Ripley’s concern made a lot of sense. X was the most disciplined man either of them had ever seen, so in control of thought and emotion that he rarely showed more than pursed lips or a lifted eyebrow. For those who understood the man, little more was ever needed.

“You have the names of his visitors?”

Ripley rattled off four names, and the warden recognized two of them. Enforcers. Killers. “Where are they now?”

“Off-grounds, and thank God for it. He’s been asking about Byrd, though.”

“What about our arrangements?” The warden started walking.

“Prisoner French will attend the execution. It’s not the normal thing. We’ll need an excuse.”

“I’ll come up with something. What about after?”

“Like we discussed.”

“Good. Good.” The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “Did he, uh … Did X want to see me?”

“He didn’t mention it.”

Nodding in relief, the warden stepped into the elevator, and waited as it carried him to his office. This early, he was alone there, so he made the coffee, and stood at the east window, looking out across the prison as color bled into the world. He wanted peace of mind, but had so many concerns about the execution, so many demands on his time. The governor would attend, and that alone had caused a week of sleepless nights. He also expected two state senators, the U.S. attorney general, and twenty-nine family members of X’s long-dead victims. And they all needed to be handled.

Then there was the media. He’d already denied forty-one petitions to attend the execution, some from outlets as influential as The New York Times and NBC News. Those outlets had powerful friends in the state of North Carolina, and pressure had come in every conceivable form, from long editorials to brute, political force. The execution had already been front-page news in The Charlotte Observer for four days straight: profiles of X’s family and its fortune, details of the murders, more profiles on the victims. They’d delved into X’s past, and run photographs of his early days, pictures of him with models, movie stars, and politicians. The drumbeat was incessant. But a decision on the media was entirely the warden’s prerogative, which made it X’s prerogative. And he’d been clear on that point, as well.

I’ve sold enough of their newspapers …

Of course, the newspapers would sell, regardless. So would the airtime. The warden had passed a dozen news vans at the front gate, and knew how things would play on the six o’clock news: Lanesworth at dawn tomorrow, a time, at last, for justice …

Or some such shit.