He answers back through clenched teeth. “What do you want from me? Just tell me, for Christ’s sake. You can beat me all you want, but what good is it if I don’t understand?”
I stand up and go back to the auger, taking a cleansing breath before I start drilling again. There is pain in the center of my palms. At the top of the auger I push down on a metal cap with a sizable hex nut fixing that cap to the top of the shaft. As I crank the auger, the cap remains motionless in my hand, but the nut turns, grinding its way through my glove and into my skin. In a matter of drilling two holes, that nut has chewed up my gloves pretty good. I’ll have to do something about that.
“Talk to me, dammit! Give me a chance to defend myself.”
I break through the ice and water floods up through the second hole.
“This ain’t right. Why won’t you tell me what I’ve done? I’ll prove you’re wrong, but you have to tell me what I did.”
“We both know what you did. You can play games all you want,” I say. “But we both know, and that’s all that matters.”
“I’m playing games? You break my arm, club me in the head. You tie me up and start drilling holes though the ice—and you think I’m playing games? Well, fuck you. I’ll play your game. I’ll wait you out, because this is all for show. You don’t scare me.”
“I didn’t bring you here to scare you,” I say. “I brought you here to kill you.”
CHAPTER 17
Minneapolis—Yesterday
The tide of a man’s mind isn’t always governed by those conspicuous forces whose gravitational pull is so massive as to be able to bend light. Sometimes a guy can fall into a mood over a single misplaced word or an almost-imperceptible scent that summons the reek of an old, gangrenous memory. I wasn’t aware of the source, but on the second day of the New Year, I awoke in just such a temperament. I had never been this close to the truth about my wife’s death. I had Fireball just about wrapped up. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t seem to escape the cloud of melancholy that swirled around my head.
The reason for my skewed disposition came to me in the shower, my eyes closed, the steaming hot water cascading down my face. It was then that I remembered the dream—only a vague outline at first, then more. It was a little girl, four or maybe five years old. I tried to talk to her, and she kept turning away from me as if she hadn’t heard me, her face hidden behind a fine veil of red hair. When nothing seemed to work, I sat down on a stone wall and sang “My Girl,” a song I used to sing to Jenni when she felt sick or sad.
At the sound of my shaky tune, the little girl turned around to face me, lifting her chin and letting the light catch her eyes. I had seen those eyes before, and that hair and smile, in a picture that sat on the shelf in my bedroom. It was Jenni when she was a child—but at the same time it wasn’t Jenni. This little girl was different, a likeness but not a reflection. She reached her hand out to me, and I took it in mine and held it the way a father would hold onto a daughter’s hand.
Despite the hot water raking my skin, a chill ran up my back. It was a dream, I told myself. Nothing more.
I arrived at the HCMC Burn Unit at 8:00 a.m., anxious to see Orton’s face—or what was left of it—as I fed him the rope for his execution. He would try to explain away the bits and pieces of what he thought I knew. They all did. But in the end, his bullshit story about gang members would shatter and fall to the floor. I was betting that I would have a confession in less than half an hour.
I buzzed the nurse’s station and flashed my badge, walking to the ICU section where Orton was being kept. Orton hadn’t changed since the day before, except that they had removed the bandages covering his eyes. He was awake and looked up at me when I entered the room, his eyes showing no hint of recognition.
“Good morning, Dennis,” I said.
With those words, Orton’s eyes grew large and he took in a sharp breath. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
“Dennis, I’m Detective Rupert. We spoke yesterday, remember?”
“I know who you are. You took advantage of me. I want you to leave.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “We—”
“You can’t talk to me if I say I want an attorney. I want an attorney. You have to leave.”
“What’s going on?”
Orton fixed his gaze on the ceiling, his eyes dancing as though trying to remember a script he’d memorized. “I’m not saying anything else. I’ve invoked my right to remain silent. I want you to go now.”
I nodded as though I understood, but I did not. The man on the bed in front of me was a vastly different man than the backtracking fool I’d left the previous evening. Someone must have gotten to him, convinced him to button up.
I stepped out of his room and went to the nurse’s station, where a young man in blue scrubs was typing on a keyboard. I showed him my badge in case he hadn’t seen it when I walked in. “I was wondering, do you keep a sign-in sheet of visitors on this unit?”
“No, we don’t. We have the locked door over there.” He pointed to the unit doors. “If you’re a family member, we’ll let you in.”
“But I’m not a family member.”
“I suspect the badge gets you in a lot of doors that most folks can’t get in.”
“Did anyone come to visit Mr. Orton recently?”
“There was someone in his room when I came on shift an hour ago.”
“Do you know who that might have been?”
“Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention. I think it was a man, but I can’t even be certain about that. If you want to get a picture, though . . .” The nurse pointed at a bubble on the ceiling where a security camera hid behind tinted glass.
“Thanks,” I said. “Can you aim me in the direction of the Security Office?”
The nurse pulled out a map of the sprawling hospital and circled a small box on the second floor.
On my way to the Security Office, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out expecting to see Niki’s number. Instead, I saw a number that I didn’t recognize at first. Then it came to me. Farrah McKinney.
“Max Rupert here.”
“Detective Rupert, this is Farrah McKinney . . . from yesterday.”
“Yes, Ms. McKinney, how are you?”
“You said that if I could find that recording, the one with your wife’s voice on it . . .”
“You found it?”
“I did. And I am downtown interpreting at the courthouse this morning. We should be done by around ten, if you want to meet.”
“I do. If you’re at the Government Center, there’s a cafeteria in the basement. You ever been there?”
“I know where it’s at. That works fine. I’ll be there around ten.”
“See you then.”