"Change the subject, Captain, or I walk. What else do you want to know? Is there anything that isn't clear to you?"
I waited, meeting his gaze while he considered the question. Appearances and occasional behavior notwithstanding, there wasn't any moss growing on Felix MacWhorter, and giving him free license to keep firing at me until his gun was empty was risky business. But I thought it was worth the risk. For the most part, what I was telling him was the truth, and a mollified, relatively informed Felix MacWhorter could prove to be a valuable ally to Margaret Dutton, Michael Stout, and the others when they did turn to the authorities for help, which they would eventually have to do.
He began to tap the fingers of his right hand on his desk, an indication to me that he'd reloaded. "How did Punch and Judy manage to keep you from beating the shit out of them?"
"They got the drop on me, and they had me trussed up like a pig."
"And they were torturing you until Lou came along." "Right."
"It wouldn't have taken them a second to slit your throat, or put a bullet in your brain."
"And then off Lou, for that matter."
"So why didn't they? You knew all about them, so why didn't they kill you?"
"An excellent question, one I've been asking myself. I don't have the answer."
"Maybe not, but I'll bet you have a theory."
"A couple of them, actually. First, they may have believed a bullshit story I told them, and-"
"They're buzzing you with a stun gun, and you told them a bullshit story?"
"What else was I going to do? They'd have killed me on the spot if I'd told them the truth. Knowing that you're going to die if you don't come up with just the right tall tale does wonders for focusing the mind."
"What was the story?"
"I told them that the cops, FBI, Daughters of the American Revolution, and every character on Sesame Street knew all about them and Rivercliff and the escaped patients, and that it was only a matter of time before they were caught if they didn't get out of the country. They weren't quite sure they believed me, but it set them to thinking. They were getting ready to buzz me again when Lou came calling."
"I still don't understand why they didn't kill you-and Lou."
"They probably would have if they'd been convinced it wasn't true, because then nobody could have pinned the murders on them. But if it was true that the whole operation was blown, then killing me could have serious consequences, and killing Lou would most definitely have serious consequences. The NYPD would have shut down the entire city until they were found, if you did know who they were. Kill me, and they might not have been safe even back on their home turf. They had a pretty good line on me, so they must know something about Garth and his reputation for tenacity. It's possible they were more worried about him than about the authorities, because he wouldn't be in the least concerned with jurisdiction or legal niceties. It's possible they didn't kill me because they didn't want him on their trail. My brother can get pretty furry."
"You mean like a squirrel?"
"I mean like a werewolf-although he can get pretty squirrelly before he tears your throat out. Lately, he's been doing John Wayne imitations when he's mad at somebody; if you hear the Duke talking to you, then it's time to get out of the vicinity. Garth can be very dangerous if you're a bad guy, and he takes no prisoners. They may not have wanted to take a chance on messing with him if my murder could be pinned on them. Like I said, I'm guessing. At the time, they didn't seem all that impressed by anything I was saying."
"You're probably right on one or both counts. Of course, by letting you live, they guaranteed they'd be blown."
"That's true-but now they know exactly where they stand, which has to be in the shadows. They'll try to use me as a stalking horse, a Judas goat. They know I'm looking for the patients, so they'll keep a close watch on me and hope I do their job for them. Most likely, they'll bring in a team of fresh faces to follow me around. Punch and Judy still have their assignment, which is to wipe out all the living evidence of what happened at Rivercliff, and money is no object to their employers. What their employers won't accept is failure. They'll plan to come around later, when they've done what they were paid to do, and kill me at their leisure, make it look like an accident."
"So you'd better watch your ass."
"I always do."
"You'd best start doing a better job of it than you did tonight."
"Your point is well taken."
"With luck, we'll find them before they kill anybody else. May I assume you'll be in touch right away if you come up with any more information that could help us catch Rogers?"
"You may definitely assume so."
"You want a ride home?"
"No, thanks," I said, rising and arching my back, which still hurt. "I need to stretch my muscles. See you."
He waited until I got to the door of the office, then said, "Frederickson."
I looked back over my shoulder. "What?"
"I'll fill you in-unofficially-if the FBI can identify the substance found in the Dumpster body. You've earned that much. What you do with the information is up to you. You know the risks involved in trying to obtain more of the stuff, and you've been warned."
"Thanks, Captain. I appreciate it."
"One other thing, Frederickson."
"What's that?"
His thick lips curled back into just the slightest trace of a smile. "I still think you're an arrogant, publicity-seeking, interfering dwarf prick."
I favored him with my own slightest trace of a smile. "The onset of a relationship like ours is always the sweetest part, Captain. I love you too."
Chapter 9
I slept fitfully, awakening often with painful muscle spasms and cramps, my dreams haunted by the pasty white faces of deadly puppets coming at me with cattle prods. I awoke in midmorning twisted like a pretzel. Drinking up all that voltage pumped into me by Punch and Judy had definitely not been welcomed by my muscles, joints, nerves, and acetylcholine, and my body was telling me to go on about my business if I liked, but it would take its own sweet time recuperating, thank you very much.
After a half hour of stretching exercises, calisthenics, and a hot shower, I could move more easily. I dressed, then went downstairs to check on my charges. Margaret was stronger, able to sit up now, and I found Michael in her room. Apparently they enjoyed each other's company, and had been talking all morning, swapping stories. Margaret had been telling the man about her former existence-what she could remember-as Mama Spit, and Michael had been telling her about life at Rivercliff. From Margaret's description of the murdered man who had given her the plastic bag of black-and-yellow capsules, Michael had given the patient a name-Philip Mayepoles. I duly noted the information so as to pass it on to MacWhorter.
It occurred to me that it might be very useful at some time in the future to have the reminiscences of the two schizophrenics on tape, and so I retrieved a tape recorder from my apartment, gave it to them along with several blank cassettes. When I left them, Michael was speaking into the microphone, talking about Rivercliff.