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It’s in that moment, with Nelson holding his gun, and her ready to strike with the wrench, that he realizes who she is. In spite of the hair, in spite of the eye color, he recognizes her—and knows he’ll have a new prize today. A very useful one. He wonders how much Risa Ward will be worth to Divan.
Risa comes toward him just as he reaches for his other gun with his free hand. She gets in a swing at his head. It connects with his ear. A solid strike, but survivable, just like all the other blows. He shoves the tranq gun into her gut and pulls the trigger, and she grunts as the tranq embeds deep. He holds her as she slips helplessly from consciousness, the wrench falling from her hand, thudding onto the floor.
Nelson gently eases her to the ground beside the dead boy. Then he turns to the old woman, who sobs from the chair to which she’s chained. “Your fault,” Nelson tells her. “Entirely your fault. That boy’s life is on your head for lying to me!”
The woman can only sob.
Now that the battle is over, he assesses the damage from the wrench. His shin may be fractured. It’s swelling and he can feel his pulse in it. His right ear is hot, and the back of his hand is turning purple and swelling. All in a day’s work. The pain will be good for him. It will release endorphins. Make him more alert.
“Please go . . .” wails the woman. “Just go . . .”
And he will . . . but not until he finishes his business here.
There’s a torn envelope on the desk and a cigarette lighter in his pocket. He notes that everything around the basement, from the felled bookshelf and its pile of books, to the stacks of paperwork on the desk, to the various wooden antiques—everything in this room—everything in this shop, in fact—is highly flammable.
He grabs the envelope, takes out the lighter, and flicks it until it releases its tiny controlled flame.
“Stop!” yells the woman through her tears. “I’ll give you Lassiter! I’ll give him to you if you stop this and let the others go!”
He hesitates. He knows this is just another game, but he’s willing to play, if only to give him a moment to contemplate the severity of what he’s about to do.
“God forgive me,” she says. “God forgive me. . . .”
“At this moment,” Nelson reminds her, “it’s my forgiveness that you need.”
She nods, unable to look at him, and that’s how he knows she’s going to tell him the truth. But will it be truth enough?
“He’s in your hand,” she says. “He’s in your hand, and you don’t even know it.” Then she lowers her head in defeat, and perhaps some self-loathing.
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Nelson has no idea what she means . . . until he looks at the empty envelope he’s holding and reads the handwritten address:
Claire & Kirk Lassiter
3048 Rosenstock Road
Columbus, Ohio 43017
He looks down to the other envelopes on the ground, and he can tell by the handwriting that they were all written by kids.
“You had your AWOLs write letters to their parents?”
She nods.
“What a pointless thing to do.”
She nods.
“And our friend Connor went to deliver his personally?”
Then she finally looks to him, and the hatred on her face is a thing to see: as powerful as a smoldering volcano. “You have what you need. Now get the hell out of here.”
There have been many times in Jasper Nelson’s life when choice was taken from him. He did not choose to be tranq’d that fateful day two years ago by Connor Lassiter. He did not choose to get hurled out of the Juvenile force in humiliation. He did not choose to lose his ordinary, respectable life. He does have a choice here however, and it’s an awe-inspiring moment—because he knows his choice today will be a defining one.
He could walk away from here and go find Lassiter . . . or he could bring on a little suffering first.
In the end, his sense of social consciousness prevails. Because as a good citizen, isn’t it his responsibility to help rid the world of vermin?
