The Unwilling(124)

When Gibby and Jason returned to the trailhead, Chance stood quickly and awkwardly. “Um, does anybody mind if I stay up here for a few more minutes?”

“Here? Why?”

“I don’t know, Gibs. The view. The quiet.” Some of that darkness came out in his voice, so he dialed it down the best he could. “Look, it’s been a rough couple days and one hell of a night. Can you give me a minute?”

Gibby’s dad nodded as if he understood. “We all have things to think about. Take your time. We’ll wait at the car.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Chance watched them file down the trail, and disappear into the trees. When he was alone, he stepped to the edge of the cliff, and looked down. Wind rose up the stone, cool on the sweat of his face. How many times had he stood here? Not at the very edge, not like this …

Chance hung his toes over the drop, and leaned out to that … exact … point.

He’d always been so afraid of the cliff, even when it was Gibby at the edge. Each time he talked of diving. When he tried to find the will to do it.

Chance was tired of being afraid.

Last night, he’d been afraid, but not all the time. He’d helped them escape, and had been a few steps back when Gibby charged the gun.

Maybe it could be more like that.

Or had he followed Gibby on instinct? That was the pattern of his life, and the thought that wouldn’t die.

Was he a follower?

A coward?

Chance stared across the water, and then down, a young man at the top of the world. He felt a hundred different fears: the fear of war and mutilation, of falling now, just now, or of diving wrong, and breaking. He feared his friend might not forgive him, that the wound would fester and that the cracks ran all the way through. Most of all, he feared whatever life waited at the bottom of the trail, the future if he walked instead of dove, the man he might become. That was the devil inside, a demon with a face as familiar-soft as Chance’s own. Maybe it was fate that brought him to this place, or fate that people called it the Devil’s Ledge.

Four seconds to the water.

Four seconds to know.

Chance spread his arms and counted to three.

He bent at the knees.

He rose.





49


Reece was bitter, and unable to deny that truth. He was cut and bleeding. That damn kid was still alive. He’d really wanted to hurt Jason in a very personal way.

At least he’d put that pretty boy in prison.

At least X was about to die.

That was the thought that made everything better. Even bleeding in the back seat with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in one hand and a wad of bloody gauze on the floor, he could at least feel that joy. He had money and the whole world. And X had, what? Thirty-seven minutes?

Reece finished cleaning and dressing the places he’d been cut. Some were deep, none fatal. His shoulder. His ribs. He’d bought supplies at a drugstore, and stolen a shirt off the line as he’d worked out of the city and into scrub country where cops were thin on the ground.

Laying the last bandage, he taped it, and climbed out into the morning heat, where he’d parked at the end of a dirt road, oak trees grown tall on both sides of a farm gate, their shadows like ink on the ground.

Twenty minutes to Lanesworth.

Five or six if he had wings.

Reece flexed a bit, testing the tape. When everything held, he scooped up bloody gauze and his ruined shirt, and dumped it all in the high weeds beyond the gate. The stolen shirt was small, but would do the job. No bloodstains. No signs of injury. Not even the guards would look twice.

Starting the car, Reece planned his future as he drove. New name. New city.

Los Angeles, maybe.

Or maybe Miami.

Checking the time, Reece drove faster.

He really wanted to be there when X died.

Nearing the prison, he pulled on a cap and dark glasses; parked for an easy out. He knew better than to get hung up in the buses and news vans. The fields were packed with people, but people had never been a problem. Keep your eyes down. Kill anyone you have to. Simple rules for a simple man. He didn’t need to be up front, either. Let the Bible thumpers handle the crush and the heat and the noise. Reece just needed to be there on the grounds, to know the moment he was gone. He’d take the memory with him, and wear it like a medal on his chest.

Five minutes.

He felt giddy.

Reece counted down the time, but nine o’clock came and went, and nothing changed. He’d expected an announcement when it was done, or to feel some shift as X left the world. The crowd seemed to feel the same frustration. He noted the strange looks that passed between people, the perplexed expressions of those newscasters he could see. That’s where the ripple began. The news crews sprang to life. Cameras rolled tape, and the pretty people straightened up. But the expressions Reece saw were more shocked now than perplexed.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The voice was female and severe. Someone tugged on Reece’s sleeve, and when he turned he found an iron-haired woman with heavy glasses and a thick neck. “Whoever you’re looking for, it’s not me.”

“Are you Mr. Reece?”

The whole world seemed to stop. Noise died. No breath in his lungs. He said, “No.”

Her disbelief showed in the frown and sharp glance. “I was given a very specific description of you, Mr. Reece, of your appearance and of five possible cars you might drive, including the one you parked just there. I was told you’d wear dark glasses and a hat of some sort, and that you’d stand at the rear of the crowd. I have a letter for you.”