She said, "Let's go."

She sounded pissed off in just the right way, and it made him smile.

Given everything that was happening, Crenwood seemed a strange place to be, and it had Jason's nerves jangling. Hell, less than a mile away was the Disciples house he'd bluffed his way into.

On the other hand, the last place anybody would look for them was the heart of enemy territory.

"A little further," Ronald said, and motioned with his fingers. The big man had answered Washington's door when they knocked, nodded at Jason, and listened patiently while they explained they wanted to park the Caddy out of sight. Washington's garage was a squat structure separated from the main house by an alley, and the whale of a Caddy was a tight fit in the tiny garage. "Further. Stop."

Jason hopped out, turned sideways and held his breath to squeeze out of the garage. "Washington's car will be okay on the street?"

"That beater?" Ronald snorted, then tugged the garage door closed. He led them back to the house. "Dr. Matthews is in his office. It's a busy day, but I know he wants to see you."

"What's up today?" Jason stepped inside.

"The benefit. Mr. Kent giving a lot of bank tonight."

The layout still felt familiar, not from last week but from last lifetime, though now the kitchen had teenagers washing dishes and peeling potatoes, and what Jason remembered as the living room had been turned into a study area, with GED prep books spread on the table. On the couch an older Latino kid was repeating phrases to a younger one, his fingers tracing the words in an English primer.

It wasn't until Washington opened the door of his office that Jason remembered the other night, the words they'd exchanged. But the look on his friend's face made it damn clear that he was the only one who'd forgotten.

"Jason." Incongruously, Washington was dressed in a tuxedo, the tie unclipped and dangling, the cummerbund tight around a sagging belly. His expression was stern as Jason introduced Cruz.

In contrast, she smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Matthews. You do a lot of good out of here."

"Never enough."

"At least you're fighting."

Washington nodded. "We're trying." He gestured to Ronald. "Why don't you show Officer Cruz around?"

She caught the hint. "I'd love that." She gave Jason's hand a squeeze, a quick move that took him by surprise and left him smiling. The smile faded when Washington gestured him into the office and closed the door, like a principal calling out a teenager.

"Listen, about the other night." Jason sat on the couch. "I didn't mean the things-"

"Son, I'm going to ask you a question, and you better not lie to me."

The tone took Jason aback. "Okay."

"You lie to me and we're through, you hear?"

"Yeah, okay."

Washington leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and eyes appraising. "Did you kill him?"

Kill him? Kill who? Jason stared. "What?"

"Did you?"

"No! Who?" He held his hands up and open. "I haven't killed anybody."

Washington narrowed his eyes, cocked his head.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He returned the stare unblinking. "I swear to you, I don't."

A long moment of silence. Then Washington nodded and leaned back. He sighed like he was blowing out the last of his breath. "All right."

"What's this about?"

"The head of the Gangster Disciples, man named Dion Wallace, was killed last night."

"What?" He flashed back to the gang crib, C-Note Wallace telling him there was a war going on. Yesterday afternoon. "What happened?"

Washington shrugged. "I don't know. But I know you and Ronald talked on the porch for a long time last night, and I saw murder in your eyes."

"I went to see him, but I didn't kill him." Jason ran through it, starting with his meeting with C-Note and continuing through everything that had happened since. Washington listened, fingers steepled imperturbably in front of him, betraying no emotion. Rage, frustration, even philosophy wouldn't have surprised Jason. But the apparent apathy made him talk faster, emphasize the points more. Finally, he asked, "Are you following me?"

"Perfectly."

"These guys are arming gangbangers. The same kids you're trying to help, they're setting against each other."

"Sounds like it."

"So how come you're so calm?" His voice rising a little at the end.

Washington shrugged. "You watch the news. Our last governor is being tried for corruption: Money laundering, illegal campaign contributions, hired truck scandals with possible Mafia ties. The governor. You think a couple of corrupt cops are going to stun me? This is Chicago."

"And so it's business as usual? You don't want to fight back?"

"Please." Washington sighed. "There are ways to fight that don't involve a handgun."

"Like what?"

"Like the way I'm doing it, or the way Mr. Kent is doing it. Man is using his money to make things better. He's giving something to make the world a better place, instead of taking something. You want to admire someone, admire him. Because as long as you're holding a pistol, you're a taker, not a giver."

"Yeah, well, I don't have half a million dollars laying around."

"It's not the money. It's the commitment to making things better." Washington reached for the ashtray on his desk, took a half-smoked cigar from within and lit it with a wooden match. "Commitment is something you might want to think about, son."

Jason felt a flush creeping up his neck, heat in his cheeks. "I am committed."

"To what?"

"To Billy! You wouldn't believe the things I've been doing, trying to find-"

"Uh-huh. And while you've been running around playin' Superman, what do you think your nephew's been going through?"

Jason's mouth fell open. He started to reply, then stopped himself. Finally, he said, "You said that it would be okay if he stayed here."

"It's fine with me. But it's not me you're hurting."

"What – look, it's not like I'm hanging out at the strip club. I'm out there risking my life to protect him."

Washington nodded. "Being a soldier."

"Damn right."

"That's important to you, isn't it?"

"What am I if I'm not that?" The words came unbidden, and surprised him.

"How about an uncle?" Washington's voice could've cut granite. "It ever occur Billy needs that more than a soldier?"

Jason sighed. "I know. I know. And I'll make it up to him. But first I've got to protect him."

Washington nodded, puffed his cigar. Blew a long stream of gray smoke. "Thing is, it's not just the bad guys he needs protecting from. Put yourself in his shoes. You're eight years old and just had your father taken from you. Your father. Don't you see? His sky is falling."

The vein in Jason's forehead thumped, and his mouth tasted small and sour. He looked away. He didn't often think about the day Dad left, mostly because for practical purposes the guy had been gone years before he bothered to move. It was something that Jason had always sworn to do differently, if he ever had kids.

"You understand where I'm going?" Washington's voice gentler. "What I mean by commitment?"

Jason nodded. "So what do I do?"

"Talk to him."

"But…" He fought a twisting in his gut. "What do I say?"

"How should I know, son?"

He found Billy in the dark corner of a sunlit room, laying on the floor with his legs flung out, using a red crayon to draw on a brown paper bag. His tongue stuck a flicker past his lips, a wet snail. When he heard Jason's footsteps, the crayon stopped moving and his body stiffened.

"Hey, buddy."

Billy didn't look up. He pinched the crayon harder, the tip of his finger bloodless, and started stroking fast, hard lines.

Jason took a tentative step forward. "What are you drawing?"