Squeezed in behind the wheel, the driver squinted in the bright light, and shrugged. “Traffic was a little tight, going in. Protesters and such. The guards didn’t want to talk to me, but I told ’em what you said I should, and that got this Ripley fella out there pretty quick.”

“You put the package directly into Captain Ripley’s hands?”

“Is that the name on the receipt?” The driver pushed a piece of paper through the window. Reece checked the signature, and nodded. “Then that’s who I gave it to.”

“Describe him.” The driver did. A perfect match. “Go on, then.” Reece produced a hundred-dollar bill, and watched it disappear.

When the car was back on the road, Reece checked his watch again, adding up the minutes. He knew the guards, the prison’s ways. That told him about how long it would take.

The package sat untouched on the warden’s desk, a rectangle wrapped in brown paper, and sealed with tape. Perched on the edge of his chair, the warden decided he’d be happier if Ripley had handed over the package, saying it contained nitroglycerin or body parts, anything that had nothing to do with X. “Tell me again what he said.”

“He said, ‘This is for X, and he’ll want to see it. You tell Warden Wilson it’s in his interests to make sure he does.’”

“He called me by name?”

“Yes, sir.” Ripley nodded once, but looked a little green, too.

“Have you ever seen this man before?”

“No, sir. He said he was a paid messenger, and didn’t know the name of the man who’d hired him. The man he described, though, sounds a lot like Reece.”

The warden could easily believe it. Only Reece looked like Reece.

“You want me to go?” Ripley asked. “Privacy, I mean.”

Ripley didn’t have a family, but he did have a live-in girlfriend and three out of his original four dogs. The killing of that first dog had taught him early to take the carrot over the stick, and he’d been on X’s payroll for years. The warden had never asked how much money Ripley had made off the relationship, but it would be a considerable amount. The warden shook his head. “If this package concerns X, it concerns you, too.”

With no other choice, he drew the package across the desk, and slit the tape with a pocketknife. Inside, were a videotape cassette and a sealed envelope. Turning to the envelope, he read aloud what was written on its front. “To Warden Bruce Wilson, #2 Prison Farm Lane, husband to Gertrude, father to Thomas and Trevor.”

“That’s strangely specific.”

“He’s reminding me how vulnerable I am.”