The Passage by Justin Cronin Page A

Anthony Carter to sign the papers.
    “Just so you know, there may be a change in protocol coming your way,” Sykes told him.
    “What sort of change?”
    Sykes hesitated. “I’ll let you know. Just get Carter to sign.”
    They drove to Huntsville and checked into a motel. The warden’s stonewalling was nothing new—it had happened before. The delay was aggravating, but that was all it was. A few days from now, a week at most, Carter would be in the system, and all evidence that he’d ever existed would be wiped from the face of the earth. Even the warden would swear he’d never heard of the guy. Somebody would have to talk to the deceased’s husband, of course, the River Oaks lawyer with the two little girls he now had to raise himself, but that wasn’t Wolgast’s job. There would be a death certificate involved, and probably a story about a heart attack and a quick cremation, and how justice had, in the end, been served. It didn’t matter; the job would get done.
    By five they hadn’t heard anything, so they changed out of their suits into jeans and walked up the street to find a place for dinner, choosing a steak joint on a commercial strip between a Costco and a Best Buy. It was part of a chain, which was good—they were supposed to travel lightly, to leave as little an impression on the world around them as possible. The delay had made Wolgast antsy, but Doyle seemed not to mind. A good meal and a little time off in a strange town, courtesy of the federal government—why complain? Doyle sawed his way through a huge porterhouse, thick as a two-by-four, while Wolgast picked at a plate of ribs, and when they’d paid the check—in cash, pulled off a wad of fresh bills Wolgast kept in his pocket—they took a pair of stools at the bar.
    “Think he’ll sign?” Doyle asked.
    Wolgast rattled the ice in his Scotch. “They always do.”
    “I suppose it’s not much of a choice.” Doyle frowned into his glass. “The needle, or whatever’s behind curtain number two. But even so.”
    Wolgast knew what Doyle was thinking: whatever was behind the curtain, it was nothing good. Why else would they need death row inmates, men with nothing to lose?
    “Even so,” he agreed.
    A basketball game was playing on the television above the bar, the Rockets and Golden State, and for a while they watched in silence. It was early in the game, and both teams seemed sluggish, moving the ball around without doing much of anything with it.
    “You hear anything from Lila?” Doyle said.
    “Actually, yeah.” Wolgast paused. “She’s getting married.”
    Doyle’s eyes widened. “That guy? The doctor?”
    Wolgast nodded.
    “That was fast. Why didn’t you say something? Jesus, what’d she do, invite you to the wedding?”
    “Not exactly. She sent me an email, thought I should know about it.”
    “What did you say?”
    Wolgast shrugged. “I didn’t.”
    “You didn’t say anything?”
    There was more to it, but Wolgast didn’t want to go into it. Dear Brad , Lila had written, I thought you should know that David and I are expecting a child. We’re getting married next week. I hope you can be happy for us . He’d sat at the computer staring at the message on the screen for a good ten minutes.
    “There was nothing to say. We’re divorced, she can do what she wants.” He drained his Scotch and peeled off more bills to pay. “You coming?”
    Doyle passed his eyes over the room. When they’d first sat at the bar, the place was nearly empty, but more people had come in, including a group of young women who had pushed together three tall tables and were drinking pitchers of margaritas and talking loudly. There was a college nearby, Sam Houston State, and Wolgast supposed they were students, or else they worked together somewhere. The world could be going straight to hell in a handbasket, but happy hour was happy hour, and pretty girls would still fill the bars in Huntsville, Texas. They were wearing clingy shirts and