Midnight.
Finn did not feel things the way other people did. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel them. In fact, it was precisely because he didn’t feel things “normally” that when he did, he felt them far more acutely than most. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe it was the very fact that he felt those things to such an unbearable depth that had led him to forge different, more indirect emotional pathways.
He had never stopped to think about it, didn’t think about it now. All he knew, lying on his back in his darkened cell, was that there was a two-thousand-pound weight crushing down on his chest.
Kennedy?
Gone?
Kennedy had been more than his OIC, more than a teammate. A brother.
And Finn knew what a brother was.
One January night in the middle of Hell Week, Finn’s BUD/S class had spent hours on and around the rocks of the San Diego coast, navigating out and back again in Zodiacs, rigid-hulled inflatable boats that could carry a dozen men each. They were soaked to the bone, covered in sand, bare degrees from hypothermia. Bleeding in a dozen places. Every move felt like being rubbed all over with coarse-grade sandpaper. The task was to ignore all that and focus on the rolling sets of incoming waves to avoid having their rafts—and themselves—sliced to ribbons on the rocks.
That’s what this felt like right now. Bleeding in a dozen places.
Groaning with the effort, he pushed away thoughts of Kennedy, fighting the sense that he was betraying his brother by doing so, and tried to focus. He heard his own breathing, coarse and heavy, forced himself to take a long, even inhale, then let it out. Slow. Controlled.
Focus.
Think it through.
Naming Movie Star as their perp might have satisfied the chief of security, and it might satisfy the captain, but it wouldn’t wash with the CMC. He was too sharp, too conscientious. Same for Supercop. They would keep at it, both of them, more so than ever, now that everyone else considered the problem solved. They wouldn’t stop till they had their man.
Which meant at least one of them would be coming after him. Because Finn himself was the most obvious suspect. There were a dozen airtight circumstantial reasons that said he was the one who did these things.
Which forced the sobering question:
Was he?
He had no solid memories of his whereabouts those hours during which both Schofield and Shiflin went missing. Or Santiago. Or the two E-2s in recycling.
So, yes, technically speaking, it was possible.
The one they were looking for, the killer—it could be him.
The notion made no sense to Finn. No sense at all. Why would he kill Schofield? Or Biker? Or any of them? Yes, Finn knew what it was to kill another human being. Had done so himself, more than once. But not like this. No, he didn’t for a moment think he would have done these killings.
The problem was, he couldn’t remember.
He needed to.
Mukalla he would deal with later. First things first. He needed to clear himself on the boat before he faced what was waiting for him off the boat.
Which meant he needed to ID their killer.
Assuming it wasn’t himself.
Focus.
Remember.
According to Stevens, he did remember, it was just that those particular memories were locked away in a cave and there was a bear in there. He needed to get past the bear. Stevens said you didn’t just charge in, but that’s exactly what Finn had done in his office. He made a run at the bear, and it whacked him.
He needed to go back into that cave again, but as quiet as a shadow. To tread carefully, one memory fragment at a time.
Not poke the bear.
Stalk it.
In the dark, Finn sat up, swiveled, and placed his bare feet square on the cold deck.
Slowly, he breathed in through his nostrils.
Let the breath hold itself for four, five, six, seven seconds.
Slowly let it out, through his mouth.
And in, through his nostrils.
And let it pause.
And out, through his lips.
And in.
Where did you grow up?