“Well, you’ve looked worse.” The old man’s voice was thin as a reed, but his eyes were clear. “Cracked ribs—again—and at least one that’s broken. Dislocation of the left shoulder. I can’t count all the contusions, but he went easy on your face this time. Kidneys are the worst. You’ll pee blood for a few days. Let me know if it lasts longer than that.” He cocked an eyebrow over the sharp, right eye, looking down until Jason nodded, then continuing in the same reedy tone. “Two broken fingers, a dislocated thumb…”

Jason closed his eyes as the doctor droned on.

He’d been here before.

He knew the drill.

In his cell sometime later, he remembered something X had called him.

An admirable man …

But Jason knew the deeper truth: that if he were truly that admirable, he’d have killed X then and there, for Tyra’s sake, if nothing else.

One more day and another night …

Jason shifted on the bunk, wary of the pain.

After that, the bastard dies …

32

In thirty years on the force, Bill French had faced a lifetime of short-cut lives and the disbelieving stares of those who’d somehow survived. What he’d learned in all that time was to watch the eyes, the eyes of the grieving child, the wife, the empty-handed lover. Some could accept the changes life had so cruelly wrought—roadside or blood-spattered, they gathered shards of hope as a child might gather shells. Others would never recover, and when that showed, it did so in the eyes, as well.

French didn’t like what he’d seen in Gibby’s eyes. They weren’t the warm eyes he knew so well, nor were they the thoughtful, deep ones, and not the kind or steady ones, either. Five minutes ago, eyes like that might have peered out from his son’s face, but not anymore. His eyes now were remorseless and unflinching.

Like Jason’s eyes, he decided, and not like Robert’s at all.

French was still at the table when headlights slashed through the window. He recognized the car; checked his watch. Outside, he found David Martin halfway across the driveway, looking haggard in the shadows. “Captain.”

“You know why I’m here?”

“I have a suspicion.”

“You’re lucky it’s not uniformed officers, cuffs out.”

They met on the bottom step, and French stuck out a hand. “It’s not exactly great to see you.”

Captain Martin grunted in agreement, and they shook. “You’re not on the top of my list, either.”

“He’s pressing charges?”

“Let’s talk inside?”

“Yeah, sure.” French led the captain into the kitchen. “Beer?”

“You have anything stronger?”

“You still like Macallan?”

“The twelve-year?”

“What honest cop can afford the eighteen?”

“You’re the only one I know.”

“Three hundred a bottle? No thanks. You think that’s why Martinez hates me?”

“Rich wife? Fancy house? Nah, nobody wants that.”