by D. K. Greene
“Yes, sir,” Special Agent Jones says, tipping the brim of her cap before opening the rear door and easing herself into the wide-open space of the bench seat. She looks up at Peter, still frozen on the sidewalk. “You coming?”
The second Peter nods, she slams her door. Dougy reaches over the center console to open the front passenger door for him. He slides into the seat as the inspector readjusts himself behind the wheel.
“Thanks for waiting,” Peter says sarcastically.
Inspector Douglas hits the gas, using the car’s momentum to slam the passenger door shut. They’re peeling out of the lot as Peter scrambles for his seatbelt.
Thirty-Nine
“How did you get a body down here without anyone seeing you?” Inspector Douglas follows the narrow trail through the cave with his eyes.
Lifting a shoulder, Oliver’s cheek twitches in an indifferent smirk. “It was easy. Fisher made the hike on his own.”
Peter turns to his father in disbelief. “He was alive?”
“Sure. And... mostly alert.” Ollie plants his hands deep in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Aware enough to follow directions, anyway. Technically, I didn’t even kill him.”
Special Agent Jones splays her hands over her face. She digs her fingers in the worry lines creeping across her forehead. “What the hell does that mean, Mister Roberts?”
Gazing over the churning water, Oliver looks calm. The sea lions’ barks reverberate off the cave walls. He sways as if listening to a hit song on the radio. “He followed me here. I told him the answer to his problems was hidden with the sea lions. I promised if he searched the cave, the solution would come to him.” His jaw wiggles as he considers the memory. His eyes snap to the inspector. “There were a lot of sea lions that year.”
Mac looks like her head is about to explode. “Let me get this straight. You meet this guy, Fisher. He tells you his life is crap. You tell him to make friends with a pack of sea lions. He squeezes through the bars, hops over all those boulders, and then... disappears?”
Narrowing his eyes on her, Oliver’s expression hardens. “Don’t be ridiculous. He didn’t just disappear.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets just long enough to make air quotes around disappear.
His dismissal of her synopsis gets Mac so worked up, her head looks like it’s swelling from the pressure of her building frustration.
Peter takes a step back.
Before his partner takes out his star convict, Dougy cuts in. “What happened, then?”
Jones’s hands ball into fists at her chest. She grits her teeth as she drops them to her sides. “From the beginning. Without riddles and theatrics, please.”
Ollie turns away from the agent. He rocks back and forth on his heels again. “We were at lunch at a diner in town. I slipped something in his drink to help him relax. Once he felt agreeable, I drove him out here. He bought us a pair of tickets, and we made the hike down.” Oliver looks at the heavy bars separating the sightseer’s cave from the enormous cavern where the sea lions lounge.
“They were installing those safety bars. They had pulled out the old ones. Only half of those were in. They roped the gap off, but we ducked it to get a better look at the drop. When we got to the edge, I told him to climb over the rock wall and make his way to the animals.”
Dougy and Mac stand in silence. Peter tastes the salt in the air as his mouth gapes open. He can’t find enough strength to overcome his shock and force it shut. Oliver looks at them with a smug grin.
“To be honest, I thought the fall down the rock face would be the thing to kill him. The stuff I gave him made him too hazy to realize he got hurt, I guess. He just kept going. Made it to the edge of the pack before one of the big ones noticed him and all hell broke loose. Poor bastard didn’t last another minute.
“When it was over, he didn’t look human anymore. I always like to keep the remains safe so I can check on them from time to time, but I wasn’t about to go down there to find whatever bits of Fisher were left.” Ollie looks at the black water churning in the cavern's base. “Sea lions aren’t something to trifle with.”
Mac’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. She makes a light gasping sound, but whatever words she’s trying to say won’t come out. Inspector Douglas puts his hand on her shoulder, and Peter can’t decide if he’s trying to keep her upright, or attempting to stop her from attacking Oliver.
Peter’s mind tumbles over the information. He forces a question out. “What did you give him to make him do all that?”
