Taking Liberty (21 page)

For all his claims of being able to see into the future, George hadn’t anticipated that.

I stopped pacing; it was becoming tiring. “What I don’t get is why you kept the truth about Westbrook from Rae. You just sent us to Alaska, blind, on the basis of investigating a homicide. You should have come clean, Stone. Saved a little heartache on both parts. I don’t understand all the secrecy.”

“I told you: I wasn’t sure.”

“Bull crap.”

I turned and opened the glass French doors leading out onto Stone’s balcony. Suddenly, I was feeling dizzy, nauseous. I needed fresh air.

A salted breeze blew at my goose-bumped skin. All at once the fight had gone out of me, replaced by overwhelming sadness and possibly the first inklings of defeat. Foolishly, I had thought I’d get away with my dark secret – at least until I’d brought George into custody. I was wrong. Stone had known about George all along, chasing my son while I’d been lazing around in the Sanibel sun.

My intransigence had been my undoing.

And my son’s.

I felt sick.

George’s death, Jamie’s death, Harry’s death – it was all my fault.

I gripped the metal balustrade and stared out across the nighttime marina. I could see partygoers on the open deck of a big motor yacht, drinking, socializing, a million miles away from the cold thoughts growing icicles in my head.

Stone had hung back. Then Lady Luck had given him a golden handshake: back in LA,
The Maestro
had resumed the Piano Wire Murders. Stone had spied his chance to bring me onboard. Keep me close so that he could keep an eye on me, knowing that I too must be looking for my serial killer son, and that there was a chance I could lead him to a capture. Stone had used me, I realized. I couldn’t blame him.

I sensed the Brit come alongside. Big hands wrapping around the balustrade. “You and me, Quinn, we’re not that different. We’re both peacekeepers. We try and right the wrongdoings of others. Redress the balance between good and evil. But we’re human. We make mistakes. Often bad ones. Our intentions are just, but not always justified. I’m not the enemy. I gave you what you wanted. I sent you to Alaska to finish the job.”

“Only Cornsilk beat me to it.”

Stone’s soulful gaze roved the myriad of moored boats. “Gary Cornsilk. Our very own disaffected agent gone serial. Agent Burnett told me all about him: how he went after you in Florida, how he killed that private dick of yours. Cornsilk was an unknown variable. We had no way of knowing he’d go after your son. Looking back, I should have arranged your release from Springfield the moment we got the Westbrook hit.”

Rage squeezed my gut. “Why hold back?”

“Because my job is about striking balance. At that moment in time, the information you were sent to acquire from Trenton Fillmore trumped everything else.”

“Even Cornsilk burning my boy to death?” It came out a croak, through a constricted windpipe. “Thanks for prioritizing, Stone.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Quinn. You kept Cornsilk to yourself. You had ample opportunity to tell me about him after Sanibel. That’s on your head.”

For long moments we stood there in silence: Stone, the epitome of laidback; me, quietly seething; both knowing that my obsessions had been the death of others.

“I’ll make arrangements to have your son’s body brought back to LA,” Stone said at last.

But I shook my head. “No. That’s my job.” I didn’t want Stone knowing about Engel and the fact he’d taken George’s body. Not right now. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because I wanted to find out first. “Cornsilk’s out there. I need your help finding him.”

“And you’ll have it. Cornsilk is just as much our problem as he is yours. We’ve circulated his photo to law enforcement agencies nationwide. If he so much as double parks we’ll find him.” He leveled his soulful stare on me. “The Bureau is right behind you on this one, Quinn. But there’s something we need to clear up first. What went wrong with Trenton Fillmore?”

___________________________

Get this: Stone hadn’t sprung me from Springfield because he’d learned about the homicide in Akhiok and assumed George was involved. His first reaction had been one of reticence. He’d held back, observing things as they unfolded in Kodiak. He’d broken me out of the asylum because Fillmore had died – taking with him the precious information I’d been sent there to extract – not because he’d been concerned about protecting my feelings.

Shamefully, I hadn’t thought much at all about my dead friend from the Fed Med since shooting off to Alaska. His hot blood dripping from my hands seemed like a distant event. In another life. Not thirty-six hours ago. The mystery of the burned body had swept me up and then Snakeskin had blown me away.

“There’s nothing to tell other than somebody shanked him to death. End of story.”

“Any idea who?”

“Take your pick. That place is full of loose screws. Any one of those crazies could have slipped in and done the dirty. Can we do this debriefing some other time?”

“No. You brought this on yourself by storming in here. Look, I know you and Fillmore were close. I’m not insensitive; I know this is difficult for you after all that’s happened. But we need answers. We need to know who had a motive, or better yet, the opportunity.”

I stared out beyond the marina to the dark Pacific. Pictured Fillmore curled up on the cell floor in a pool of sticky blood. “Not counting me, just about everyone had access. Especially the unit officers. There’s an open house policy at Springfield. It allows inmates free movement between buildings. As for a motive, like the rest of us Fillmore did his best to stay out of trouble, but he wound people up the wrong way. He liked playing pranks. He got under the skin. Made enemies. Besides, Springfield is a federal prison for the mentally sick. People like that don’t need motives. You only need to comb your hair the wrong way and they take exception.”

“No one said there wouldn’t be an element of danger.”

Fillmore had saved me from a lot of it. His big brawling physique had kept the bullies at bay. Saved my skin. In many ways, I owed Trenton Fillmore my life.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, holding my thumb and forefinger less than a half inch apart, “I was this close. I had Fillmore on the brink of telling me everything. The whole nine yards.”

