by John Hart
Four seconds to the water.
Four seconds to know.
Chance spread his arms and counted to three.
He bent at the knees.
He rose.
49
Reece was bitter, and unable to deny that truth. He was cut and bleeding. That damn kid was still alive. He’d really wanted to hurt Jason in a very personal way.
At least he’d put that pretty boy in prison.
At least X was about to die.
That was the thought that made everything better. Even bleeding in the back seat with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in one hand and a wad of bloody gauze on the floor, he could at least feel that joy. He had money and the whole world. And X had, what? Thirty-seven minutes?
Reece finished cleaning and dressing the places he’d been cut. Some were deep, none fatal. His shoulder. His ribs. He’d bought supplies at a drugstore, and stolen a shirt off the line as he’d worked out of the city and into scrub country where cops were thin on the ground.
Laying the last bandage, he taped it, and climbed out into the morning heat, where he’d parked at the end of a dirt road, oak trees grown tall on both sides of a farm gate, their shadows like ink on the ground.
Twenty minutes to Lanesworth.
Five or six if he had wings.
Reece flexed a bit, testing the tape. When everything held, he scooped up bloody gauze and his ruined shirt, and dumped it all in the high weeds beyond the gate. The stolen shirt was small, but would do the job. No bloodstains. No signs of injury. Not even the guards would look twice.
Starting the car, Reece planned his future as he drove. New name. New city.
Los Angeles, maybe.
Or maybe Miami.
Checking the time, Reece drove faster.
He really wanted to be there when X died.
Nearing the prison, he pulled on a cap and dark glasses; parked for an easy out. He knew better than to get hung up in the buses and news vans. The fields were packed with people, but people had never been a problem. Keep your eyes down. Kill anyone you have to. Simple rules for a simple man. He didn’t need to be up front, either. Let the Bible thumpers handle the crush and the heat and the noise. Reece just needed to be there on the grounds, to know the moment he was gone. He’d take the memory with him, and wear it like a medal on his chest.
Five minutes.
He felt giddy.
Reece counted down the time, but nine o’clock came and went, and nothing changed. He’d expected an announcement when it was done, or to feel some shift as X left the world. The crowd seemed to feel the same frustration. He noted the strange looks that passed between people, the perplexed expressions of those newscasters he could see. That’s where the ripple began. The news crews sprang to life. Cameras rolled tape, and the pretty people straightened up. But the expressions Reece saw were more shocked now than perplexed.
“Excuse me, sir?”
The voice was female and severe. Someone tugged on Reece’s sleeve, and when he turned he found an iron-haired woman with heavy glasses and a thick neck. “Whoever you’re looking for, it’s not me.”
“Are you Mr. Reece?”
The whole world seemed to stop. Noise died. No breath in his lungs. He said, “No.”
Her disbelief showed in the frown and sharp glance. “I was given a very specific description of you, Mr. Reece, of your appearance and of five possible cars you might drive, including the one you parked just there. I was told you’d wear dark glasses and a hat of some sort, and that you’d stand at the rear of the crowd. I have a letter for you.”
Reece shook his head, still struggling. “Who are you?”
“I work for the warden, if that makes a difference.” She offered a sealed envelope. “Will you accept the letter or not?”
He took it with numb fingers, and she left with a final glance of disapproval. The envelope was thick, creamy, and expensive. It terrified him. Reece broke the seal, and removed a single page. He tried to focus, but the crowd was growing restless and very loud. Near the front, people began to push and shove, to actually shout. The noise spread like a wave. It rose, crashed, and spilled, in seconds, to the place Reece stood.
There would be no execution.
The prisoner was gone.
Rumor? News? Reece couldn’t know, but he stumbled back, as if from an imminent, physical threat. He found a place between two cars, but the chaos only grew. People were pushing and fighting. Others stood in stunned disbelief. Reece tried to read what he’d been given, but his hands were shaking so hard he had to crouch between the cars, and put the letter on the ground.
He read it twice as a dark stain spread in his lap.
Epilogue
LANESWORTH PRISON
May 18, 1972
My Dear Reece,
Or should I call you Teddy? That is your name, isn’t it? Theodore Small, born forty-two years ago in Fairhope, Alabama? It was your mother, I believe, who liked to call you Teddy. And curl your hair, I’ve been told. And dress you in lace.
But I digress …
The point I wish to make is achingly simple. I have broken no promise—I never would. It was Jason French who came for you, and he did it gratis.
But I digress again. Strange how that happens once there are so many thoughts to fill the mind …
Specifically, Teddy, my thoughts are of you, and of what might happen when next we meet. They are such deep and lovely thoughts, an endless parade. And I must thank you from the bottom of this bottomless heart. Before you made me so angry, I had little reason to feel or care or live. Now I burst with purpose …
I imagine this is disconcerting to you, but do take comfort from my other solemn vow. Once I am dead, you are perfectly safe.
Until such time, I remain yours,
X
ALSO BY JOHN HART
The Hush
Redemption Road
Iron House
The Last Child
Down River
The King of Lies
About the Author
JOHN HART is the author of six New York Times bestsellers: The King of Lies, Down River, The Last Child, Iron House, Redemption Road, and The Hush. The only author in history to win the Edgar Award for Best Novel consecutively, John has also won the Barry Award, the Southern Independent Bookseller’s Award for Fiction, the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award, and the North Carolina Award for Literature. His novels have been translated into thirty languages and can be found in more than seventy countries. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
; Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Also by John Hart
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE UNWILLING. Copyright © 2021 by John Hart. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Young Jin Lim
Cover photographs: Cliff © Kata Rzyynamierzwinska/Arcangel; sky © Jill Lehmann Photography/Getty Images; man’s body © Brad Wenner/Getty Images; man’s head © Song_About_Summer/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Names: Hart, John, 1965‒ author.
Title: The unwilling / John Hart.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019058395 | ISBN 9781250167729 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250167736 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A78575 U59 2021 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019058395
eISBN 9781250167736
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First Edition: 2021