His fingertips curled around my shoulder. A subtle squeeze of reassurance, and I felt the weight of his earlier promise. He would keep Ashlyn and me safe. He had sworn it.
“One, two…,” Z prodded.
“Eight?” I whispered.
“Ah, crap.” Z stepped back, looked at Justin. “I think your wife has a concussion.”
“I think your psycho gave it to her. Can’t you control your own men?”
“Apparently, no more than you can control your own family. No matter. Radar’s a crack medic. He can handle her.”
Z made a motion with his hand toward the camera in the ceiling. An electronic eye to go with the snake’s eye, I thought, feeling my mind spiral further away. Justin led me to a stool, telling Ashlyn to please stir the sauce. Then, he left me, and I was once more all alone, watching the overhead lights bounce crazily off miles and miles of stainless steel, and I was going to be sick except what was the point? In the past twenty-four hours, I had thrown up way more than I’d taken in. I tried to explain that to my churning, twisting stomach, as I sat and watched my husband lift the heavy pot of pasta off the stove, carry it to the sink and dump it into a colander. Then Ashlyn, voice sounding stilted, said the sauce was done, except she was staring at me, not the sauce at all, and in her eyes I saw worry and anger and fear, and that made my head ache more. I didn’t want my child worried and angry and afraid. I was supposed to take care of her. Wasn’t I?
Justin and I against the world.
Justin clicked off the burner and Radar walked through the kitchen doors.
He looked me up and down, seemed to study my eyes, then nodded to himself.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Spfoof,” I said.
“Excellent. I’ll help get you there.”
“We’ll all go,” Justin started.
“You will sit,” Z instructed firmly. “Your daughter will sit. Eat. Last chance you’re gonna get. Radar, tend to business.”
The kid put his shoulder under my arm, helped me to standing. I only swayed once, then the world righted itself. Walking wasn’t so hard. No need to think, just place one foot after the other.
Except my footsteps carried me away from my family. I felt like I should say something. Try to communicate some message of hope, reassurance. Or maybe even love. It shouldn’t be too hard, should it? On this eve of our lives falling apart, shouldn’t I be able to call out across the void, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.
Forgive me.
I left my husband and daughter sitting at the stainless steel counter.
And as so often was the case these days, none of us said a word.
IF THE MOTHBALLED PRISON had an impressive commercial-grade kitchen, the infirmary was equally state-of-the-art. Radar led me straight into an exam room, complete with stainless steel sink and locked drawers filled with all sorts of interesting equipment. The bed appeared bolted to the floor. Maybe so you didn’t float away.
Radar checked my pulse, my blood pressure, then shone a pinpoint light straight into my eyeballs. I bit my lower lip to keep from screaming in pain. Next, he started to inspect my skull with his fingers, working them through my unkempt, uncombed, dirty-blond hair. I felt self-conscious until his fingers landed on a spot behind my ear. This time, I did cry out, and he hastily withdrew his hands.
“Could be concussion,” he muttered. “Could be contusion, could be straight-line fracture. Do you know what the Glasgow Coma score is?”
I didn’t answer. He mostly seemed to be talking to himself.
“I’d put you at a ten, which is better than an eight, but still… You need a CT scan. Toys here aren’t quite that fancy, but we can start with a basic X-ray.”
New room. Definitely not walking so well now. Sweating. I could feel my pulse starting to flutter. Pain, agitation, distress.
I wished… I wished Justin were here, his arm once more around my shoulders.
X-ray machine. I got to lie down on a table. Radar positioned a heavy mat over my chest, then a cover over my eyes, then a machine over my head.
“Close your eyes. Don’t move.”
He left. A buzzing, then a flash.
Radar was back.
“Digital system,” he announced, as if that should mean something to me. “But gotta wait a bit.”
“How did you…learn, all this?” I managed to wave my hand around the room.
He stared at me straight-faced. “In school, I applied myself real hard.”
“Doctor? Is that what you studied?”
“Doctors are pansies. I’m a field medic. We have real skills.”
“In the military? Army?”
Kid didn’t say anything, just stared at me.
