A guy in an expensive-looking suit comes to greet me. The suit is so sharp it’s hard to believe he’d dare sit down for fear of it wrinkling, but it isn’t as sharp as his smile.
‘Theo,’ he says, stepping forward and pumping my hand so vigorously it’s suspicious. ‘Glad to finally meet you.’
‘Glad?’
‘Well, of course the circumstances are awkward. Not dire, but with your past they shouldn’t be anything we can’t handle.’
‘I’ve already pled guilty’
‘Yes, of course you have, and that was perhaps a mistake,’ he says. ‘But the sentencing is what’s important. Your history, the reason you were drunk, will go a long way towards having them reduced.’
He introduces himself as Donovan Green. He stands over my shoulder as I sign a series of forms before I can go. The officers hand me over my wallet and my watch and my phone. The phone is flat.
Green walks me outside towards a black BMW in the far corner of the parking lot between a high concrete wall and a dark blue SUV with tinted windows and mud splashed up the sides. The day is cool and the breeze makes the exposed grazes on my body sting. I pick up the pace a little to get to his car faster.
‘Who hired you?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
“I have my suspicions,’ I answer, but truthfully I don’t have any idea.
‘You still have friends in the department,’ he says, and the line is starting to sound all too familiar.
“I want to go to the hospital.’
He pauses. ‘The hospital? Injuries hurting, huh?’
“I want to see the woman I hurt.’
“I don’t understand. You want to see her?’
‘I want to see how she’s doing. I’m the reason she’s in there.’
‘I’m well aware of why she’s in there,’ he says, a little too harshly. ‘Look, Theo, it’s just not a good idea.’
“I need to see her.’
He shrugs, like he no longer cares. ‘Then let’s go.’
He leads me to his car. It turns out it’s the dark SUV and not the BMW He puts his briefcase down while he digs into his pocket for his keys. He checks one, then the other, and I know how the routine goes when you can never find them.
‘Must be in the briefcase,’ he says, and he pops it open. ‘Yep, here we go.’
He unarms the car and the doors pop open.
‘Hop on in.’
I climb inside. The interior is comfortable and warm. Green plays around with his briefcase before opening the door. When he does, he leans in and points something at me.
‘Whoa, wait a …’
But it’s all I can say before he pulls the trigger. My body jerks back, my head cracks into the window beside me, and the world goes black.
chapter thirty-two
The blackout lasts only a moment. I come to and the pain in my head from the impact helps to numb the pain flowing through my body, but only for a few more seconds. The two catch up and the electricity raging along my spine from the taser gun takes over. Green says something but I can’t hear him. Two barbs are buried into my chest, delivering hundreds or even thousands of volts. He turns the gun off but there’s no relief. He rips the barbs out. The pain drops but I still can’t move. Blood drips from the barbs onto my shirt. He wraps the cords around the unit and drops it into his briefcase. Then he moves into the seat behind me, pops my seat so I’m leaning back, and drags me into the back of the SUV
He takes some plastic zip-lock ties from his briefcase, rolls me onto my front, and a moment later I can hear the little notches clicking into place. I can’t fight him. He moves back to the front.
The engine starts, and we roll forward. I try to sit up but can’t.
The tinted windows mean nobody can see in. I can’t speak and don’t know what I’d ask if I could.
I can hear other cars. I can hear people talking on the street.
The hustle and bustle of city life. But my lawyer doesn’t say a word. He’s on a mission now. I can smell upholstery and sweat, and can taste blood.
We drive for a few minutes before I start to speak. It happens around the same time the pain starts to fade and the cramp in my muscles starts to relax. I try to struggle against the plastic ties but it’s no good. They dig into my wrists and ankles.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You tried to kill my daughter.’
‘What?’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ he says, and suddenly I realise that the transition from Theodore Tate’s life into Quentin James’s is complete.
‘Where are you taking …’
‘I said shut up!’ he shouts, and he pulls over and reaches towards me.
Christ, there’s a needle in his hand.
‘You struggle and it’s only going to be worse.’
I struggle, and the needle breaks off in my arm before he can push any of the fluid into me.
‘Fucker,’ he yells, then he starts clubbing me in the head with something, I don’t know what, and everything goes dim as the darkness rushes back.
chapter thirty-three