The Unwilling(116)

Jason stared into the night, jaw clenched. “I can’t make you that promise.”

“And I could have left you in prison.”

That was the X Jason knew—hard edges and expectation. Jason’s fingers tightened on the wheel. The big engine was talking. “Tell me why it matters.”

X tilted his head, black-eyed and not quite smiling. “Do you remember Christmas as a child? Well, this is very much like the night before, like Christmas morning is right around the corner, and you just know there’s something special under the tree.”

If Jason lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the expression on X’s face, that glint-eyed half smile of childish anticipation. But Jason couldn’t make the promise. He would kill Reece without thinking twice. He’d kill anything or anyone that got between him and his brother. If that made X a problem, then it was tomorrow’s problem. The whole situation was X’s fault. He’d brought Jason back to Lanesworth. He’d put Reece on Gibby.

At least Jason was out.

That was real, too. No walls, but no future, either. He had no money, and he grieved for the only thing he’d ever wanted for himself: a few acres of rocky coast, and an old boat with a new engine. But that was out of the question now. He had to run fast and far, but only after he found his brother, and murdered the shit out of Reece.

Or not.

He gave X a small nod, then put the car in gear, and got the hell out, over the hill and down, all along that dirt road. At the end of it, the blocking cars made way, and Jason hit pavement like he lived for the drive. He couldn’t see the city, but felt it out there, like a moon rising. His look at the schematics had been brief, but he’d seen enough to worry. He had bad ribs and busted fingers, blurred vision, and blood in his piss.

He couldn’t do it alone.

He needed help.

Jason ran options as the world flicked past, still and silent, as if respectful of the man and the cause. Jason had been in this place before, fast-moving in deep jungle, or church-quiet on the back of some starlit river. Three years out, and it was still an old friend, the dark charge of war.

When city lights rose in the distance, Jason turned into an empty gas station, and parked beneath one of its lights. The place was closed. No traffic. X wanted Jason to wait for Reece to leave the house, a fine plan if it wasn’t your brother inside. Reece was unstable enough to do anything at any time, so Jason needed another plan. He studied the schematics until he knew them by heart, then opened the trunk, and found what X had promised: an M16A1, a Colt .45, and a half-dozen loaded magazines. Jason checked the actions.

Clean.

Crisp.

Also in the trunk was a hard-sided suitcase with his name written on it in black marker. It was heavy. Jason dragged it out, and popped the clasps.

Cash.

Lots of it.

There was a note, too. Jason read it in the gas station light.

You think me evil, I know, but the money is clean. Burn it if you wish, or give it away if that makes you feel better. Nor, is this a gift—you would decline on principle. See how well I know you? I hope you will consider it compensation, and use it accordingly.

Respectfully, X

PS—I don’t plan to kill people, now that I’m out. Boring.

PPS—Except for Reece, of course. Not boring.



Jason read the note three times, then pulled two bills from the suitcase, and locked everything back in the trunk. He crossed the parking lot, looking sideways as he passed the pay phone.

A couple million in cash, and all he really needed was a pair of dimes.

At the gas station, he picked up a cinder block, tossed it through a window, and let himself in. The place was old and dusty, with shelves of oil and oil filters, headache powders and cigarettes and licorice gum. In the back was a beat-up desk covered with loose papers, ash, and moisture stains. Jason slipped two hundred dollars under the ashtray, and picked up the phone. He needed to make a call, and hated having to do it.





44


When the girl crawled out from beneath the bed, Reece tried to read the future in her face. She was afraid. Obviously. And cautious. She sat on the bed, clutching the blanket.

Wide eyes.

Beautiful eyes.

Reece chewed on the pad of his thumb.

If only she would settle in. Prepare a meal or open a bottle of wine. Maybe hum something. If she hummed a song, he might recognize it. He could find the record, maybe. And maybe leave it for her as a gift. It could be an opening, he thought, a shared love of the same song, this thing between them. The song would play, and she would smile. He imagined it on her face, the rose-petal lips and those straight, white teeth. He could hear the music; see the sway of her slender frame. The more she moved, the more she relaxed. She swayed, too, as she cooked. And they ate dinner together, and afterward, they danced, and her fingers were soft on his cheek, those lips slightly parted. When she took his palm, she pressed it on her breast; and the sway moved into her hips; and her legs were warm on his, and her breath was warm, and her lips were warm …

“Ow … damn it.”

He’d bitten through the skin. His thumb was bleeding.

“Hello?”

Suddenly, the girl was on her feet. Reece held his breath, but she dropped the blanket. Reece did not like what he saw.

Nothing soft.

Not anywhere.

“I’m not insane,” she said. “I did not imagine that.”