34
What’re you talking about?” I ask anxiously.
“Your name, Wes. It was on the—”
“When’d he break out?”
“That’s the point. We think he had—”
“A-Are you looking for him? Is he gone, or— Are you sure he’s gone?” A needle of bile stabs my stomach, making me want to bend over in pain. It took me seven months of therapy before I could hear Nico’s name and not feel puddles of sweat fill my palms and soak my feet. It was another year and a half before I could sleep through the night without him jarring me awake as he lurked in the periphery of my dreams. Nico Hadrian didn’t take my life. But he took the life I was living. And now… with this… with him out… he could easily take the rest. “Doesn’t he have guards?” I ask. “How could they… how could this happen?”
O’Shea lets the questions bounce off his chest, never losing sight of his own investigation. “Your name, Wes. It was on the hospital sign-in sheet,” he insists. “According to their records, you were there.”
“Where? Washington? You saw me here on the beach this morning!”
“I saw you leave the Four Seasons at almost nine-thirty. According to the receptionist in your office, you didn’t return to work until after three. That’s a long time to be gone.”
“I was with my fr — my lawyer all morning. He’ll tell you. Call him right now: Andrew Rogozinski.”
Micah laughs softly. “And I assume the fact he’s also your high school pal and current roommate means he’d never lie to protect you? You were gone for almost six hours, Wes. That’s more than enough time to—”
“To what? To jump on my private jet, fly two and a half hours to Washington, go free Nico — who, oh yeah, once tried to kill me—and then fly back to work, hoping no one noticed I was gone? Yeah, that sounds like a genius plan. Go see the one guy I still have nightmares about, be dumb enough to use my real name on the sign-in sheet, and let him loose so he can hunt me down.”
“Who says he’s hunting you?” O’Shea challenges.
“What’re you talking about?”
“Enough with the idiot act, Wes. You know Nico’s just a bullet. Even back then, someone else pulled the trigger.”
“Someone else? What does that—?”
“You speak to Boyle today?” O’Shea interrupts.
I try to bite my top lip, momentarily forgetting the nerve damage that makes it impossible.
“We’re not here to hurt you, Wes. Just be honest with us: Are you chasing him or helping him?” Micah adds. He grabs a nearby mop, tossing its handle from one hand to the other, then back again, like the tick-tock of a metronome.
“You know I didn’t free Nico,” I tell them.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“And I haven’t spoken to Boyle,” I shoot back.
“You’re sure about that?” O’Shea asks.
“I just told you—”
“Did you speak to him or not? I’m asking you as an officer in an ongoing investigation.”
Micah’s mop ticks back and forth. They’re acting like they know the answer, but if they did, I’d be in handcuffs right now instead of trapped in a supply closet. I look them dead in the eyes. “No.”
O’Shea shakes his head. “At noon today, an unidentified male came into St. Elizabeths requesting a private visit with Nico by identifying himself as a member of the Secret Service, complete with a badge and picture ID, both of which you have access to. Now, I’m willing to accept that only a moron would use his own name, and I’m also willing to keep your name from the press — for no other reason than out of respect for your boss — but in a situation you claim to know nothing about, it’s sorta fascinating that yours is the only name that keeps popping up outta the daisy patch.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, when you’re in Malaysia, Boyle’s there… when your name’s on a sign-in sheet in Washington, Nico escapes. This isn’t exactly Morse code. You tracking the trend?”
“I didn’t go to Washington!”
“And you didn’t see a dead man in Malaysia. And you didn’t get sent backstage by the President, who wanted you to pick up the message from Boyle, right? Or was that just something we invented to make ourselves feel better — y’know, kinda like your old door-locking and light-switch-on-and-off obsessions? Or better yet, the repetitive praying that—”
“Just because I saw a counselor—”
“Counselor? It was a shrink.”
“He was a critical incident specialist…”
“I looked it up, Wes. He was a clinical psychologist who had you medicated for the better part of a year. Alprazolam for the anxiety disorders, coupled with some heavy-duty olanzapine for all the compulsions. That’s an antipsychotic. Plus his notes, which said that in a strange way, he thought you actually relished your scars — that you saw the pain as atonement for putting Boyle in that limo. Doesn’t say much about the shape you were in.”
“The guy blew my friggin’ face off!”
“Which is why you’ve got the best motive and the worst alibis — especially in Malaysia. Do me a favor — for the next few days, unless you’re traveling with the President, stay put for a bit. At least until we figure out what’s going on.”
“What, so now I’m under house arrest? You can’t do that.”
“Wes, I’ve got a homicidal paranoid schizophrenic on the loose, who, two hours from now, will feel a brand-new tingling on the right side of his brain as the drugs that help manage his psychosis slowly wear off. He already shot two orderlies and a security guard — all three in their hearts and, like Boyle, with stigmata through their hands — and that’s when he was on medication. So not only can I do whatever the hell I want, I’m telling you right now, if you try to take another little jaunt out of town, and I find out you have any involvement with this case — trying to contact Boyle, or Nico, or even the guy who was selling popcorn in the stands at the speedway that day — I will slap you with obstruction of justice charges and rip you apart faster than that nutbag ever did.”
“That is, unless you want to tell us what message Boyle was bringing the President in Malaysia,” Micah offers, the mop-handle metronome smacking into his left palm. “C’mon, Wes — they were clearly trying to meet that night — and trying to maintain all the dirt they thought they’d covered up. You’re with him every day now. All we want to know is when they’re meeting again.”
Like before — like any FBI agents trying to make a name for themselves — all they really want is Manning, who no doubt had a major hand in helping Boyle hide and lie to the entire country. I rat on him, and they’ll happily let me out of the mousetrap. The problem is, I don’t even know what I’m ratting about. And even when I try scraping deeper… Back at the beach, they mentioned Boyle’s ability to work people’s weaknesses. Fine, so what were Manning’s weaknesses? Something from their past? Or maybe that’s where The Roman and The Three came in. Whatever the reason, I’m not finding it out unless I buy some time.
“Let me just… let me think about it for a bit, okay?” I ask.
O’Shea nods, knowing he’s made his point.
I turn to leave the closet but stop short at the door. “What about Nico? Any idea where he’s heading?” I add, feeling my fingers start to shake. I shove them into my pants pockets before anyone notices.
O’Shea studies me carefully. This is the easiest moment for him to be a prick. He readjusts his U.S. Open baseball cap. “D.C. Police found his clothes in a Laundromat about a mile away from St. Elizabeths. According to his doctors, Nico hasn’t talked about Manning in years, but the Service is still adding double duty just to be safe.”