The Unwilling(97)

“White-lipped. Agitated. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Ripley’s concern made a lot of sense. X was the most disciplined man either of them had ever seen, so in control of thought and emotion that he rarely showed more than pursed lips or a lifted eyebrow. For those who understood the man, little more was ever needed.

“You have the names of his visitors?”

Ripley rattled off four names, and the warden recognized two of them. Enforcers. Killers. “Where are they now?”

“Off-grounds, and thank God for it. He’s been asking about Byrd, though.”

“What about our arrangements?” The warden started walking.

“Prisoner French will attend the execution. It’s not the normal thing. We’ll need an excuse.”

“I’ll come up with something. What about after?”

“Like we discussed.”

“Good. Good.” The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “Did he, uh … Did X want to see me?”

“He didn’t mention it.”

Nodding in relief, the warden stepped into the elevator, and waited as it carried him to his office. This early, he was alone there, so he made the coffee, and stood at the east window, looking out across the prison as color bled into the world. He wanted peace of mind, but had so many concerns about the execution, so many demands on his time. The governor would attend, and that alone had caused a week of sleepless nights. He also expected two state senators, the U.S. attorney general, and twenty-nine family members of X’s long-dead victims. And they all needed to be handled.

Then there was the media. He’d already denied forty-one petitions to attend the execution, some from outlets as influential as The New York Times and NBC News. Those outlets had powerful friends in the state of North Carolina, and pressure had come in every conceivable form, from long editorials to brute, political force. The execution had already been front-page news in The Charlotte Observer for four days straight: profiles of X’s family and its fortune, details of the murders, more profiles on the victims. They’d delved into X’s past, and run photographs of his early days, pictures of him with models, movie stars, and politicians. The drumbeat was incessant. But a decision on the media was entirely the warden’s prerogative, which made it X’s prerogative. And he’d been clear on that point, as well.

I’ve sold enough of their newspapers …

Of course, the newspapers would sell, regardless. So would the airtime. The warden had passed a dozen news vans at the front gate, and knew how things would play on the six o’clock news: Lanesworth at dawn tomorrow, a time, at last, for justice …

Or some such shit.

Removing the rose from the buttonhole in his lapel, the warden took a moment to study it from every angle. Like all of his roses, it was a lovely specimen, perhaps the loveliest he’d ever grown. Barefoot in the damp grass and darkness, he’d tried to pick the very best, silken-soft and fresh as the morning dew.

Just die, he thought, before smelling of it deeply.

Can’t you pretty please, just hurry up and simply fucking die?





36


When my father came to the kitchen, I pretended it was a regular day, and that his eyes weren’t bloodshot from crying. Raw emotion was not a thing I liked to see in my father, but I gave him a pass, since I was the one who’d drawn it like a thorn from his soul.

“Have you seen your mother?”

“No.”

“Who was on the phone?”

“Chance. I’m going over.”

“It’s kind of early.”

“He’s had a rough few days; sounded a little strange. I’ll give him a ride to school.”

“I’d rather you not.”

“I do it all the time.”

“You misunderstand. I’d rather you not go to school.” That got my attention. “Somebody saw you at Sara’s on the day she disappeared. Martinez found a witness who saw you go inside.”

“So what if I did?”

“Just stay away from Martinez and Smith. Avoid your usual routines and places. Don’t make it easy for them. I need a day to figure this out.”

I told him I would do as he asked. “Do you have my car keys?”

He pointed at a bowl on the counter, and watched me scoop out the keys. “About your brother,” he said.

“Don’t.” I pulled a baseball cap from my back pocket, and tugged it down above my eyes. “At least, not now.”

“I want to say one thing, and it’s this. I’ve always tried to do right by you boys, by all of you boys. You’re so different from each other, but I’ve loved you each with everything I have, all of my heart and hopes, everything inside. And I’ve tried to be even and fair, to not play favorites, to temper your mother when I can, hard as that can be, at times. I’ve done the best I could to give you boys the childhoods you deserve, to raise you to be strong and kind, to become good men. None of that happens overnight; it’s the work of a lifetime, the gift of a lifetime.

“But no father is perfect, and if I’ve been wrong about Jason, if I’ve been harsh and unfair, I’ll do what I can to fix it. I’ll talk to him. I’ll try. That’s a promise. And if I’ve been hard on you, too much a shadow on your life, it’s only because I lost Robert, and thought I’d lost Jason, and because you scare me, son. I won’t lie. There’s a fire in you I can’t temper or control, and I worry about fires that burn too hot. I guess that’s what I’m saying: that I worry more for you than I do for Jason, more than I ever did for Robert. And if that’s made me a bad father, I’m sorry for that, too. If it’s put this anger in you, if it’s ruined what we’ve always had…”