The Unwilling(60)

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 slow 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.”





22


Dinner at Chance’s house was simple and pleasant. His mother told jokes, and asked about his day. When the meal was finished, they argued over who would do the dishes. “Don’t be silly.” His mother stood, gathering plates. “Be with your friend.”

In Chance’s room, he hooked a thumb at the kitchen. “Sorry about that.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but thought he was embarrassed by the small portions and his mother’s talk of overtime. “Dude, it was great. Your mom’s as cool as they come.”

“So. Your brother.” Chance turned a chair backward, and sat. “We’re only talking, right? If I come up with the perfect plan, you won’t go off and do something stupid?”

“We’re just spitballing.”

“Purely hypothetical.”

I put a hand on my heart, another lie. I felt bad about the deception, but Chance was the smartest person I knew, and likely to see things I’d missed. That said, he was his mother’s entire world, and I didn’t know how far this thing would go. What I knew was that Jason needed help, and there was no middle ground. He didn’t kill Tyra, end of story. I just needed to prove it.