CHAPTER
2
EXCUSE ME?”
“You heard correctly, Mr. Burkett. Another Coke?”
Griff continued to stare at his host until his question sank in. At least the crazy bastard was a courteous host. “No thanks.”
Speakman rolled his chair over to the end table and picked up Griff’s empty glass, carried it along with his to the wet bar, and placed both in a rack beneath the sink. He used a bar towel to wipe the granite countertop, although from where Griff sat, he could see that it was highly polished, not a single drop of liquid or streak of moisture on its glassy surface. Speakman folded the towel, lining up the hem evenly, and threaded it through a ring attached to the counter.
He rolled back to the table at Griff’s elbow and replaced the coaster
he’d used in its brass holder, gave it three taps, then put his chair in reverse and resumed his original place a few feet from where Griff sat.
Griff, watching these maneuvers, thought, Courteous and neat.
“Let me know if you change your mind about another drink,” Speakman said.
Griff stood up, rounded his chair, looked back at Speakman to see if his lunacy could be detected at this distance, then walked over to the windows and looked outside. He needed to ground himself, make sure he hadn’t fallen into a rabbit hole or something.
He felt as he had those first few weeks at Big Spring, when he would wake up disoriented and it would take several seconds for him to remember where he was and why. This was like that. He felt detached. He needed to get his bearings.
Beyond the windows, not a Mad Hatter in sight. Everything was still there and looking perfectly normal—the emerald grass, stone pathways winding through the flower beds, trees with sprawling branches shading it all. A pond in the distance. Blue sky. Overhead a jet was making its final approach into Dallas.
“One of ours.”
Griff hadn’t heard the approach of Speakman’s chair and was startled to find him so close. Prison would do that to you, too. Make you jumpy. Linemen topping three hundred pounds used to charge at him bent on inflicting injury and pain, teeth bared behind their face guards, eyes slitted with malice. He’d been prepared for them and was conditioned to take their abuse.
But even in the minimum-security area of the prison, where the inmates were white-collar criminals, you stayed nervous twenty-four/seven. You kept your guard up and other people at arm’s length.
Of course, he’d been that way before prison.
Speakman was watching the jet. “From Nashville. Due to touch down at seven oh seven.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Right on time.”
Griff studied him for several seconds, then said, “The hell of it is, you seem perfectly sane.”
“You doubt my sanity?”
“And then some.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, I’m not wearing a sign that says sperm bank.”
Speakman smiled. “Not the kind of job you thought I’d be offering, huh?”
“Not by a long shot.” Griff glanced at his own wristwatch. “Look, I’ve got plans tonight. A get-together with some friends.” There was no get-together. No friends, either. But it sounded plausible. “I need to get going to make it on time.”
Speakman seemed to see through the lie. “Before declining my offer,” he said, “at least hear me out.”
He extended his hand as though to touch Griff’s arm. Griff’s flinch was involuntary, no way to prevent Speakman from noticing it. He looked up at Griff with puzzlement but pulled his hand back before making actual contact. “Sorry,” Griff muttered.
“It’s the wheelchair,” Speakman said blandly. “It puts some people off. Like a disease or a bad-luck charm.”
“It’s not that. Not at all. It’s, uh…Look, I think we’re finished here. I gotta go.”
“Please don’t leave yet, Griff. Do you mind if I call you Griff? I think this is a good point at which to shift to first names, don’t you?”