warden had passed a dozen news vans at the front gate, and knew how things would play on the six o’clock news: Lanesworth at dawn tomorrow, a time, at last, for justice …
Or some such shit.
Removing the rose from the buttonhole in his lapel, the warden took a moment to study it from every angle. Like all of his roses, it was a lovely specimen, perhaps the loveliest he’d ever grown. Barefoot in the damp grass and darkness, he’d tried to pick the very best, silken-soft and fresh as the morning dew.
Just die, he thought, before smelling of it deeply.
Can’t you pretty please, just hurry up and simply fucking die?