Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

'I'm all ears.'

'Kendra Sheppard had audiotapes, pictures and notes on certain people. Hard copy, in other words. We haven't been able to locate it.'

'That's too bad.'

'We need these files, so you have to tell me where they are. You tell me where Kendra hid these audiotapes, notes and whatever else she had, and I might be willing to answer some of those nagging questions you've got about your old man.'

'You're the one who tortured her to death – what did she tell you?'

'I wasn't there, I was -'

'You were in the woods. You came there to retrieve your friend.'

'Bingo. Kendra didn't, ah, hand over the information that was requested. My interest – your interest – is these tapes and whatever else Kendra has. I need to know where they are.'

'Small problem,' she said.

'And what might that be?'

'Kendra was dead when I found her. I mean, really dead. Unlike you, she didn't manage to rise from the ashes. How did you manage to pull off such a great disappearing act?'

'What did Sean tell you?'

'He didn't tell me anything.'

'You talked to Ezekiel.'

'Who?'

He sighed. 'We know Kendra visited him. And we know you talked to him.'

'How do you know that?'

'A little birdie told me. Problem is, the schizo shit-head did that whispering trick and we couldn't hear so good. The listening devices we planted in there, as good as they are, there's still a lot of interference. The conversation you had with him, we can have it enhanced, but that's going to take some time, so I decided to bring you here and jump to the chase.'

Darby pulled on the belt – not an easy thing to do with only two fingers.

'You can stop your fidgeting,' King said. 'Even if you pull some sort of Houdini act, you're not going anywhere. You'd be dead before you reached the front door.'

'Brought your friends with you?'

'Yes, the whole gang is here. Now, back to Ezekiel. What did you two talk about?'

'Ask him.'

'No can do. He hanged himself in his cell this afternoon.' King winked, then popped a fried clam into his mouth.

Darby pulled on the belt. 'I take it his suicide wasn't voluntary.'

'We hired someone on the inside. We've got people everywhere.'

'How many people are involved in your little club again?'

'Too many, if you want to know the truth.'

'You should have hired someone to remove your fingerprints from the database.'

The humour left King's face.

'That's probably why you're in such a hurry, right?' Darby gave another hard tug on the belt. 'Now that your prints and Special Agent Alan's prints rang the cherries on the Federal-owned database, I'm figuring the head of the Boston office is getting a call asking why the prints of not one but two dead Federal agents have suddenly appeared. Oh, and a body. I forgot we have Special Agent Alan's body in a freezer.'

'It doesn't have to be painful,' King said. 'I can make it quick.'

'Good to know.'

'How much longer are you going to keep up the Clint Eastwood tough-guy routine?'

'I don't know. How much time do we have?'

King stood. Darby let go of her belt as he came around the table. He stepped behind her and gripped the back of the chair.

Darby clamped down hard on her panic.

The pain, she told herself. Whatever happens, the pain can be managed and I can manage the pain, I CAN MAN King spun her around to a long, wide corridor of empty bays in various states of decay – an abandoned automotive garage, judging by the looks of it. King pushed her across the bumpy concrete floor. Some windows were boarded up. At the far end, to the left, she could make out what looked like a door. No one else was in here.

The chair stopped moving. She heard a door open behind her. King grabbed the back of her chair again and shoved her into another semi-dark room with a single window. The noisy wheels squeaked as they rolled across the floor. Darker in here but just as hot.

Her knees slammed against a wall. Her head rattled, the pain screaming again, and for a moment she thought her skull would explode from the sheer force of it.

King turned her around to face an empty wooden chair. It sat in the corner, covered by shadows. King took the chair – no, not King. Artie Pine.

'Talk some sense into her, Artie,' King said as he walked away, 'or we'll do it my way.'

Pine sat, the chair groaning beneath his enormous bulk. He had changed his clothes since she'd seen him at the hospital this morning. She couldn't see his face – too many shadows – but she caught the slight rise in his chest, heard the quiet wheeze coming from his mouth.

A door slammed shut somewhere outside the room. The door is at the end of the corridor, she thought, wondering if that was the only way in and out of the bay.

Safe from Pine's gaze, she gripped the belt again and started pulling.

'For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry,' Pine said in a quiet voice. 'I didn't want it to go down like this.'

She didn't speak. Let him think I'm disoriented.

'Who's… that?'

'It's Artie.'

Darby licked her lips, giving the belt another hard tug. It caught on another trouser loop.

'Artie, what… What are you doing here?'

'You heard King. I'm trying to talk some sense into you.' His voice was soft and kind. 'Darby, these guys have invested a lot of time and energy into finding these tapes. If you don't tell me where they are, then King is going to have a run at you. Trust me, you don't want that.'

'Are you on these tapes? Is that why you're working with them?'

'This isn't one of those shitty Bond movies where I reveal all the secrets before you die.'

The buckle finally slid underneath the trouser loop. One more to go.

'Tell me where Kendra's hiding the tapes,' he said, 'or I'll have to bring King back.'

'Did you pull the trigger, Artie? Or did you set my father up? Which is it?'

Pine cleared his throat. 'What did Ezekiel tell you?'

Buy some time.

'He told me that Kendra found out about the FBI, how they set up a Federal agent as the head of the Irish mafia – Ben Masters. Is it true?'

He sighed. 'We don't have time for this.'

'It's a simple yes or no question.'

'Yes. Yes, it's true. The Feds planted one of their own agents as the head of the Irish mafia.'

'A man who turned out to be a serial killer.'

'Congrats, you connected all the dots.'

The buckle caught on the last trouser loop.

'What about the Feds placing witnesses and informants inside witness protection and making them disappear?'

'They never went inside witness protection,' he said.

'They just disappeared.'

'Yes. Now -'

'You set up my father, didn't you?'

Pine didn't answer.

'Ezekiel told me my father had someone watching the hotel – someone he trusted,' she said. 'I'm assuming that person was you.'

'I need to know where Kendra kept the tapes and notes. I need that evidence. We can't afford to have it floating around out there. You can see why they're anxious to find it.'

'She didn't tell Ezekiel where she kept the actual tapes, photos and assorted notes on Frank Sullivan – I mean, Ben Masters.' The buckle was still caught on the last trouser loop. 'That's the God's honest truth. I'd cross my heart, hope to die and all of that, but my hands are… well, you know.'

Pine stood.

Keep stalling him.

'I know where the copies are.' She bucked against the restraints, giving the belt another hard tug. Her head didn't like the movements; bile shot up her throat. She kept tugging… tugging… there.

'I'm listening,' he said.

'Give me a moment, my head… it's hard to concentrate.' She stretched her fingers, the rope biting into her wrists. She felt the belt buckle. 'I feel like I'm going to throw up.'