“Because I can describe him in perfect detail, the car he was in, and the people with him, how he froze the moment he realized the bus was from Lanesworth. My memory’s photographic. Any detail you ask for.”

“Assuming all of that is true, why should I care?”

The old man was cunning enough to hide his satisfaction, but the glint in his eyes was pure greed. “We both know that you do.”

X stared for long seconds, his entire being dangerously still. He’d never cared about the stories that circulated in the general population, not who he’d killed or why he’d done it, or what really went down in the subbasement under death row. True or false, such stories were irrelevant. X stayed above them. But this, however, this presumption to know anything about X’s wants or needs or preferences …

The old man understood the shift in X’s eyes. “Hey, buddy, hey now. No judgment.” He spread his fingers, showing the seamed palms. “We all have our kinks. You. Me. It’s just that I’m too old to play games. Fifty-two years inside. I know you see the logic.”

X studied the old man’s face. The lips. The damp eyes. “So you can tell me about Jason French. What would you want from me in exchange?”

The old man took a breath, and named his price. Money. Pornography. Two days with a girlish inmate he’d seen once in the yard.

X shook his head dismissively. “Descriptions of an isolated encounter. A few flowery words.”

“I can tell you how to find him.”

X blinked, a hard thump in his chest. “Go on.”

“I know the car, the license plate. From there, it should be easy. Anyone on the outside could track him down.”

X tried to conceal his emotions, but the old prisoner knew better. A smile split his face as he said, “There’s one other thing,” then drew back a chair, and sat as if he owned the place. “There was a girl in the car, a brunette…”

When Willamette was finished and gone, X paced the empty hall, debating the pros and cons of the bargain he’d made. He didn’t care about the brunette in the car, or the girlish inmate on cellblock C—let Willamette have his fun. But some time ago X had given Jason certain assurances—promises, actually—and while most people mattered little to X, Jason was not most people. That made the debate more like a war of attrition.

A full hour, pacing.

One more staring at a stain on the ceiling.

In the end, though, X knew exactly what he’d known at the moment of Willamette’s proposal: there could be no real debate.

“Guard!” He raised his voice, suddenly impatient. “I want Reece, and I want him here now.”