by John Hart
Why send him home at all?
Why not have these guards kill him in a quiet, dark corner of the prison?
Ripley kept the car at fifteen miles an hour, rolled onto a low hill, and began to climb. At the top, they leveled out, and then began a shallow descent on the other side, a cluster of lights gleaming in the near distance. Closer, the scene resolved into an abandoned farmhouse lit by temporary floods and the lights of five vehicles arranged in a loose circle. The house was decrepit, abandoned. Jason spotted armed men at the corners, and in the dimness beyond the cars. Ripley pulled into the circle of headlights, and turned off the engine. “My advice,” he said, “is to move slowly.”
He tipped his head to mean, Out of the car. And Jason was fine with that. If it was a fight, he’d fight. And if it came to dying …
He opened the door, stepped out, and turned a slow circle. He’d missed the sniper on the roof, the shapes of people in some of the cars. He looked at the faces of the nearest armed men. Not one face showed a flicker. “Shoot me or talk to me.”
He wanted answers. He didn’t know a damn thing. Then suddenly he did.
A car door opened, and a man got out. “Hello, Jason.”
Jason kept a calm face, but felt something different on the inside.
Dear God, he’s out.
In the cone of bright lights, X did not look particularly dangerous, but neither would a coral snake. He seemed pleased with himself, too, still bruised and broken-toothed, but smiling modestly in a seersucker suit with calfskin loafers and a snowy shirt, open at the collar.
“May we talk?”
It sounded like a question, but it really wasn’t. Jason counted eight armed men, plus the two at the entrance.
“Please.” X gestured at the car behind him, something large, long, and brand-new. “Warden Wilson made arrangements to delay the alarm at your escape, but it will sound.”
Again, Jason ran scenarios. Four armed men were watching his every move, no fingers on the triggers, but close. The other men were turned outward, covering the drive and the cross-country approaches. No escape in any direction.
Jason got in the car. Soft leather. New-car smell. X slid in beside him, and someone else closed the door.
“Cuffs?” X showed a small key, and Jason lifted his wrists so the cuffs could be removed. When X spoke again, his voice was low and the smile was in his eyes. “I told you before that Lanesworth would not be your life.”
Jason could no longer pretend to be unfazed. “How did you do this?”
“Plans were in place to release you after the execution. I had to change those plans, so here we are together.” X gestured at a dark van, not far away. “The warden is just there, if you wish to thank him.”
Jason saw cutouts of people, more than one.
“His family,” X explained. “Unhappy, but together. They’ll disappear, as will the guards who brought you here.”
“Disappear, dead?”
“No, not disappear dead.”
The car was cool and quiet, the air conditioner running. Jason should be angry, but wasn’t. He wasn’t even afraid. Life on the run would be no day at the lake, but twelve years on gun charges would be pretty shitty, too. “Is there some kind of plan here?”
“You and I will speak. After that, we all leave.”
“You’ll just let me go?”
“I actually brought you a car.”
He pointed, but Jason wasn’t ready to go there. So many thoughts! His past, the future, all his hours in the subbasement. “You could have done this at any time?”
“Escape? Yes.”
“Why now? Why not years ago?”
X seemed suddenly uncomfortable, smoothing the front of his coat, and coughing lightly, as if to clear his throat. “Have you ever been bored, Jason, not for hours or days but so jaded and weary, so uninterested in life that you’d consider dying if only to try something new? It’s a horrible feeling, that emptiness, like a silence. I remember a time I could not conceive of such a barren existence, except as an affliction of the aged and infirm. It was simply … unimaginable.” He met Jason’s eyes, and shrugged. “It’s amazing the way life changes.”
“You’re telling me you got bored?”
“Jaded. Weary. Barren. I chose those words with care. Life was worse than bland. It was a drain. Food had no taste. Money didn’t matter. I had no reason to wake up, no desire to go to sleep. Nothing mattered.”
“What about the people you murdered?”
“They helped for a while.”
He sounded wistful. Jason wanted to kill him.
X turned so he could face Jason more directly. “You asked, once, how the police caught me. There was news coverage, as you know, and reporters did their best, I suppose. Most would say I made a series of ever-larger mistakes, that I grew arrogant or careless, or that time is the great leveler. None of those things are true.”
“You wanted it,” Jason said.
“Wanted it, facilitated it. Frankly, I was ready to die. That’s a truth I’ve never shared. It’s been the great secret, the last of my shame. It’s a relief to speak of it aloud.”
“You murdered sixty-nine people. You don’t deserve relief.”
“Not even one as small as this?”
“You should have pulled the trigger yourself.”
“Come, Jason, how often have we spoken of weakness? Suicide was never a possibility.”
“But suicide by cop was?” Jason scoffed. “Or suicide by electric chair?”
“They seemed the only options, though I have, at times, hoped you might do the honor.” Jason’s jaw dropped. X shrugged again. “It would have been a good death.”
“So why this?” He meant outside, escape. “You don’t want to die anymore?”
“Yesterday, I did. Then I found reasons to live: one man to love, another to hate, good reasons, and unexpected.”
