“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty.”
“Well, I’m thirty-two.”
Ahh, Ben thought. That explains your heightened maturity. “Look, Mike didn’t really want to show me these reports. I sort of twisted his arm—”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Abshire said. “I know all about you two. You’re college buddies formerly related by marriage. And I don’t want any of that nostalgic bullshit polluting my case.”
“Your case?”
“Damn straight, my case. I’ve been setting up this sting for over a year. This is going to take us straight to the big boys. And I put it together.”
“Under the supervision of his boss,” Mike said. “Roger Stanford.”
Abshire smirked. “Well, I’m sure you know how that kind of arrangement works, Kincaid, and who ends up doing all the work. I understand you worked as an associate in a big firm. For about fifteen minutes.” Abshire shouted out the door. “Hey, Roger, get in here!”
An older man wearing a white shirt and half glasses on the end of his nose walked into the cubicle. “Yes?”
“Check this out,” Abshire said. “I caught Morelli here opening our files to counsel for the defendant.”
Stanford pursed his lips. “The defense is entitled to review exculpatory evidence.”
“Then, Christ, let him file a motion,” Abshire said. “That’s why we have procedures.”
Stanford gave his protégé a long look. Ben got the impression he had been down this road with Abshire before. “I see little harm in cooperating to the extent of sharing evidence we will probably be required to produce at a later date.”
“Yeah?” Abshire said, a bit stung. “Maybe that’s why you’re still a middle-level paper pusher.”
Ben shook his head back and forth, trying to confirm that his ears were still working properly. This guy really knew how to win friends and influence people.
“FBI directors aren’t interested in cooperation,” Abshire continued. “They’re interested in results. And that’s what I plan to give them. This case is a reputation-maker.”
He took a step toward Ben, poking a finger into his chest. “So watch your step, Kincaid. If you screw up my case, I’ll take you apart like a Tinker Toy. That’s a promise.”
Ben cast his eyes toward Mike. He had hoped, in fact, expected Mike to intercede, to tell this pompous FBI twit to back off. But Mike just stood there, stone-faced.
“Well,” Ben said, stepping away from Abshire’s finger, “I think I might as well be going.”
“Agreed,” Abshire said. “And nothing personal, Kincaid, but I don’t want to catch you around here anymore. Cards-on-the-table time? If we have something to give you, we’ll do it in court.”
“Be seeing you,” Ben said. He walked out of the cubicle.
Ben felt a bitter taste rising in his mouth. He needed to disappear before he said or did something he would regret, before his frustration overwhelmed him. Everything seemed increasingly hopeless. Everyone seemed determined to sign Christina up for a lethal injection, the sooner the better, and for all the wrong reasons. Abshire was the scariest one yet. He was determined to make his mark. He had to get a conviction, whatever the cost.
Which, in this case, was Christina.
10
BEN TAPPED HIMSELF ON the chest again. “C’mon, Giselle. Listen to me. Jump.”
Giselle was sprawled across the easy chair in the living room, peacefully licking herself clean. She glanced up at him, wriggled her nose, then returned to her bath.
“Giselle, this book Jones gave me says cats can be trained, just like dogs or dolphins or other smart animals. When I tap myself on the chest, I want you to jump into my arms and act like you’re glad to see me. Got it?”
Giselle didn’t even look up.
“C’mon, cat. I don’t have all day. I have to get ready for tomorrow’s hearing. So jump already.”
Giselle shifted herself languorously to the other side of the chair. She stretched, meowed, and otherwise went about her business, totally snubbing him.
“Giselle, pay attention. I’m talking to you. I’d like to see some cooperation.”
Giselle jumped down from her chair, strode into the kitchen, perched herself beside her food bowl, and stared at Ben.
“Forget it, Giselle. It’s not going to work that way.”
Giselle shook in a manner that Ben thought looked much like shoulder shrugging, except of course that cats don’t have shoulders. She plopped down beside her bowl and waited.
“I’m not kidding, Giselle. I’m not going to let some overstuffed feline boss me around.”
Giselle absently resumed her bath.
“All right already! I give in!” Ben threw down the book and stomped into the kitchen. “I’ll get the Feline’s Fancy.”
Giselle followed close on his heels. He opened a can of the gourmet cat food and set it on the floor. Giselle dove in nose first, acting as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Come to think of it, Ben thought, she hadn’t, although she appeared to have sufficient fat reserves to carry her through several lean periods.
“But don’t get the idea that this is your permanent entree,” Ben said, trying to reassert his tenuous role as master of the house. “Once this can is gone, it’s back to the cheap stuff.”
Giselle nibbled happily and ignored him entirely.
Ben heated a Pizza Pocket in the microwave and took it into his living room. There was not much there in the way of furnishings—a TV, an old piano, and pizza delivery boxes stacked practically to the ceiling. His only indulgence was the stereo system: Mitsubishi receiver and CD player, Boston Acoustic speakers. A throwback to his days as a music major, no doubt, and his dreams of glory.
Ben thought about playing the piano, but he knew he couldn’t compete with Joni and Jami’s Guns-N-Roses records reverberating on the other side of the paper-thin walls. He channel-surfed the TV—there was nothing worth watching. He listened to his CD of Judy Garland—Live at Carnegie Hall. An amazing recording, but he couldn’t focus.
He decided to turn in early. He would have to get up around six to prepare for the hearing anyway. He performed his nightly ablutions, pulled on some old gym shorts, and crawled into bed. He tried to clear his mind, to drop off to sleep, but found it impossible. Everything was racing through his head at once, demanding his attention. Mike, and Spud, and Abshire, the FBI agent from hell. The chickens. Derek. And Christina, her face smeared with black.
He couldn’t help but worry. Christina’s life was on the line. Even if she managed to avoid the Big Needle, this incident could destroy her life. He had to be thorough, had to consider every angle. If he let anything slip, the results could be tragic, even fatal. He would not let her down. The way he had Ellen.
There was a sharp stinging in his eyes. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t relax, couldn’t let go. His head was throbbing, He closed his eyes and tried to force the demons out of his head. It was no use. He rolled over and pulled the covers close.
He felt something wet and ticklish brush against his nose.
He opened his eyes. It was Giselle.
Ben raised the covers, and she crawled inside. She did her push-paw routine for a little while, then she settled into a nice warm spot in the small of his back and fell asleep.
So did Ben.
11
WOLF ALMOST STEPPED INTO the trap.
He shone his flashlight down toward the ground. There, partially hidden by leaves and brush, was a steel rabbit trap. He would have to be more careful. Even a rabbit trap could take off a toe or paralyze an ankle.
He poked a stick between the teethed blades and disarmed the mechanism. The drag chain was tied to a loose log—so the trapped animal couldn’t get any leverage and escape. Wolf untied the chain and slipped the trap free. He noted the number engraved on the upper blade indicating its tensile strength, a matter of great importance to trappers. If the trap was too strong, it would snap off the animal’s leg, or cut so deeply that the animal could (and would) chew his own leg off. Either way, the animal would escape, maimed but free. Until the next trapper came along.