Chapter 28
Two uniformed cops keep a private guard company outside the gated entrance of Flintlock Estates. Drinking coffee from thermoses, but they perk up when my Jeep approaches.
Rolling down my window, I hear the guard say, “It’s fine, I know him.”
They’re probably not getting a lot of vehicles tonight that aren’t limousines, and most have likely already arrived. I’m late.
“Pete, how’s it going?” I say to the guard, shifting the car into park. “It’s been a while.”
“It has,” he says, wiping his fingers through his gray mustache. “But no explanation needed.”
It’s nice of him to say — or, for him not to say — what we’re both thinking: without Lance around, there’s no reason for me to be here. I’m not his dealer anymore, or his designated driver or even his friend, although that part I’ll keep to myself.
“I assume you still know the way,” Pete jokes, lowering his clipboard with the guest list. I’m not sure I’m even on it, but Pete doesn’t check.
“I’ll yell if I get lost,” I say, giving him a grin. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” he replies, patting the top of my Jeep.
One of the cops jogs the ten feet to the booth and hits the button to open the gate for me. I give them all a wave as I drive through.
I blow past the valet stand outside the Prescott mansion and find a spot fairly far off, then huff it back. The neighborhood feels a lot bigger on foot, the homes each occupying several acres. My suit — the only one I own — isn’t very warm, but I’m sweating by the time I reach the front door.
This is a bad idea.
Should I have listened to Quinn? My instincts tell me to stay the course — to do what I came here to do, but my instincts also told me getting Lance cocaine would work out okay and that Quinn was a stone-cold bitch. Maybe my instincts aren’t that reliable.
It’s not too late to turn back — to just hang out and enjoy the party. I could hobnob with all of Darren Prescott’s rich friends and drink his top-shelf liquor.
Nah. I’d feel like a fucking asshole, knowing how I left things with Quinn. I’m not here to have fun.
To this day, I haven’t been inside the Prescott home many times. Usually when I saw Lance, I’d meet him out back by the pool, or I’d wait for him in the garage. I never really questioned that when I was younger.
The interior bridges the divide between millionaire opulence and political benignity. Busts and portraits of Washington, Franklin, Jackson and more pay homage to the pedigree to which he aspires, while the flowing champagne, crystal chandeliers and antique furniture show off his wealth.
Tonight the house is louder than I’ve ever heard it, though that’s not saying much. Usually, when I’ve been inside the mansion it’s been eerily quiet — Darren was often away in DC, while Lance’s mother lived in southern France with a new family, enjoying a divorce settlement rumored to be at least eight digits. I never met her — she passed not long after I met Lance.
Now there are people everywhere — mostly older men in custom-fitted suits, but a few of them have wives — and a few young girlfriends — tagging along. They smile politely, sipping from champagne flutes, while the men smoke cigars and drink rare, aged whiskey. Caterers in formal wear circle the crowd with finger food platters, A handsome pianist about my age plays soft tunes for ambiance, and roaring fireplaces cast golden glows and dancing shadows.
Not seeing Darren anywhere, I leave the south wing and work my way deeper into the house. Crossing into the main living space, the noise of the crowd quickly dies out, replaced by a thumping beat coming from the gaming lounge. I knock on the door, but nobody answers, so I try the knob, finding it unlocked.
“Whoa,” I mumble out loud, stunned by the scene.
No one hears me — house music blares from an unseen speaker system, and in the center of the room, two women dance to the rhythm. Nude except for cash-stuffed elastic bands around their thighs, they smile and twist, giving the dozen or so men in the room a nice show. Not everyone is watching them, however: some of the men linger around a pool table, while others sit at a minibar drinking and whispering in each other’s ears. With the lights turned low and a hovering haze of cigar smoke, I can imagine all kinds of backroom deals happening here. Prescott sits in a leather recliner, talking to a few other men, ignoring the dancers.
Lance would fucking love this, I realize. If he hadn’t wound up in a coma — if he had learned some restraint and mellowed out, wouldn’t this be him someday?
Was Quinn right about Darren after all? Was coming here a mistake?
I turn to go, but then Prescott calls out. “Reed, what a surprise! Come, join us!”
Shit.
Nodding, I force my feet to move.
“Byron said to give you his regards,” I say when I get close. “He wishes he could be here.”
“Give him my thanks,” Prescott replies, taking my hand in a firm shake. “And tell him not to worry: this party is the first of many. I’m ahead of Miller by double digits in the polls, so the next one will be in November.”
“That’s fantastic,” I lie, faking a smile. “Congratulations. I hate to interrupt all this, but do you think we could talk for just a minute?”
Prescott rises from his seat, his grin fading. “Right now, Reed? Is this really the best time?”
Part of me wants to play it off, tell him later would be fine, and leave. That’s what Quinn would probably want me to do, isn’t it? I could come back to the prison and help her find a way out.
I can’t give up now, though. If I can get through to Prescott, this could all end peacefully.
“I promise, it’s important. it’ll be fast.”
“Fine,” says Prescott after a deep sigh. “Follow me.”
I go with him to his office, which I’m not surprised to see is bigger than my apartment. Every piece of furniture looks like it could cost me a year’s salary, but for once I don’t really notice the flagrant displays of his wealth — my attention turns immediately to a naked woman passed out on a long, black leather couch. I’ve never seen her before, either among Lance’s friends or at the prison, but her look feels familiar. I could swear I recognize her thin lips and the long, dark hair curling around her narrow shoulders.
