On the fifth ring the answering machine picked up and an emotionless voice gave instructions. Kovac left his name and number, and a request for a return call.
He put the car in gear, rolled up to the intercom panel at the security gate, and hit the buzzer. No one responded. He sat there for another five minutes, leaning on the buzzer again and again, well schooled in how to be an asshole to get someone's attention. No one ever responded.
A prowl car from a private security company came by and a weightlifter in a spiffy uniform asked to see his ID. Then he was alone again, left to stare up at Peter Bondurant's house and wonder what secrets hid inside.
Some people didn't answer their phones when they rang after midnight. Not the parents of missing children. Maybe Peter Bondurant never answered his gate buzzer, and was, even at that moment, cowering in his bed, waiting for a mob of the desperate poor to burst in and loot his house. But he hadn't been the one to call in the security car. Routine driveby, the weightlifter had said.
Kovac stared at the house and let seventeen years of experience tell him there was no one in. Peter Bondurant was not at home in the dead of this night when their witness had gone missing. Peter Bondurant, who demanded answers but refused to give any. Peter Bondurant, who had fought with his daughter the night she disappeared, then lied about it. Peter Bondurant, who had the power to crush a cop's career like an empty beer can.
I'm probably a moron for sitting here, he thought. Vanlees was their hot ticket. Vanlees looked to fit Quinn's profile. He had a history. He'd known Jillian, had access to her town house. He even drove the right kind of vehicle.
But there was still something off about Peter Bondurant. He could feel it like hives just under his skin, and come hell or high water, he was going to find out what.
He sighed, shifted his weight to a new uncomfortable position, and settled in, lighting a cigarette. What the hell did he need with a pension anyway?
THE CORPSES FLOATED above him like logs. Naked, rotting bodies. Torn, hacked apart, riddled with holes. Decomposing flesh shredded away from the wounds. Fish food. Eels swam in and out of the bodies through the gaping holes.
Quinn looked up at the bodies from below, trying to identify each one by name in the dim blue watery light. He was out of oxygen. His lungs were burning. But he couldn't go to the surface until he had identified every body and named the killer that went with each.
The bodies bobbed and shifted position. Decaying limbs fell away from torsos and sank toward him. Below him, a bed of lush green weeds caught at his feet like the tentacles of a squid.
He needed to think hard. Names. Dates. Facts. But he couldn't remember all the names. He didn't know all the killers. Random facts raced through his head. The bodies seemed to be multiplying, kept drifting and bobbing. He was running out of air.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
He struck out with his arms, trying to grab hold of anything that might help pull him up. But the hands he caught hold of were cold and dead, and held him under. The bodies and his responsibility to them held him under. He had to think hard. He could solve the puzzles if only the pieces would stop moving, if only his thoughts would stop racing, if only he could breathe.
The bodies shifted again above him, and he could see Kate's face on the other side of the surface, looking down at him. Then the bodies shifted again and she was gone.
Just as it felt as if his lungs were starting to bleed, he gave one last hard kick and broke the surface of the water and the dream, gasping for air, coming up off the bed. Sweat drenched his body, ran off the end of his nose and down the valley of his spine.
He staggered away from the bed, his legs weak beneath him, and fell into the chair by the writing desk, shaking now as the air chilled him. Naked, shaking, sweating, sick, the taste of bile and blood bitter in his mouth.
He sat doubled over the wastebasket, his focus not entirely on the writhing fire in his belly. As ever, there was the sound of that inner voice that always found him wanting, and never hesitated to kick him when he was down. It told him he didn't have time for this shit. He had cases to work, people depending on him; if he lost his focus and fucked up, people could die. If he fucked up bad enough, if anyone found out what a mess his head was, that he'd lost his nerve and his edge, he'd be out of a job. And if he didn't have the job, he didn't have anything, because it wasn't just what he did, it was all he was, all he had.
The dream was nothing new, nothing to shake over, nothing to waste his energy on. He had any number of variations on that one. They were all stupidly simple to interpret, and he always felt vaguely embarrassed for having them at all. He didn't have time for it.
He could hear exactly what Kate would have to say about that. She would give him the sharp side of her tongue and another lecture on Superman, then try to make him drink herbal tea. She would try to mask her concern and her maternal instincts with the wise-ass sarcasm that seemed so much safer and more familiar and more in character with the image others had of her. She would pretend he didn't know her better.
And then she'd call him a cab and shove him out of her house.
“Let's just call ourselves old friends and leave it at that, huh? You didn't come here for me, John. You would have done that years ago if it was what you wanted.”
That was what she thought, that he hadn't come because he didn't want her. Maybe that was what she wanted to think. She was the one who had walked away. It justified her action to believe there'd been no reason to stay.
Still feeling weak, he went to the window that looked out on a wedge of downtown Minneapolis and an empty street filling with snow.
What he wanted. He wasn't sure what that even was anymore. He didn't allow himself to want outside the scope of the job. A lead, a piece of evidence, a fresh insight to help pry open a killer's head. He could want those things. But what was the point in wanting what couldn't be had?
The point was whether or not to allow himself hope.
“The only thing that can save you from disappointment is hopelessness. But if you don't have hope, then there's no point in living.”
His own words. His own voice. His own wisdom. Coming right back around to bite him in the ass.
He didn't ask the point of his life. He lived to work and he worked to live. He was as simple and pathetic as that. That was the Quinn machine of perpetual function. The trouble was he could feel the wheels coming loose. What would happen when one came off altogether?
Closing his eyes, he saw the corpses again, and felt the panic wash down through him, a cold, internal acid rain. He could hear his unit chief demanding answers, explanations, prodding for results. “The director chewed my tail for half an hour. Bondurant isn't the guy to piss off, John. What the hell's wrong with you?”
Tears burned his eyes as the answer called up from the hollow in the center of his chest: I've lost it. His edge, his nerve, his instincts. He felt it all torn asunder and scattered to too many parts of the country. He didn't have the time to go hunting for the pieces. He could only pretend he was intact and hope not too many people caught on.
“Are you getting anywhere with this? Have they developed a suspect? You know what they're looking for, don't you? It's pretty straightforward, isn't it?”
Sure it was. If you looked at the murders of two prostitutes and ignored the fact that Peter Bondurant's daughter may or may not have been the third victim. If you pretended Peter Bondurant's behavior was normal. If you didn't have a hundred unanswered questions about the enigma that was Jillian Bondurant. If this was simply about the murder of prostitutes, he could have pulled a profile out of a textbook and never left Quantico.