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. His head ached. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because some things haven’t changed. Dead or alive, the good of me or the bad, I still want an admirable man to bear witness, one who can see past the headlines and the fury. A man who knows me, and whose soul I know in return. It’s not so much to ask, is it, to be thought of on occasion, to be known and remembered?”
“I’m not your friend or your priest.”
“Nor am I in search of absolution. But you do understand me better than anyone alive, my thoughts and the things I’ve done.”
“I’m sorry. No. No way. I don’t want this. I can’t.”
Jason needed out of the car, needed to move. He opened the door, but X stopped him with four simple words.
“Reece has your brother.”
Half out of the car, Jason froze.
X slid across the seat, peering upward. “Reece did something to make me angry. I’m very upset, and he knows it. He took your brother to hold me off. It’s why we’re here, why all of us are here.”
“Get out of the car,” Jason said.
“Let me help you.”
“I said get out of the fucking car.”
“Very well.” X swung out his legs, and folded at the waist. Jason hit him before he was off the seat. It was all he had, and it felt good!
For about half a second.
He took a rifle butt in the head, another in the kidneys. He bent, but didn’t go down. X said, “Enough! That’s enough!” Armed men stepped away, fingers on the triggers. X took Jason by the arm, and straightened him up. “I can help you, but time is short. Are you able to focus? Good.” X led Jason past the men who’d struck him down. The car was a Mustang, but not like Gibby’s. A hardtop. “The keys are in it.” X handed Jason an envelope. “Reece’s address. His floor plans and alarm codes, plus a full set of security schematics. That’s where you’ll find your brother.”
Jason opened the envelope, and flipped pages. Numbers. Diagrams. Sight lines. “How did you get this so fast?”
“I’m a paranoid billionaire.
I bought Reece’s security consultant the day after the system was installed. The system is good, but not perfect. You can get inside.”
“Why are you doing this for me?”
X ignored the question. “Reece won’t hurt your brother until he knows I’m dead. The boy’s an insurance policy. It’s not personal.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost four. You can be at Reece’s house in eighty minutes. Don’t drive fast enough to get pulled over. If your name’s not out yet, it will be. You’ll find weapons in the trunk. Reece will want to be at the execution. He’ll need that. He’s planned for it. I can promise that. If you can bear to wait, the house will be yours, and you can get your brother out, easy. If you can’t wait, you can’t. I know the boy matters.” X paused for a beat. “I’m sorry about this, Jason. I truly am. I did not foresee this behavior from Reece.”
An armed guard approached. “Sir, we don’t have much time.”
X gave Jason a searching look. “You should go.”
Jason got in the car, his thoughts running hot. He started the engine; turned on the headlights.
“I do have one request.” X stooped at the window. “Don’t kill Reece unless you have to. Protect yourself, save your brother. But Reece has become … meaningful to me.”
“In what way?”
“The kind he will not like.”
Jason stared into the night, jaw clenched. “I can’t make you that promise.”
“And I could have left you in prison.”
That was the X Jason knew—hard edges and expectation. Jason’s fingers tightened on the wheel. The big engine was talking. “Tell me why it matters.”
X tilted his head, black-eyed and not quite smiling. “Do you remember Christmas as a child? Well, this is very much like the night before, like Christmas morning is right around the corner, and you just know there’s something special under the tree.”
If Jason lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the expression on X’s face, that glint-eyed half smile of childish anticipation. But Jason couldn’t make the promise. He would kill Reece without thinking twice. He’d kill anything or anyone that got between him and his brother. If that made X a problem, then it was tomorrow’s problem. The whole situation was X’s fault. He’d brought Jason back to Lanesworth. He’d put Reece on Gibby.
At least Jason was out.
That was real, too. No walls, but no future, either. He had no money, and he grieved for the only thing he’d ever wanted for himself: a few acres of rocky coast, and an old boat with a new engine. But that was out of the question now. He had to run fast and far, but only after he found his brother, and murdered the shit out of Reece.
Or not.
He gave X a small nod, then put the car in gear, and got the hell out, over the hill and down, all along that dirt road. At the end of it, the blocking cars made way, and Jason hit pavement like he lived for the drive. He couldn’t see the city, but felt it out there, like a moon rising. His look at the schematics had been brief, but he’d seen enough to worry. He had bad ribs and busted fingers, blurred vision, and blood in his piss.
He couldn’t do it alone.
He needed help.
Jason ran options as the world flicked past, still and silent, as if respectful of the man and the cause. Jason had been in this place before, fast-moving in deep jungle, or church-quiet on the back of some starlit river. Three years out, and it was still an old friend, the dark charge of war.
When city lights rose in the distance, Jason turned into an empty gas station, and parked beneath one of its lights. The place was closed. No traffic. X wanted Jason to wait for Reece to leave the house, a fine plan if it wasn’t your brother inside. Reece was unstable enough to do anything at any time, so Jason needed another plan. He studied the schematics until he knew them by heart, then opened the trunk, and found what X had promised: an M16A1, a Colt .45, and a half-dozen loaded magazines. Jason checked the actions.
Clean.
Crisp.