“What’s your name?” he asked after another second.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out, so I closed it again. “He tried to kill me,” I heard myself say.
Radar rolled his eyes at me. “Pretty fucking stupid thing to do, Tase a guy twice your size. Take it from me, your survival skills could use some work.”
“Bigger they are, the harder they fall,” I murmured.
“Yep, and the faster they crush your skull.”
“Are you friends?”
The kid shrugged, shifted uncomfortably. “We know each other. That’s enough.”
“There’s something wrong with him.”
Radar shrugged again. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He would’ve killed me. Then my husband. Then my daughter.”
“Z stopped him.”
“Is he the boss?”
“In any grouping of more than one, there is a boss.”
“Can he control Mick?”
“Z?” Radar laughed. “Z can control the world. Question is, does he want to?”
“I think I’m going to vomit now.”
“Now, see, you tell that to a real doctor, they run away. I, on the other hand, already have a bag.”
The kid held up a plastic grocery bag. I rolled slightly to the side, and threw up a small stream of water. Then I dry heaved, then I fell back, holding my aching stomach. Radar wasn’t impressed. “You need to drink. Look at your skin.” He pinched the back of my hand, then shook his head. “Already dehydrated. What do you think, you’re on a pleasure cruise? First rule of thumb in an adverse situation: Tend to your own health. You need fluids. You need food.”
“I need my purse.” I whispered the words without thinking, already licking at my cracked lips.
“Can’t,” the kid said levelly. “No Vicodin as long as you have a head injury.”
“How did you…?”
“Some people limit themselves to going through life using all five senses. Then, there are guys like me. Prescription painkillers, right? Ritzy housewife from Back Bay, no way you’re hitting the hard drugs yet—that would imply a real problem. But popping Percocet, oxycodone, pills prescribed by your own doctor, that not’s so bad, right? Meaning you’re going on twenty-four hours without a hit… Bet you’re really tired right now. Just barely hanging on. Like the world is an ocean dragging you under. You know you need to pull it together, focus for the sake of your family, but of course you can’t. You’re suffering from depression, abdominal cramping, agitation, constipation and nausea. Oh yeah, and now a knock on the head. But other than that, sure, you got your shit together.”
I didn’t answer.
He spread his hands. “Might as well tell me everything. Just you and me here, and at the rate you’re going, we’re going to have a lot of quality time together. More you tell me, more I can maybe help. ’Cause you’re kind of useless right now. FYI.”
“Water,” I said.
He crossed to the sink and poured a little in a plastic cup. I used the first sip to rinse my mouth, then spit in the puke pouch.
I thought Radar looked like his TV namesake—too young to sound so old. Too fresh-faced to appear so cynical. But then I thought of Z and I thought of Mick and I wondered how innocent he could re
ally be while hanging with the likes of them.
“Ten,” I said. “I try to limit myself to ten a day.” Or fifteen.
“Oxycodone or Percocet?”
“Hydrocodone. It’s for my neck.” I said the words straight-faced. He didn’t correct me.
“Dosage?”
“Ten milligrams.”
“That’s the opiate dosage. So you’re taking at least another five hundred milligrams of acetaminophen per pill. Times ten… How long?”
“Couple months.”
“Stomach bleeding?”
“It hurts.”
“When you drink alcohol?”
“Hurts more.”
Radar looked at me. “So you take another pill.”
“If I could just…my purse.”
Radar shook his head at me. “You live in that house. You got a husband, a pretty daughter. Seriously, what the hell are you escaping from? Maybe you need to spend more time in the slums. Or, hell, military barracks. That’ll teach you a thing or two.”
He got up. Left the room. Probably had to check the X-rays, or maybe I disgusted him that much. I didn’t bother to correct him, to tell him I had once lived on the other side of the tracks, and, yes, I understood the advantages of my new and improved station in life.
Maybe I was a romantic, however. I’d never wanted the big house, the Back Bay address. I’d just wanted my husband.