“Is she alright?” I ask, though I see her small breasts rise and fall.
Prescott waves off my concern. “She’s fine, she’s just sleeping off something I gave her. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
How does one start the conversation, I think you’ve lost your shit? Is there a diplomatic way of doing it?
“Did Byron tell you about what happened to Corbin?” I ask, taking a seat across from his desk. There’s one way that could work — I have to try it.
“I know about it, yes,” Prescott replies, getting out two tumblers and a bottle of Four Roses. He sits and pours us both a drink. “It’s a terrible loss, but I hear Byron has the situation under control.”
I nod in thanks, accepting the glass. “He does, but I’m worried the… recent challenges… have pushed him too far, and he’s letting it affect his decision-making.”
Prescott downs his bourbon in one shot and pours another. “Is this why you came here, Reed? To badmouth one of my closest friends behind his back?”
“It’s not like that-” I blurt.
He smiles mischievously. “Is this a power move, Reed? Are you angling to be the new warden?”
I shake my head, gripping the armrests of my seat. “The way he disposed of… the problem,” I say, checking that the girl on the couch is still sleeping soundly, “gives me pause. That’s all. It sends a message to the entire staff that they could end up like him.”
Prescott swirls his glass, not taking his eyes off me. “Do the other guards share your concern, or is this just you?”
My forehead warms, sweat starting to bead on my skin. “They haven’t said-”
“So this message is what you heard after the incident. You’re worried you could end up like Corbin. Why is that, Reed?”
I cross a leg and lean back, trying to appear relaxed. “I think that violence at the prison is going to get worse.”
I expect Prescott to dismiss me, but he nods. “You could be right. More inmates, especially the ones we’ll be taking, means more potential for problems. But Reed, you’ve been handling violent women for years now. I have trouble believing that’s what you’re really worried about. Isn’t this actually about Ms. Harris?”
“What do you mean?” I say. Of course this is about Quinn, but that’s not the direction I want this conversation to go.
Prescott shrugs. “Corbin’s dead because of her. So’s Lance. Then there’s Jonah. She’s the common thread. They all got careless around her, and they paid for it.”
I’d point out that Lance isn’t really dead, but Prescott’s not finished and, for the first time, I’m not sure he cares. He certainly doesn’t care about Corbin.
“If you get your heads out of your asses and keep that bitch under control, you’ll have nothing to worry about. Have you broken her yet?”
My stomach clenches.
Leave me alone!
Her cry plays in my head for the thousandth time, and my chest tingles where she pushed me. Maybe I have broken her, but I didn’t mean to.
“She’s ready,” I answer. “I could do it at any moment.” It’s the truth.
Prescott laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “She loves you, after everything you’ve done to her?”
“It’s amazing.”
It really fucking is.
“Is there any particular reason not to pull the plug now?” he asks.
Because I can’t.
I don’t know if I could hurt Quinn like that now — maybe if our lives depended on it, but I don’t know how I would live with myself after.
“The longer they’re hooked, the harder they break,” I say, matching his malevolent expression.
“Come on, Reed. Don’t bullshit me. You can just say it.”
A high-pitched tone sounds in my ears, and all I can hear over it is my heart thumping. “Say what?”
He licks his upper lip. “Quinn’s a hot piece, and you don’t want to stop fucking her. It’s okay, I wouldn’t either.”
Oh, thank god.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my entire body unclench. “I’m gonna miss that ass.”
“We’ll find you another,” Prescott chuckles. “But hey, not to worry: there’s still weeks before the election. You can enjoy her all you want until then, and then she won’t be your problem anymore.”
“Sounds good,” I say, getting up to leave.
I won’t press him again about Byron — I definitely won’t raise my concerns about him personally. There’s no point. Quinn was right about Prescott — he hasn’t gone astray because of Lance, this is who he is.
I’ve never had to struggle so hard to keep a shit-eating grin on my face. Part of me wants to throttle Prescott right now. He wouldn’t see it coming. If I kept it quiet, I could get away from the mansion before anyone found out. But could I get back to the prison before Byron got word? It’s a two-hour drive.
Too risky.
“Hold on a second, Reed,” he says.
My feet feel like lead as I stop. “Yeah?”
Prescott gets up and laces his fingers together in front of his waist. “I appreciate that you’ve worked for me a long time and that you were Lance’s only true friend. I want to make you a promise. Byron is the warden at Walker and always will be. You can’t have his job. But, I understand that you need to be able to advance and realize your full potential.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure where he’s going with this.
“So, I’m going to pull some strings with Jonah. Between the two of us, we’ll get your criminal record expunged. Combine that with your lengthy work experience in… corrections and a glowing recommendation from a sitting U.S. congressman, and you’ll be able to get a job anywhere. We’d miss you at Walker, and I’m not saying you should go, but I owe you the option.”
Wow.
Is this for real?
“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
Prescott smiles. “It’s nothing. Don’t mention it. Now, I’ve got a party to get back to.”
He wraps his arm around me to lead me out. I take one more glance back at the unconscious woman on the couch as we leave. After saying my goodbyes, I practically sprint to my car.
I have to get back to Walker. I have to tell Quinn she was right and figure out how we’re going to take down Prescott, once and for all.