“Rohypnol,” Ollie says casually, as if he’d passed the guy a breath mint.
“Roofies?” Inspector Douglas’s voice cracks. “You didn’t normally drug people. Why him?”
“I had them on me. Simple as that. I’d been down here with Hen the day before and knew the grating was down.” Ollie looks at his son. “Remember that trip? The weather was glorious. You and your mother built that sandcastle...”
“You just happened to have roofies?” Something between a hiccup and an enraged laugh escapes Peter’s chest. “What were you doing with them? Did you have a frat party to attend later that afternoon?”
Oliver eyeballs his son. The lines on his face deepen with concern. “You hadn’t been sleeping well. Nightmares had you crying all night. The night terrors weren’t doing you any good. Your mother and I weren’t getting any sleep, either.”
Peter feels the blood drain from his face. “You gave me roofies?”
His father nods.
Special Agent Jones regains enough composure to speak. “How old was he?”
“I don’t know. Five? Maybe six.”
The only thing coming out of Peter’s open mouth is the sound of rushing air. He’s hyperventilating. The cave tilts to one side and he has to bend and grab his knees to keep from falling over. Dougy pulls Oliver a few steps away and they talk in low voices. Mac grabs Peter’s shoulder and together they process what they just heard. The barking sea lions pick up a fevered pitch as if even they know how messed up the situation is.
A foghorn bellows outside the cave. Its sound ricochets off the damp walls. The ocean roars through the opening.
The story of his childhood is overwhelming. Peter croaks, “Get me out of here.”
Special Agent Jones helps him walk away. She follows him up the stairs, her hand touching his back whenever his knees go weak. He lets the noise of the cave surround him, hoping it will drown out any more discussion about his parents managing him with drugs. The grief squeezing his heart forces him to look over his shoulder.
Mac stops with him, giving him space to peer at the foot of the staircase they’re ascending. He sees his dad talking to the inspector. Peter’s thankful he can’t hear what they’re saying.
“I feel bad when I give my kids antihistamines to make it through allergy season,” Mac mutters. “I can’t imagine drugging them like that.”
Peter’s focus shifts. “You have kids?”
She nods, then gestures toward the elevator at the top of the staircase. Peter plods toward it. He’s never thought of Mac as anything beyond a suit and fedora. He tries imagining her standing in a kitchen, flipping pancakes for her family, but can’t picture her without lapels and designer boots.
He supposes everyone’s entitled to have a life. Peter only wishes Oliver had kept the details of his a secret.
Forty
Jeanne studies Peter. He has had little to say, and she isn’t asking questions. He fidgets under her stare until he can’t handle the pressure anymore. “Jeanne, is something wrong?”
Her lips purse. She starts to shake her head, but stops mid-sway. “A man from the United States Marshals came to see me yesterday.”
The anxiety is so real, he can almost see the tsunami of trepidation building before it crashes into him. He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him they’ve found out about Jeanne, but he’d hoped seeing her this long with no interference meant Dougy wasn’t keeping too close a watch on him. His mout
h twists as he tries to find the right words to say.
Did they tell her who he is? Does she know about his dad? He’s not sure how to explain the situation without giving away more than he has to. He embraces the silence, although he can’t unwind his screwed-up face.
“Peter, is there a reason the U.S. Marshals would contact me regarding your therapy sessions?” Jeanne’s tone is cold and detached.
He shakes his head. Best to play dumb in situations like these. She sinks in her chair. Her slender hands meeting, fingers extending into steeple formation. She presses the tips of her fingers against her lips as she considers him. She looks angelic. Or perhaps like an innocent child in prayer. Peter wonders which deity a therapist prays to?
“He showed me your picture and asked if I knew your name,” she ventures.
Doing his best to look neutral, he says, “My name is Peter Samuel Wilson.”
