"I'm kind of surprised you let anyone get near Bolton."
"The last thing we wanted, believe me. We turned him away but Thompson threatened to take us to court. We feared he might win—freedom of the press and all that crap—so we granted him access. But we've limited it as much as possible."
"How limited?"
"Thompson had one hour access a week."
"He did time at Creighton back in the nineties, you know."
"Of course I know. Our security had him fully vetted before we let him in. Unfortunately he turned out to be just what he said he was: a former inmate and a bestselling author." He smiled. "I never knew he was the author of Kick. I'll have to read it sometime."
"Their stays at Creighton overlapped. Any chance they could have met there?"
He shook his head. "Highly unlikely. Prisoners in the maximum security wing have no contact with the other residents. He told us it was the Creighton connection that inspired him to write Bolton's story."
All very probable. Maybe even explained Thompson's reluctance to talk about Creighton, but a part of Jack wasn't buying it.
Damn, he wished he'd known this before interviewing Thompson. Could have asked some interesting follow-up questions when he said he hadn't decided what to write next.
"Would you believe," Levy was saying, "Thompson says he thinks Bolton is innocent, that he was framed by the real killers?"
"Who were…?"
"Who else? Radical Christian extremists."
"Any chance that's true?"
"Are you kidding? Not in a million years. I've seen the case files—we check out every inmate exhaustively—and the evidence against Jeremy Bolton was overwhelming. After what he did to me, can you doubt his impulsive violence?"
No, Jack couldn't.
"What did you tell Thompson when you let Bolton out?"
"Nothing. Didn't need to. He'd completed his interviews before the start of the trial."
"A convenient coincidence. Could they possibly be meeting outside?"
Levy shook his head. "Bolton is violent but he's not stupid. If Thompson exposes him—accidentally, or deliberately for the publicity—the clinical trial is over and Bolton is back behind bars."
Jack had a strong sense that that was just where this man wanted him.
Levy waved Thompson away.
"Anyway, back to this Pickering girl. I just wish she were a few years older, then we wouldn't have her overprotective mother in the picture."
"How did you sneak him back into civilization?"
"We put him through the witness protection program—even the FBI didn't know his real identity."
"So you Earl Scheibed him into a law-abiding citizen. Why put him in Queens?"
"He wanted Rego Park and he persuaded the Bureau to put him there."
"Wait-wait-wait. He wanted Rego Park? Why?"
"I have no idea. I remember thinking it odd—born and raised in Mississippi, and he insists on Rego Park, Queens. Go figure."
"Yeah. Go figure."
Something about that bothered Jack, but he couldn't say why.
"The other odd thing is his money. He was set up with an apartment and a stipend to provide him with the essentials, but not enough to be comfortable. The idea was to spur him to get a job. He's been locked up since his teens. We gave him some training, but we wanted to see how he functioned as an adult in the real world."
"He's telling people he designs video games."
"Yes, I know. He's obsessed with them—structure, design, gameplay. He probably could design one."
"But he doesn't. He doesn't do much of anything according to Mrs. Pickering. Yet she told me he's got a beautiful townhouse with state-of-the-art computer and AV setups. How's he afford that?"
"We don't know. He goes out and buys these things for cash. When we ask he won't tell. When we threaten he says what's the difference where he gets his money as long as it's not jeopardizing the clinical trial?"
Jack wondered if Thompson might be the source—paying him for an exclusive story.
Thompson's reticence about Creighton was becoming more and more understandable.
"So, you tell him to 'fess up or you'll haul his ass back behind bars, but he blows you off. Seems to know you don't mean it. He indispensable?"
Levy looked at him. "Let me put it this way: If we can succeed in taming and making an upstanding citizen of Jeremy Bolton, we can succeed with anyone."
10
Christy paced her living room, wringing her hands as she waited for that man to arrive.
Even though she'd been expecting it, she jumped at the sound of the doorbell. Instead of moving toward it she stood frozen, frightened.
She'd asked a possible murderer to meet her. Alone. In her home.
Am I crazy?
As a precaution she'd hidden her little semiautomatic within easy reach under a cushion, but she doubted she'd need it. That man seemed obsessed with her daughter. Possessive. He wouldn't do anything that would cause him to lose her. One sure way of doing that was to harm her mother.
At least Christy prayed it would be that way. What if he was some sort of Svengali who could force Dawnie to stay with him even after he'd harmed her mother?
All right. Enough of that. Be calm. This is going to work. He's not going to hurt you because you're not going to threaten him or accuse him of anything. What was the point anyway? She'd toyed with the idea of calling the police and telling them what she knew about Michael Gerhard, but without proof—with no body even to indicate there had been a crime—she'd wind up right where she was now.
So she'd come up with another way.
The bell rang again. She moved to the door and opened it. There he was, standing on the front steps. He wore jeans and a fitted black western shirt that clung to his frame. Christy couldn't deny his aura of raw-boned animalism. Once again she could see why Dawnie was so taken with him.
"May I come in?" he said, his tone and expression neutral.
Well, at least it was a cordial start. She stood aside and motioned him into the room.
"Please."
Before closing the door she sneaked a peek to see if Dawn had tagged along, but saw no sign of her. She decided to address him with the same level of cordiality.
"Forgive me for not offering you a drink or a seat, but I don't think our business here will last all that long."
"Business?"
Might as well get to it.
"Yes. I have a business proposition for you."
"Really." He drew out the word. "Okay. I'm listenin."
She picked up a Talbot's shopping bag from the coffee table and handed it to him.
"That's yours if you agree to certain conditions."
Frowning, he took it and glanced inside. Then he looked up at her.
"Cash?"
"A quarter of a million dollars."
After her confrontation with Dawnie and this man, she'd run out and withdrawn it from the money-market account she used to hold her cash between trades. The bank had given her a hard time but she'd insisted. This was worth every penny if it worked.
"What?"
"It can be yours. All you have to do to earn it is say good night to Dawn tonight as usual, and then drop out of her life forever."
His blue gaze bored into her, through her. "You must think I'm the worst sort of lowlife."
She stepped back, closer to the pistol. Remember: no threats, no accusations.
"My only thought is that you are the wrong man for Dawn."
He shook his head. "You got it all wrong. I'm the right man for Dawn, the rightest man in the world. Our destinies are twined. Together we're gonna change this big ol' world."
Christy wanted to scream but kept her tone level. "I want you out of her life and I'm willing to put my money where my mouth is. Take it."