Except that wasn’t entirely the truth, either. From the moment I’d taken that first pill…
Once upon a time, I’d lost my father. And then, still too soon, I’d lost my mother. And I had borne it, I’d been strong. Until That Day, realizing I was going to lose my husband, hearing him whisper the truth about his affair with another woman, realizing that this family, too, was doomed to self-destruct…
It turned out, a giant well of emptiness had always existed inside me. A void so deep and black and ugly, I wasn’t just empty, I was hollowed out by the losses in my life. Until there were days I didn’t dare go outside because I worried the wind would blow me away.
The pills became my anchor. And sometimes, knowing something isn’t right still doesn’t change anything. You are who you are. You need what you need. You do what you do.
I wondered if Justin told himself the same when he was having sex with that girl. I wondered if afterward, he felt as guilty as I did, while still knowing he was going to do it again. And again. And again.
I had thought love would make us better people. I was mistaken.
Now I curled up in a ball, trying to ease the cramps in my stomach, while closing my eyes against the ache in my head.
Door opened. I didn’t open my eyes, just waited for Radar to make his pronouncement. Would the patient live or die?
Instead, a hoarse voice whispered in my ear, “I’m gonna kill you, pretty white bitch. But first, I’m totally gonna fuck your daughter. You can hide down here as long as you want. I got time. I got patience. I got a whole prison, with three hundred and forty-two places where I can jump out and yell boo!”
I didn’t move. Just lay there, as if I were sleeping. Mick departed. Radar reentered. Informed me I had a concussion. Told me I needed to rest, drink more fluids and bone up on omega-3s, building blocks of the brain. He handed me two fish oil capsules, then said he would return me to my family, who would monitor me overnight.
I said nothing, just accepted the gel capsules, then the support of his arm, as we made our way slowly down the corridor. I could tell from the smell when we neared the kitchen.
What had Radar said? The first rule of thumb…tend to your health.
“Could I eat a little dinner?”
Radar eyed me dubiously.
“Maybe plain pasta. Something simple.”
He shrugged, as if to say it would be my problem later.
I accepted that. A lot of things, it seemed, would be my problem later. But now I had to pull it together. Find some way to get myself to stop drowning and start swimming, to think of my husband and daughter and put their safety first.
Justin had sworn to protect Ashlyn and me. But I already doubted he could take on a professionally trained psycho like Mick all alone. We needed to come together, him, me and Ashlyn. Hate a little less. Love a little more.
Once upon a time, inside one of the most luxurious town houses in Boston, our family had fallen apart. Now, inside these harsh cinder-block prison walls, we needed to find ourselves again.
Because Mick didn’t strike me as the kind of killer who made idle threats. And trapped inside this prison, it’s not like we could get away. He was the predator. We were the prey. And there was no place left for any of us to run.
Chapter 19
PARTICIPATING IN A MULTI-JURISDICTIONAL INVESTIGATION was a lot like dancing. Unfortunately, Wyatt didn’t care for dancing. Never had. Never would.
Currently, he had Kevin in the car, riding shotgun. When playing with the feds, it never hurt to have a smart guy around, and Kevin was as geeky as the North Country knew how to get.
They had instructions to rendezvous with Special Agents Adams and Hawkes at the Denbe Construction headquarters in downtown Boston. Though it was a Saturday, the FBI had already received permission to start interviews of various company officers and employees. Given that in a missing person’s case, time was of the essence, no one was arguing.
Nicole mentioned a private investigator might be present as well, some corporate security expert retained by Denbe Construction to conduct an independent assessment of the situation.
Which is where things got complicated. Not competitive, necessarily, though sometimes that happened as well. But complicated. To say everyone wanted the Denbes recovered safe and sound oversimplified the matter. Denbe Construction wanted them found in the most efficient (i.e., least costly) manner possible. The FBI wanted them found in a way that would highlight not only the bureau as a whole, but advance Nicole’s and her partner’s careers individually. And Wyatt… Well, hell, he wasn’t immune to a little glory. He was already blowing his budget on the search operations. He wouldn’t mind coming out of this looking like a good guy. A sheriff’s department had to fight for funding just like everyone else. A high-level success went a long way to keeping them operational another year.
