But for this …

If not for that …

Now Jason had to wonder. X had raised the subject. That meant some part of him wanted to talk about it. Or it was part of some larger game.

Misdirection.

Distraction.

X’s great advantage lay in the fact that his goals were his alone, and unknowable. He could spend six months plotting a single encounter, or envision, in an instant and with absolute clarity, the long weeks of torture that would lead at last to some poor soul’s death. It was no different in the subbasement. Nothing could be taken for granted. Face value did not exist.

“How did they catch you?”

“I thought you disliked tales of my youth.”

“I do. But you did raise the subject.”

“The story is boring. I’ve already moved on.” He waved his cigarette to underline the point. “To business, then. Reece came for a reason. So did you.”

“Discourse and debate?”

X disliked the tone, but didn’t make it an issue. “Honest discourse,” he said. “Vigorous debate. And when we fight, I expect that same vigor and commitment. Yesterday, you gave me reason to doubt.” X slipped one hand into a pocket. “This is to assure your commitment, to know that in these final days, I have the Jason I’ve so long admired.” He placed a photograph facedown on the table. “Reece brought it just for you. We’ll call it a token.”

Jason reached for the photograph, and X gave him long seconds to take it all in: the young man’s face, the light on his cheek, and the way he stood. “Your parents’ driveway, I believe. He favors you, don’t you think? The intelligent eyes. The generous mouth.” Jason tore his gaze from the photograph of his little brother, and X was waiting with a smile on his face. “So we’re clear,” he said. “So we understand each other.”

25

After the hospital, I stared for a long time at the stranger in my bathroom mirror. He had one good eye, the other swollen shut. A bandage wrapped the crown of his head, and the skin of his face was a camouflage of purples, greens, and iodine browns. The same stains mottled his arms and ribs, and when the stranger took the bandage from his head, I saw cruel black lines where his scalp had been laid bare and stitched back together. I frowned, and the stranger did, too.

That was about our father.

There should have been twenty cops at that bar: bright lights and guns and hard men asking hard questions. Instead, there’d been only me.