“Let me put it this way. If guards come for you that aren’t on X’s detail, tread with serious care. X is not the only one with deep pockets and corrections officers on the payroll.”

They kept moving. So did every eyeball in every white face. After that, it was all about death row. The building was the oldest at Lanesworth, a onetime weapons depot modified in 1863 to hold Union army prisoners of war. Security inside was unpleasant, but Jason knew the guards, the protocols.

“Open one.”

A buzzer sounded, and the old hinges groaned. A second guard appeared, not one of X’s. He was midforties and florid, same buzz cut as every other guard.

Ripley said, “You got him?”

“I do.”

Ripley met Jason’s eyes for half a blink, then turned on a heel, and left without a word. A red hand settled on Jason’s arm, and put damp marks on his skin. “I’m sure you remember the rules. Stay in the center of the hall, clear of the cell doors. Don’t talk to anyone. No eye contact. Make it easy for me, I make it easy for you.”

They turned to face the row, and it was like every nightmare Jason had had since getting out: the small, hot cells, and pale faces against the metal, the long walk to the end, and then down the stairs to X.

“Walk on, prisoner.”

Jason squared up, and took that first step. If X wanted him dead, he wanted him dead. If it was something else …

He kept his eyes down as cells slid past, and one inmate hissed, Hey, slickness … hey, slick … At the end of the row, another guard stood at the top of the stairwell. He was part of X’s detail, and had been for years. Jason could not remember the name, but the face was familiar. He waved off the red-faced guard, and put a hand on Jason’s arm. “I’m sorry to see you back. You okay? You good?”

“Well enough.”

“We’ll do it like every other time.” The guard turned a key. “He’s in a good place today. You should be fine.”

Jason stepped through the door, and faced the stairs with the usual anxiety. X could speak of history and philosophy, of literature and art, the great works of mankind. In a single hour, he could show the world through fresh eyes, then just as quickly recall some far-off murder in detail so exquisite it turned your stomach. X was brilliant; he was insane.

Then there was the rest of it …