Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

'No,' she said.

'Danny didn't tell you?' Humphrey said. 'I thought he would have shared this with you since you were a cop.'

Michael was inching out from underneath the bed.

'Cops,' Jamie said. 'Call… ah… cops.'

Humphrey propped his head up from the pillow. 'You called the cops?'

'No,' she said. 'Dan… ah… didn't… tell. Me.'

'Danny recognized Francis,' Humphrey said. 'Danny told me. I don't know what transpired at the marina, mind you, since Danny didn't give me the exact details when he came to confession. But I could tell your husband was having this… crisis of conscience, I guess you could call it, at having the cursed luck of actually recognizing Francis Sullivan. Danny did a little research on the internet, found out that Francis had died tragically at sea and felt that he should come forward with what he'd seen – he wasn't exactly sure if the man he saw was Frank Sullivan but he looked goddamn close. I couldn't let that happen.'

Michael had slid out from underneath the bed. Carter held up the valance, a finger pressed up against his lips, telling her to be quiet.

'I'm a man of God,' Humphrey said. 'I don't want you to be tortured to death. The man who's coming here, he's… he'll do things to you until you tell him the truth. Tell me what you did to Francis and I'll give you a hot shot now, have you ride a nice warm wave right up to the Lord Himself.'

Get him out of the house. It's the only way to keep the kids safe.

'Take… ah… you.'

Humphrey sat up and cupped a hand over his ear. 'What's that, love?'

'Take you… to… ah… see, ah, him. Sullivan.'

'Where is he?'

'Show… ah… you.'

Downstairs a door opened and slammed shut.

'Too late now,' Humphrey said, sighing. 'You had your chance.'

Darby drifted back to consciousness, heading towards a hot, roaring pain that covered what felt like every square inch of her head, jaw and face. She thought she smelled fried seafood and it triggered a hazy childhood memory (or is this a dream? she wondered) of a summer sunset at Maine's Kennebunk Beach and her father sitting next to her on a blanket, paper plates of fried clams between them, the white, waxy paper fluttering in the soft, warm breeze blowing up from the water, where her mother walked along the shore collecting sea glass and shells that she'd later put in a glass vase inside the kitchen. Darby couldn't remember how old she'd been or what she and her father had talked about (although, given the season, it probably had something to do with baseball), and as her eyes fluttered open she had the sense that her father had, at least during that moment in time, been truly happy.

The room was semi-dark. Hot. Her head hung forward and she saw her lap. She was bound to a chair – hands tied behind her back, thick strands of rope wrapped around her thighs and ankles. Her head was no longer throbbing; it was screaming like a fire alarm, triggering her panic.

The pain can be managed, she told herself. The pain can be managed.

She took in a slow, deep breath, catching the faint smell of machine oil behind the fried seafood.

'How's your head?' a man asked.

Darby swallowed, tasting blood. She took another deep breath and held it as she slowly lifted her head.

To her left, large bay windows dripping with rain. They looked out to a street light, the sky dark beyond the glass. Dull yellow squares of light with shadows from the raindrops covered a pale-coloured wall in front of her and, just a few feet away, the scarred top of a wooden table littered with paper cups, green beer bottles and a box that had probably been used to carry the grease-spotted cartons of fried clams, scallops and shrimp set up in front of the man who had talked to Baxter.

The driver of the brown van – the man who'd worn the tactical vest and left the blister pack of nicotine gum – sat on the other side of the table. Special Agent Jack King, or whatever name he was going by now, wore a dark shirt, no tie. She could see a small gold cross hanging from a chain.

Darby opened her mouth, relieved to discover she could move her jaw. 'How many times did you hit me with the shotgun?'

'Just once,' King said. Beads of sweat dripped down his bald head. 'When you fell to the floor, I switched to these.'

He held up his hands. They were covered in black leather gloves. 'They're lined with lead powder.'

That explained how he had managed to knock loose her cheek implant. She could feel it sliding underneath the swollen, throbbing mess of torn skin. He had split her stitches.

'My apologies for hitting you so hard,' he said, picking up a plastic fork, 'but I was told you knew how to handle yourself – "she's James Bond with tits" was what I was told. So I worked you over a little extra just to make sure you'd cooperate long enough for me to tie you up and bring you to the boot.'

He speared his fork into a fried scallop, grinning as he dunked it into a container of tartar sauce. Darby took in another deep breath, her chest constricting against the rope, and held it for a count of three.

'Nice car, by the way,' King said. 'Goddamn shame to ruin a car like that, but it had to be done.'

Darby exhaled slowly through her nose. Deep, slow breathing; that was the key to managing the pain, to keeping it at bay and keeping her heart rate low and her muscles relaxed. The pain can be managed, she told herself, taking in another slow, deep breath through her nose. I can manage the pain. The pain can be managed. I manage the pain.

'You don't mind if I eat, do you?' King asked. 'I've got a long night ahead of me and I hate working on an empty stomach.'

'Go right on ahead, Special Agent King.'

He ate another fried shrimp. 'How'd you find out?'

'Sorry, but that information is confidential.'

King grinned as he chewed. Darby spotted her SIG lying next to her mobile phone on the table. She stared at the nine, which was less than two feet away. If I could only cut through this rope I -

She straightened and pressed her back against the chair, hot bolts of pain slamming through the centre of her skull and drilling their way down her spine. She gritted her teeth, hissing.

'You want some Percocet?' King asked, forking another shrimp.

'I can give you some,' he said. 'Percocet, Oxy, whatever you need.'

'No.'

'How about a beer? I've got Rolling Rock and Becks.'

'Maybe later, after you've been arrested.'

'You're an original, McCormick, I'll give you that. Your old man would be proud of you.'

'How do you know him?' Darby wiggled her fingers. She could feel the damp fabric of her shirt, the back waistband of her trousers. The rope didn't have much give; she felt it biting into the skin of her wrists.

'I never met him personally; just heard stories,' King said.

'Were you the one who killed him?'

He seemed to be considering the question when a mobile phone chimed. Hers. She saw the light come to life on the cracked screen.

King picked it up. Not a phone call; a text message. He read the screen and stopped chewing.

She pinched her belt between her fingers and pulled. 'Anything good?'

'Someone named Madeira James sent you an email, wants you to call her immediately.'

'Great. Can I borrow my phone for a moment?'

King didn't answer but continued reading the message.

Darby moved the belt another quarter of an inch. The buckle got caught on a trouser loop.

He read the message for what seemed like a long time. He put the phone down and grabbed a bottle of Rolling Rock. His face had changed.

'Bad news?' she asked.

'Nothing we can't handle.' He wiped his mouth. 'Got a proposition for you.'