“That’s what I told him.” Her face droops. Lines seep from the corners of her eyes and trace the edges of her mouth. She looks tired. “He said he’s investigating a crime you may have committed under an alias. He looked through your file to see if I had any other names listed for you.”
He doesn’t respond. The only sound in the room is the ticking of the damned clock. The old-fashioned mechanics echo in his brain. Peter looks up at the timepiece and wills the battery to die. The second hand waves in defiance as it passes the numbers painted on its face. All that time at the store, and he’s forgotten to buy a replacement.
“Peter,” Jeanne says in a soft voice, “have you ever been diagnosed with multiple personality disorder?”
The question catches him so off guard that he lets out a burst of laughter. He’s not sure how to answer. Some profiler assigned most of the personalities he’s had. “No,” he finally says. “I’m fairly certain I’ve only got the one.”
She leans forward, her expression severe. “Do you ever experience hallucinations, or find yourself surrounded by people or things that don’t really exist?”
He can feel his eyebrows press against one another as he tries to figure out where her questions are leading. “I don’t do drugs, Jeanne.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She blows a quick rush of air out her nose. “What I’m asking is if you ever see things no one else can see when you haven’t been drinking or taken any medication.”
Hands unfolding, Peter spreads them across his lap, palms up. “The only hallucination I’ve had was when I was nineteen and had my wisdom teeth pulled. They had me so doped up, I thought I had a family of hamsters living in my mouth. Found out later they were cotton balls the dentist left behind.”
The therapist’s mouth cracks the tip of a smile. She bites her lip. “I want to believe you, Peter. The man I saw made it sound like you have a history of instability.”
“He said that?” His eyebrows shoot so far up his forehead, he has to rub them with his hand to settle them back into place again.
“Not in so many words. He asked if you’ve ever mentioned having a previous life. He inquired about places you may think you’ve lived, or other names you think you’ve had.” She finally looks like she’s starting to relax. Her hands move to her lap and she tilts her head. “Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t think so. Did the marshal bring anyone with him?” Peter hopes she describes Inspector Douglas, so he has a reason to raise hell later.
She nods. “A woman waited outside. Cheryl said she just stood on the sidewalk in the rain the whole time he was in here.”
“What did she look like?” Peter does his best to keep his thumb from jumping around. In his concentration over his hand, his toe taps nervously.
“I’m not sure. You’d have to ask Cheryl.”
“I don’t know any marshals. But I’ll bet the woman was Special Agent Jones.” Peter frowns. He likes Mac. He doesn’t want to see her as an enemy.
Jeanne lets out a sigh and the sound washes over him with the serenity of a forest stream. He wants to forget what they’re talking about. He imagines her beside him, sighing with pleasure as he traces her neck with his lips.
“You’ve dealt with these people before?” she asks, alarm ringing in her voice.
He snaps out of his fantasy. “Yes. I’ve known about them for a while, now.”
Leaning forward, she presses her elbows into her knees so hard it makes an indent in her slacks. “Peter, are you in trouble?”
He can’t help chuckling. It seems whoever the U.S. Marshal was; he didn’t tell her anything. And if Mac never came in the building, he doesn’t have to worry about her, either. Maybe they’re just covering their asses. At this point, why they’d bother Jeanne doesn’t matter.
“Jeanne, if I wasn’t in trouble, I probably wouldn’t need therapy.”
Forty-One
The gray walls of the visitation room have stopped making Peter uncomfortable. Knowing he’s visited the prison often enough to feel at home within them does, though. He’s found resting in the metal chair sideways, leaning against it with his elbow propped on the back is the most comfortable way to sit. He sprawls out like a preppy white boy doing a terrible impersonation of a thug. It feels ridiculous, but at least his back doesn’t hurt.
As accustomed as he is to seeing his dad here, he never forgets they’re being monitored. Today, Inspector Douglas is visiting another inmate three tables over. In what Dougy tried to pass off as a coincidence, they arrived at the prison at exactly the same time. As if he hadn’t followed Peter the whole way here.