In other words, a lot of cooks in the kitchen. Which could lead to some really great collaboration, or one massive fuckup.
Wyatt’s job was never boring.
They took 93 into Boston. Sun was long gone, the city lights blazing with full Saturday night glory. In his younger days, Wyatt would head down to Boston to catch a concert, or maybe a Red Sox game. Now, following in the footsteps of most New Hampshirites over forty, he shunned the city entirely. The drive, the traffic, the parking, the crowds…
Yep, he’d gotten old and, mostly, he liked it.
Red arrows appeared on the navigation system, trying to illustrate which of the myriad of exits he was supposed to take, but mostly confusing the issue. Kevin did the honors. Being a hockey nerd, he still drove to Boston regularly for the Bruins games.
Between the two of them they managed to find the Denbe Construction building. Underground parking lot, which was useful. They got their ticket, parked the car, then shook out their limbs. They wore their uniforms: Tan pants with dark brown stripes. Dark brown shirt topped with a light brown tie, county patches and gold badge indicating rank. Duty belts, high-polished boots, tight-brimmed hats.
The feds would blend with the other suits in the room. Wyatt and Kevin, on the other hand, knew how to make an entrance.
The building lobby was composed of mostly glass, steel and dark-gray slate. The kind of architectural design that kept Wyatt forever happy to be a hick. He noticed one coffee shop and what appeared to be a travel agency. Otherwise, there was an information desk, currently empty, then a bank of elevators beside a huge directory of the building’s occupants.
Kevin located Denbe Construction, twelfth floor. They hit the button and the elevator obediently carried them away.
Exiting the elevator, they encountered a narrow hallway and a great deal more glass: an entire wall of it, with the glass door so artfully fit into the broader panes Wyatt felt like a blind man using Braille to feel out the edges. Door was locked. Behind it sat a cherrywood receptionist’s desk, topped with bold metallic letters that spelled out Denbe Construction. Right place. If only they could enter.
Kevin finally found an intercom, hit the button.
Thirty seconds later, an older woman with short-cropped silver hair, dark gray pants and a long-sleeve white silk turtleneck appeared. She had the tight look of a woman under a great amount of stress but holding it together.
She took in their uniforms, then opened the door.
“Anita Bennett,” she said briskly. “Chief of operations, Denbe Construction. And you are?”
Wyatt did the honors, could see her bright blue eyes immediately connect the dots.
“You found Justin’s jacket and will now be assisting with the New Hampshire search,” she stated, gesturing for them to enter.
Wyatt was tempted to quibble over the word assist, but resisted. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Bennett—”
“Anita, please call me Anita. The others are in the conference room. Coffee and refreshments are on the side table. Restrooms just down the hall. I have a few final details still to tend. This whole day… We’re a bit rattled. Nothing like this has ever happened to us before.”
Wyatt and Kevin nodded their sympathies. Anita led them to an impressively large conference room, with the requisite wall of windows overlooking downtown Boston. Wyatt guessed that in an industry where contracts ran to the tens of millions, image mattered, because nothing in this room was cheap. Massive birchwood table. Dozens of plush leather chairs. Huge graphic prints. Wyatt hadn’t gotten to visit the crime scene at the Denbes’ town house yet, but just looking at Justin Denbe’s offices made him very curious about Justin Denbe’s home.
Half of the leather chairs were taken. Sitting with their backs to the Boston view were the two feds, Nicole Adams and Ed Hawkes. Next to Nicole sat a stocky-looking guy, buzz-cut black hair, red plaid shirt rolled up to the forearms, tattoo creeping up his neck. Definitely one of Denbe’s, same with the three guys beside him, also clad in worn flannel, heavy cargo pants and work boots. None of them were large, but each of them exuded the kind of inner swagger that came with years of winning bar brawls. Former military, Wyatt would bet his life on it. Which he already found interesting. Hadn’t realized Denbe employed so many of the military types, guys who would have, say, hands-on experience with Tasers. Not to mention, these guys looked like top of the food chain—they probably had interesting connections to even more interesting military specimens.