Also in the trunk was a hard-sided suitcase with his name written on it in black marker. It was heavy. Jason dragged it out, and popped the clasps.
Cash.
Lots of it.
There was a note, too. Jason read it in the gas station light.
You think me evil, I know, but the money is clean. Burn it if you wish, or give it away if that makes you feel better. Nor, is this a gift—you would decline on principle. See how well I know you? I hope you will consider it compensation, and use it accordingly.
Respectfully, X
PS—I don’t plan to kill people, now that I’m out. Boring.
PPS—Except for Reece, of course. Not boring.
Jason read the note three times, then pulled two bills from the suitcase, and locked everything back in the trunk. He crossed the parking lot, looking sideways as he passed the pay phone.
A couple million in cash, and all he really needed was a pair of dimes.
At the gas station, he picked up a cinder block, tossed it through a window, and let himself in. The place was old and dusty, with shelves of oil and oil filters, headache powders and cigarettes and licorice gum. In the back was a beat-up desk covered with loose papers, ash, and moisture stains. Jason slipped two hundred dollars under the ashtray, and picked up the phone. He needed to make a call, and hated having to do it.
44
When the girl crawled out from beneath the bed, Reece tried to read the future in her face. She was afraid. Obviously. And cautious. She sat on the bed, clutching the blanket.
Wide eyes.
Beautiful eyes.
Reece chewed on the pad of his thumb.
If only she would settle in. Prepare a meal or open a bottle of wine. Maybe hum something. If she hummed a song, he might recognize it. He could find the record, maybe. And maybe leave it for her as a gift. It could be an opening, he thought, a shared love of the same song, this thing between them. The song would play, and she would smile. He imagined it on her face, the rose-petal lips and those straight, white teeth. He could hear the music; see the sway of her slender frame. The more she moved, the more she relaxed. She swayed, too, as she cooked. And they ate dinner together, and afterward, they danced, and her fingers were soft on his cheek, those lips slightly parted. When she took his palm, she pressed it on her breast; and the sway moved into her hips; and her legs were warm on his, and her breath was warm, and her lips were warm …
“Ow … damn it.”
He’d bitten through the skin. His thumb was bleeding.
“Hello?”
Suddenly, the girl was on her feet. Reece held his breath, but she dropped the blanket. Reece did not like what he saw.
Nothing soft.
Not anywhere.
“I’m not insane,” she said. “I did not imagine that.”
She took three steps in his direction, and Reece flinched away, so quick and clumsy he struck a wall stud, and made enough noise to freeze the girl where she stood. That was the tableau. Two seconds. Then she came straight for the place he hid. Reece wanted to run. He couldn’t stop watching. She smoothed a palm along the wall, then pressed her ear against it. He could see a bit of hair, the curve of her forehead. A foot to the left and she might find the hole he’d drilled into the base of a wall sconce.
So close!
If he held still …
If he was patient …
“Hey!”
Her palm struck the wall, and a sound escaped Reece’s mouth, something like, Yeep. She fell backward, said in the walls, then picked up a chair, and flung it. It hit like a bomb; crashed to the floor. Reece wanted to calm her down, wanted her to breathe, so they might one day dance.
It’s not too late.
It doesn’t have to be.
He watched in horror as she picked up the chair, and beat it to pieces on the wall that stood between them.
* * *
In the basement cage, Gibby tilted his head.
“Chance, do you hear that?”
A distant poundin
g. Hollow. Rhythmic.
“I hear it.”
Chance tried to sit up straight. He was stiff and hurting, though the bleeding had stopped.
“That way, I think.”
Gibby gestured toward the corner of the room, and both boys stared through the mesh, up at the floor joists. Not directly above them, but, Yeah, that way, and like the screaming, inside the house.
Gibby said, “Whatever that is, I don’t like it.”
Chance agreed. “Come on, man. Get us out of here.”
“Damn right.”
Gibby went back to work. It wasn’t easy. The clamp was small, and tended to slip. Half the bolts were rusted in place. He had five out, and needed to strip out three more along the bottom. He figured four more up the side and he could beat the corner into an opening.
“Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s make this happen.”
Gibby needed no convincing. He broke a bolt loose; twisted it out, and went back for the next. “Six more.”
That’s when the pounding stopped, and the screaming started.
* * *
For French, the night was a tribulation of body and soul. He was exhausted, desperate, and half-blind from the glare of a million headlights. He’d crossed the city a dozen times, lied to his wife on six occasions, and humiliated himself in front of Captain Martin’s entire family: midnight on the porch, and begging for information. But he was prepared to lie, steal, or cheat, to beat an informant half to death if he thought the guy was holding back.
Would he kill someone?
He was too tired to answer the question, and wouldn’t trust an answer if it fell out of his mouth. He was down to random streets and places: a park they’d gone to when Gibby was a kid, the dead man’s neighborhood, his neighbors, the crash pad of a dealer who’d grown up on Chance’s side of town, just on the chance he might have heard something.
Nobody knew a thing. That was the problem. They had an ID on the dead man in Chance’s house, and that gave them an address and a rap sheet, but that was it. The captain had sworn it: even the cops were dry.
