The Unwilling(38)

He stabbed a finger at Sara’s face, and I saw blood on the cuff of his shirt. He followed my gaze, and saw the same thing. “Son of a bitch…”

He tried to wipe it off, and Smith took the lead, his voice softer. “You’re confused. I understand. Worried, too, I’m sure. But we need to ask the questions first. You know how this works.”

I did. I didn’t care. “Tell me about Tyra.”

“I can’t do that…”

“Gibby, what’s happening?”

I pulled Sara closer, squeezing her shoulders. “We’ll wait for my father,” I said.

“Your daddy’s not coming,” Martinez said. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t make a difference. This is happening like I said. Right here. Right now.”

Smith showed his palms. “It would be helpful…”

“You’re damn right,” Martinez said.

“Not until I know what happened to Tyra.”

“Goddamn it, kid. You don’t ask questions, and you don’t get to see your daddy.”

But a car was racing down the street, red light on the roof, the engine running hot. It was my father’s car; I knew it. So did Martinez. He stepped back, and I heard the words under his breath: Motherfucker, son of a goddamn bitch …

The car braked hard, and the doors flew wide. “Not a word, son, not a single word.”

“What are you doing here, Bill?”

“Not now, Martinez. I need to speak with my son.”

“So do we.”

“And I’m saying, not now!”

“He knows our victim.” Martinez stepped into my father’s personal space, crowding him. “Personally.” Martinez stressed the word. “He knows her personally.”

“We can talk about that later. Gibby, get in the car.”

“But Sara…”

“I said get in the car.”

“What happened to Tyra?” I made it a demand. No one cared.

“Not now,” my father said.

“Then when?”

“Son, get in the fucking car.”

His eyes blazed, but the profanity frightened me more than anything else. Burklow was gentler. “Go ahead, son. You can see your friend tomorrow. She’s not in any trouble.”

Keeping his eyes on Martinez, my father said, “Ken, if you would.”

Burklow took my arm, and pulled me down the steps.

Martinez said, “We still want to talk to your son.”

“I know you do, but it’s not happening tonight. Ken, please.”

The big cop dragged me all the way to the car, and stuffed me in the back seat, locking me inside. I looked for Sara, on the stoop.

Her face was in her hands.

She was crying.





13


At Lanesworth, X was frustrated and restless. He stretched out on the bed, got up, stretched out again. When Reece appeared, at last, a glance at his face told X it was done. “It went well, then?”

“So well I am disinclined to charge you. The young woman was … delightful.”

X mirrored the man’s thin smile. “It’s no crime for a man to enjoy his work. Expect the usual fee in the usual manner.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I assume you have something for me?”

Reece withdrew an envelope full of Polaroid photographs, and handed it over. “We did it like you said.”

X opened the envelope, removing the photographs. “Chronological order?”

“Beginning in the driveway outside of her condominium.”

X took his time with the pictures: the girl in the car, then chained, then dead. “How long?” he asked.

“Five hours, once we got her up.”

“She was conscious throughout?”

“I took the usual pains.”

X had no doubt. Reece was immaculate in the execution of his passions. Going through the stack a second time, X culled out a few photos and handed them to Reece. “You know what to do with those?”

“No fingerprints. Untraceable.”

“As soon as possible, please.”

“I have the address.”

X returned the remaining photos to the envelope, and passed them to Reece. “There’s an inmate on cellblock C, Francis Willamette. These are for him. Use appropriate discretion.”

Reece would, of course. He knew the guards, the protocols. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You saw Jason, of course.”

“I did.”

“Good.” X sat, and offered Reece a second chair. “Tell me what you saw. Leave nothing out.”





14


Burklow took me home, and stayed late at the kitchen table, nursing a beer, and deflecting questions. “You’ll need to ask your father that.”

“Where is he?”

“Dealing with stuff.”

“When will he come home?”

“He’ll be here when he gets here.”

“Tell me about Tyra.”

“Forget it, kid. I mean it.”

When lights finally appeared in the driveway, he told me to sit and wait, then went outside to meet my father. I didn’t sit. And no way in hell was I waiting. I crept to the front door, and watched Burklow argue with my father, poking him in the chest not once, but twice. I’d never seen him show such disrespect, but my father took it, responding in a fierce, quiet whisper that looked like pleading. When Burklow turned away, red-faced and still angry, my father followed like a whipped dog.