“See, it was he who didn’t get it. He didn’t see what he’d done wrong. You know why? He was a psychopath: he drew people to him, spoke so convincingly they put their faith in him, just like one of those televangelists. He fleeced them like sheep. And now I’m wondering whether you’ve deluded yourself into believing that following the orders of a psychopath is good and right, that gunning a woman down in the middle of the nation’s capital is how you see your life going forward. Because, you know, the moment you pulled that trigger there would be no going back. You’d belong to Luther St. Vincent—you see, I know it was St. Vincent who ordered the termination—body and soul. From that moment on there wouldn’t be anything he would ask of you that you wouldn’t do, because sure as you’re sitting here he’d disavow any knowledge of the murder, which would leave you under the federal truck speeding right at you.”

Kinkaid stood up. Time to let Bluto contemplate his next step. Would he see the error of his ways? Who knew? Well, he bet Preach knew—he’d make book on it. Clever Preach. Kinkaid knew he’d done his best, and that was all he could ask of anyone, including himself.

“It would have been easy for me to pull the trigger, but I’m not that kind of guy. You’ll realize that soon enough.” At the door to the cell, he turned back. “You thirsty, Marty?” It was crucial now to switch from Price’s field name to his real one. It would underscore for him the potential for change in their relationship. “Christ, I could use a nice frosty Coke. Sound good to you?”

Chapter 22

22

Jonah Dickerson took one look at Lucy Orteño and felt his heart tumble out of bed. The pulse beating a tattoo in the hollow of his throat made it all but impossible for him to swallow comfortably. He felt in desperate need of a belt of Irish whiskey, preferably a double.

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Are you hungry? We can go down to the canteen.”

Lucy shrugged. “Sure.” But she kept her eyes on Dickerson, a tall, wide-shouldered man with light hair and eyes.

He knew he wasn’t handsome, at least not by traditional American standards, but there was something about him, as if he were missing some essential element, that seemed to intrigue women. Lucy Orteño appeared to be no exception.

The commissary was three floors down. He led her to the elevator, the car came, and they descended.

“When will Luther be back?” she asked.

“No idea.”