“But he went and spilled his guts for someone else.”

I let Stone see my disapproval.

A wave of chatter drew my eyes back to the partygoers crammed on the luxury cruiser. Giggling girls dressed as sexy Santas. Rich boys in tuxedos trying to impress. All of them having what they thought was fun. Kids untouched by homicide and vileness. Their faith in the world as yet untarnished.

Trust is thicker than blood.

I’d spent three months building up Fillmore’s trust. Convincing him he could confide in me. That I was on his side. Constructing confidence while I lied through my bare teeth about my own history, about my real identity. Nothing I could do about it. I was on an assignment for the FBI, undercover. Only key prison staff privy to my mission. As luck would have it, I’d become Fillmore’s only friend at Springfield – the only other sane person wearing prison-issue khakis he could depend on. I’d kept the guards off his case while he kept the other inmates out of my face. We’d had each other’s back. Brothers in chains. But when it had come to the crunch, I’d let him down. Big time.

“Bridges had me peeing in a beaker,” I said, “while somebody was shanking Fillmore.”

“Is that standard procedure, patients undergoing drug screens in the middle of the afternoon?”

I thought about it. “I guess it wasn’t uncommon. They like to keep things random in the hope of catching lunatics deliberately avoiding their meds.”

“Or from taking each other’s.”

“The point is, we had this thing, Fillmore and me. We’d meet up for a game of pool, same time every day. It was one of the devices I used to gain his confidence.”

“You mean you let him beat you.”

“Sometimes. Bridges knew about the arrangement. He’d never interrupted us before. When I got to the recreation room, Fillmore wasn’t there. I waited five minutes before going in search.”

“And that’s when you found him bleeding out. Doesn’t it strike you as a little odd he should be killed right before he’s about to come clean?”

It had crossed my mind, more than once. The timing was impeccable. For three whole months, Fillmore had remained a locked safe. All his secrets secure inside. I’d spent weeks working on his combination, without any of the tumblers falling. Then, the day before Christmas Eve, something had changed. He’d spoken about his accountancy work for the first time at length. Nothing of any real value. But it was an opening. I’d glimpsed inside the safe, had a hint of the information I’d been assigned to obtain. I’d retired to my cot that night, knowing when the next day came Fillmore would tell me everything.

“They killed him to keep him quiet.” I realized. “They got to someone on the inside and they silenced him.”

“Exactly my worry. It points to someone tipping them off.”

I smirked, “It explains why you’ve been one step behind Fillmore’s employers the whole time. Somebody in the know has been feeding them information. That’s why the operation’s been beset with setbacks, Stone. Congratulations. It looks like you got yourself a mole.”

Suddenly, the Brit looked even more cheerless than usual.

I knew what he was thinking: if Fillmore’s death was a deliberate act of sabotage, then its implication was sweeping. At best, it meant an immediate and in-depth scrutiny into the backgrounds of everyone with inside knowledge of the operation. No stone left unturned, so to speak. Checks into the private lives of prison officers and special agents alike. Who owed what to whom, and why. Who had a lifestyle open to exploitation. Who had the balls to pull it off. At best, it indicated a major leak which could deflate Stone’s showboat and sink it faster than he could bail it out. At worst, it had cost Fillmore his life and maybe the lives of all those we were trying to protect with our undercover operation.

“So what happens now, Stone? You going to ship me back to the workshop for more panel beating?”

The comment actually pulled a wry smile from his lips.

“Don’t think for one minute I haven’t toyed with the idea. Burnett told me what happened in Alaska. She’s worried about your coping mechanisms. I’m worried you’ll kill somebody innocent. For your own good and for the welfare of everyone around you, I ought to send you straight back to Springfield, Quinn. I’m not convinced you’re fixed. I’m not entirely sure if it’s even possible. You’re an unexploded bomb. You can put on a brave face all you like. Fool everyone into believing you’re okay. But I know how shock works. When you least expect it, it sneaks up and bites you on the arse. And that’s when you’re at your most dangerous – because that’s when you’re liable to self-destruct and end up eating your gun.”

“The last bad picture I saw painted like that, they called it a masterpiece.”

Stone sniggered. “Yeah, you’re one of those all right. But for all the wrong reasons. Quinn, I know what makes you tick, remember? I know what motivates you. You won’t rest until you bring down Gary Cornsilk, with or without my consent. But I have this niggling doubt, this little voice of caution whispering in my ear, warning me to keep you reined in and as far away from trouble as possible. And therein lies my dilemma.” He studied me though eyes so narrowed they could have been closed. “What to do about Quinn? Compassionate leave may be the right course of action, but I’m not certain it’s the best thing for you.”

I let my dark wishes show. For all his pomp and ceremony, Stone understood me. He knew I couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. Knew I’d do everything in my power to hunt down the killer of my child. Wouldn’t anyone? He also knew my obsessive nature could work for both of us: he’d get an embarrassing ex-Fed off the streets and I’d get closure, maybe even start the long mend.

“What’s the compromise?”

One thing I had learned about the Brit’s style of command: there was always a middle ground with Mason Stone.

“You pull in your slack. Get your act together and make Fillmore’s murder count for something.”

“I’m already onboard with Operation Freebird.”

“Make it fully. I need you focused and present. And I know that’s asking a lot, given the circumstances. But let’s finish what we started. Help me stamp out the nest of vipers that cost Fillmore his life.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“Cornsilk’s all yours. Within reason.”