Such a small word to mean so much: execution. For Reece, it meant a life without shadow or reason to feel small. He had money. He had the girl. What couldn’t he do once X was out of the picture?

He sat on the sofa, and watched the television play in silence. He would be there, of course. Hundreds already were; they’d been all over the news, old Christians, young hippies, and other strange souls. Some called it a protest, others a vigil, a field full of headlights and campfires and lanterns. None of them really knew X, and that part did make Reece sad. X was a dinosaur and stiff as an old rope, but he was one of a kind. Reece could admit that much, at least. Raising his glass to the television, he watched shadows climb and dance on the prison walls. “The end of an era,” he said, then drank the whiskey down, and went off to watch the girl.

Alone in his office, Warden Wilson watched the news coverage. WBTV aired an hour-long special at seven o’clock. WRAL aired a similar program at eight, but focused more on the victims, and less on X’s childhood, family fortune, and long-ago string of famous acquaintances. After a time, he unlocked a desk drawer, removed an envelope, and spilled its contents onto the desk. Passports. Travel documents. New identities. According to X, the money would be wired after.

But only after …

What X had asked him to do was a horrible thing—a reprehensible, unforgivable, and horrible thing—but the warden had no choice.

“No choice at all,” he said.

And then he called Ripley.

When he arrived, the warden said, “Come in. Lock the door.” Ripley did and when the warden said, “Sit,” he did that, too. They’d known each other for a long time, not a friendship—how could it be?—but they understood each other. “What’s our status?”

“The lawyers are gone. X is eating.”

Warden Wilson glanced at the clock on the wall. The execution was scheduled for 9:00 a.m., a civilized hour, and not dawn, as people tended to think. “What about Jason French?”

“He’ll be front row, center. Like X wants.”

“And after? Who are you using?”

“Jordan and Kudravetz.”

They were good choices, mercenary as hell and just smart enough. Unlocking the desk, the warden opened the bottom drawer, and removed three buff envelopes, two the size of a large dictionary, the third even larger. With a felt-tip pen, he wrote a name on each one. Ripley. Jordan. Kudravetz. He pushed the largest across the desk. “Open it.”

Ripley did as he was told, no expression on his face as he stacked bricks of cash in neat rows. “Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he finally said.

“And a quarter million for each of the others.”