There’s no way the nosey bastard would pass up a chance to listen in on their conversation.
“He sent his partner and some other jackass to crash my therapist’s office.” He doesn’t have to mention the inspector’s name. His dad knows who he means and looks down the short row of chairs at him to acknowledge the breach.
“Privacy is an illusion. It took me a long time to realize that,” Oliver says. He turns to look deep in his son’s eyes. “But why are you going to therapy? I know I’ve joked that you should talk to someone about your lack of killer instinct, but it seems highly unnecessary.”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, Dad, but I’m quite the unbalanced individual.” Peter answers, crossing his arms.
“It’s unfortunate you feel that way. So, what did he find out?”
Peter gestures toward Dougy with his thumb. “I’m hoping he found out I still don’t advertise that I’m your son. Or even mention I know anyone like you.”
“Well, keeping it to yourself is your choice.” Oliver sniffs and rolls his head to the side as if he’s telling Peter he still has to go to gym class even if he doesn’t want to change clothes in front of other guys in the locker room.
Peter jumps as his fist slams against the steel table on its own. He doesn’t even remember lifting it, but he feels the vibration of the impact all the way up his shoulder. It feels as though his anger is pushing steady and hard at the backs of his eyes, making them bulge out at his father.
An officer steps away from the wall. “Sir, you can’t do that in here.”
“Can’t do what? Be pissed off that I’m busting my ass to help these crapwads, and the only reward I get is to have my privacy violated?” His cheeks puff and he feels the veins in his neck pulse.
“Calm down, Sir.” A second officer creeps closer with a hand on his hip. He grips his belt where a can of pepper spray sits.
“You’re not seriously going to spray me down.” Peter stands so quickly that his chair skids a few inches before falling over.
“I have known them to use reasonable force for less, Henry.” Oliver’s voice is steady and the gravity of the warning is clear.
Overcome with anger, Peter shoves his index finger in the nearest officer’s face. “You can’t bully me.” He looks at his dad. Ollie’s steady calm makes his blood boil. The old man may be used to letting other people lead him around by the nose, but Peter’s earned his freedom. He’s kept his head down for years, just the way they
asked him to. “I’m a great guy. A decent human being. I don’t deserve to be treated like some run-of-the-mill criminal. Not by this guy, and not by the asshole inspector pretending he isn’t listening to every goddamn word I say.”
The approaching officer stops mid-stride. He holds one hand out toward Peter like a traffic cop. His other hand moves away from the pepper spray and toward his cuffs. Ollie looks up at his son and raises a single eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”
Peter loses it. All the years bouncing from foster home to foster home. Five therapists closing their files and locking their doors on him when law enforcement inquiries got too intense. Having to hide every facet of his past from everyone he meets. Twenty years, he’s hidden who he is. Now, he wants to take it all back.
“Yes, Dad. I’m sure. I have done nothing wrong, but you’re all treating me like some kind of blabbermouth who can’t keep a secret.” He turns toward Dougy. The inspector faces away from the outburst, but his head tilts their direction, so Peter knows he’s listening. “Well, screw you. You stuck up, ignorant, limp-dick son of a bitch!”
He’s so amped up, he doesn’t feel the officer grab him at first. Suddenly, his hands are pulled behind his back. The guard yanks him toward the door. Each time he pulls on Peter, his shoulders feel ready to burst from their sockets. He yells at the guy to stop, promising to leave on his own. The guard doesn’t listen.
No one has listened for so long. He screams. He lets loose every wail he’s ever held in, releasing each frustration he’s stowed away. Peter curses at Dougy, his dad, and sends a verbal assault into the air over every other person that’s ever covered up who he is, or prevented him from becoming who he wants to be.
Legs slipping out from under him, Peter falls against the officer. They writhe on the floor and Peter grabs at him, trying to push him off. His hand reaches for something solid... the pepper spray canister. He tugs at it. If he sprays it, the guard will back off.