“I thought you were tougher than this, Peter.” Lipsky’s voice was calm. “It was just a choke hold. And a little something from the police evidence locker to keep you out for a few hours.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Push it down. Think about that Navy shrink who saw the automatic panic, who walked him out to that park bench. Who told him to develop a relationship with the static. This was his life. It was up to him how he would live it.
Make friends with the static. Breathe in, breathe out.
Hello, old friend. Hello. Now fuck off, would you? I have work to do.
Lipsky’s calm, kind voice, coming closer. “Maybe it’s the confined space? I could see it when you sat in the back of that police car, the day we met. Must be pretty rough.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Peter opened his eyes to see Lipsky standing beside him now. He thought again of Lewis, somewhere outside. Waiting.
“Does this mean I’m not getting the new glass for my truck?”
An explosion of pain to the ribs, Lipsky hitting him hard.
“Ow, shit,” said Peter, coughing.
“Where’s my C-4?” Lipsky’s voice still calm and kind.
Peter heard the singsong voice again. “We the people. The American people.”
He opened his eyes. A skinny young man in a Marine’s dress blues sat on a folding chair in the far corner, tapping at the keys of an old laptop. The soft, tinny voice came next, from the laptop’s speakers.
“Some within law enforcement may consider our actions to be criminal. But we are not criminals. We are veterans of the United States Armed Forces. We have fought for this great country in the past. And we fight again now to wrest power from the financial giants that have taken control of this nation that we love. We have struck once and we will strike again.”
Jimmy had found him, and Peter had, too. Cas had shaved his beard and was easier to recognize. Now Peter knew why he’d taken his dress uniform from his closet.
“Hey, Felix,” said Peter. “Your nana sent me to find you. She misses you and wants you to come home.”
Felix Castellano flicked his eyes toward Peter for a moment, then away.
Lipsky hit Peter again, in the same spot.
“Ow, hey, what the fuck?” The pain helped to distract him from the static. “Is that how you treat a fellow veteran?”
Lipsky’s voice was patient. “Where’s my C-4?”
“It’s gone, okay? I threw it in the lake.”
Lipsky looked down at him, hands back in the pockets of his long, dark coat. He looked different, less constrained. Not like a cop, not anymore. As if for the first time in his life he wasn’t wearing clothes that were too tight for his body.
“I don’t think so,” said Lipsky. “You’re a Marine. That’s ordnance. It might be useful. You’ve got it hidden away.”
Peter shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I threw it in the lake.”
He did his best to believe it was true, but he knew Lipsky could see through him. He still had those X-ray eyes.
Lipsky’s phone chimed in his hand. He glanced at the screen, then back to Peter. “Don’t sweat it, Peter. You’ll tell me in a few minutes. I guarantee it.”
Peter pulled at the cuffs again. The plastic didn’t move at all. The walls were still too close. Breathe in. Breathe out. Something would happen in a few minutes. He didn’t want to imagine the possibilities. He kept talking.
“So what’s with the video camera?”
Lipsky smiled. “You like our little stage set? Take a look behind you.” Peter turned his head and saw a large American flag hung from the wall behind him. “You made a video, Peter. You’re going to be famous. Unfortunately, by the time it becomes public, you’ll be dead.”
Shit.
“I’m not naked, am I?”
“You’ve seen these videos before,” said Lipsky. “Usually it’s some raghead with a Koran, making a speech. Death to the infidels, that kind of thing. A vest full of C-4 and roofing nails on display.” He nodded to the wiring harnesses on the table, the bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer on their pallets. “But not you, Peter. You’re more ambitious. You and Felix will change the world.”
“We the people,” shouted Felix from his chair in the corner.
“I was passed out,” said Peter. “I must look like I’m asleep.”
“You wore sunglasses,” said Lipsky. “Nobody will see your eyes. You had an assault rifle in your hands and wiring harnesses on the table in front of you.” He shrugged. “Maybe you looked a little stoned. But our friend Cas sat beside you and read his speech. You’ll be convincing enough.”
Zolot had said that the perfect crime required someone else, a scapegoat, to take the blame. Peter had thought the scapegoat would be Felix, but apparently Lipsky wanted it to be a group effort. Maybe he thought it would be better as a conspiracy. So he’d signed Peter up for the job.
“Get to the point.”