The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

As if he senses my thought process, he throws the syringes across the room, out of reach and then, to my surprise, grabs a gun from the back of his pants and shoves it at Wade’s head. “You understand this a little better, don’t you? Now maybe you won’t consider coming at me. You were, weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t,” I lie, and while I’m aware that he could shoot us all, I don’t believe he will. He doesn’t like to get dirty, but I don’t know where the cyanide pill went, either, and his hand is shaking now. He’s losing it. He’s on edge. He doesn’t have the control he values. He’s going to act out if I don’t act first.

“I did all of this for you and the greater good,” he says. “You need to commit to the greater good. The world depends on it. I killed your father. I killed Roberts. They were distracting you. They were keeping us apart.”

“You didn’t kill my father,” I say. “Richard Williams killed my father.”

“I paid him to kill your father. Your father didn’t deserve the Jazz name and what it means to this world. The Jazz name is everything. The Jazz name is royalty. It must be protected. Your father had to be removed from the lineage. And Roberts got in the way. You had to be close to me. You have to be trained. They were all in the way. I paid him to get rid of all of them: your father, Roberts, and Newman.”

I suck in a breath, trying to calm the shock rolling through me right now. He had my father killed? He thinks we’re really blood relatives to my grandfather and if I tell him differently, he might kill us all right now. I try to focus, I try to just focus and keep calm, keep him talking. My father is too close to me, an emotional topic for me when I can’t afford emotion. I go elsewhere. “Why kill Newman? Why involve him? What was that all about?”

“I set him up, I gave him to you. I wanted you to judge him, to feel pleasure when he was dead. To know that was the right thing, the right judgment.”

And I had. I’d felt pleasure at his death, and that terrifies me. “Richard Williams killed himself.”

“I killed him because he wanted to kill you, too.” He kneels in front of me. “I will always protect you. I love you. I love your grandfather. You just need to prove you understand your destiny. You have a duty. You have a duty!” He shouts the last declaration right in my face.

Somehow, I don’t react. My voice is low, controlled. “Inject Wade and Jackson and we’ll leave. We’ll get out of here and you can teach me. I want to do what I need to do.”

“You don’t understand. You’re just saying that. You don’t—”

“I do,” I say quickly. I really have no idea what he’s talking about, but I wing it. “I saw my grandfather today. It all started to come together.”

“Did it now?”

“It did.”

“Tell me.”

I use what I have pieced together. “Poetry is the bible of life. It’s the gospel.” His hand is still shaking. He doesn’t like the gun. He had to hire someone else to shoot my father. I could tackle him. I have to tackle him.

“That’s right,” he says, stepping in front of me. “That’s right. Those who sin against the great words must be eliminated before they damage the balance of the universe. Your grandfather, he was Jazz, for a reason. You are Jazz for a reason. Jazz and poetry are born in the soul of the universe. He kept that balance. I helped him keep the balance, the way you are destined to keep that balance.”

I blink, momentarily confused and stunned. Is he saying my grandfather was a killer? God, no. Please tell me that isn’t what he’s saying.

Chapter 108

My grandfather can’t be a killer. No. I don’t believe that for a minute. “My grandfather?” I ask, pressing Nolan for real answers.

“Yes. Your grandfather, of course. He taught me the importance of the great works, of how they have affected the world. He kept a balance, but when he got put in that home, he lost his mind. He lost the ability to keep peace, and the world went crazy. I felt it coming. I stepped in even before he went to that horrid place that’s so beneath him. I had to. I had to manage the great works and kill the sinners for him.”

“My grandfather killed the sinners?” I ask, holding my breath as I await his reply.

“No.” He says the word as if appalled. “No. He had me. He had me. I did these things for him. We read the book together. I knew what he wanted.”