The Unwilling(81)

“What does that mean?”

X gestured, and two guards took Jason by the arms.

“Wait, X…” Jason fought to stay in the cell, but they dragged him out. “I don’t understand what that means!”

X watched him struggle, and left the rest of his thought unspoken.

That the Chinese have never been afraid to eat their dogs …



* * *



After the prison, I said little to my friends until we were halfway back to the city. It was a tense ride with a lot of unanswered questions. Finally, I said, “He doesn’t want me involved. He won’t help me.”

“Did you tell him about the Carriage Room?” Chance leaned forward, every bit as angry. “That you are involved?”

“I told him.”

“And he still wouldn’t help? Unbelievable.”

“What next?” Becky asked.

“I don’t know what else to do. Jason won’t talk to me, and I know almost nothing about Tyra, not her friends or where she worked. I don’t even know where she’s from. Normally, I’d ask Sara…”

The words trailed off because that sentence spoke for itself. Chance leaned forward, his sunburned arms folded on the back of the seat. “Sara’s gone, man, and that sucks. I don’t even know her, and it sucks. But maybe the cops will see things differently now. Time, you know. Perspective. Two victims, like Burklow said, a different dynamic. Maybe if your father pushes…”

I watched him in the mirror, and then glanced at Becky. This part was going to hurt. “I think Jason knows who killed Tyra.”

It was as if I’d said something perverse. Chance’s face went slack. Becky’s lips parted enough to form a perfect, silent O. But how much of my brother could I share? I’d seen his bleakness and resolve, what, at the very end, had seemed like the blackest kind of despair.

The brother you remember is gone, kid, killed as dead by Vietnam as Robert ever was …

That part was private.

The rest of it, though …

I gave it to them word for word: the warning, the risk, everything Jason had told me. Afterward, Chance parroted my words, seemingly in shock. “There are people who want to control me, bad people who will hurt you to do it.”

“He’s trying to scare me off,” I said.

“Or protect you,” Becky replied. “Though, I guess that’s the same thing.”

“Let’s assume it’s all true,” Chance said. “We have to assume that, right? And if it is true, who was he talking about? What dangerous people?”

“All I know is what I told you.”

“It’s not much, man.”

“Becky?”

She took her time, more thoughtful than Chance. “What does he mean by middle-aged men who look older than they should? That’s oddly specific and nonspecific.”

I answered with care because this part would sting, too. “I’m pretty sure I saw him.” Chance’s mouth opened—he looked horrified—and even Becky paled. “Twice,” I continued. “Once, the day we were in court, and then again right after Tyra … you know.”

“Right after she was hacked into a million pieces.” Chance almost came over the seat. “Is that what you mean? Right after Tyra was killed, and right before Sara was abducted.”

“Settle down, Chance.”

“You settle down! Jesus!” He slammed a palm on the seat top, then dropped back into a cross-armed, clench-jawed silence.

“Are you sure it was him?” Becky asked it softly, as if to make the point that she and Chance were very different people.

“He matched the description, like he was forty but looked sixty. Small and narrow. Not particularly dangerous-looking. Just like Jason said.”

“Where else did you see him?”

“On Tyra’s street, parked in a car…”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Chance said. “On her street.”

“It might not have been him.”

“But you believe it was?” Becky asked.

“It would be one hell of a coincidence, a man like that parked on her street so soon after Tyra’s death. And it is an oddly particular description. Specific. Nonspecific. Like you said. And he’s easy to miss, too; he just kind of fades. Had I not seen him in court, I wouldn’t have noticed him the second time.”

“But you did see him in court.” Chance interrupted. “You did notice him the second time.”

“He was watching me, too. Maybe thirty seconds as I walked to my car.”

Becky was the first to see the bigger picture. “If Jason knows who killed Tyra, why won’t he tell the police?”

This part bothered me, too. “Maybe he doesn’t really know. Maybe he has no proof.”

“No, I think he’s definitely protecting you.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because it’s what you would do.” Becky leaned close, like it was the two of us, alone in the world. “Think about it. He won’t answer your questions or let you near the investigation. He’s warned you about this horrible man. He all but begged you to stop asking questions. If he knows who killed Tyra, he would want to tell the police—any innocent man would—unless there’s some powerful reason not to.”