DYLAN
I swing and my fist hits home, right across Keegan’s jaw, but they’re both on me in seconds. I flail with my fists as they fight me, and I manage to stay on my feet until Keegan kicks me in the shins, sending lightning flashing through my burns that knocks me to my knees. They wrestle me to the floor and cuff my hands behind me.
“Thought you had me, didn’t you?” Keegan says through his teeth as he jerks me back to my feet. “I’ve thought you were a turncoat for a while now. I told Rollins I couldn’t trust you, but he was starting to.”
I’ve left a gash on his jaw, and he dabs at it now, checks the blood.
I turn to Phillips. “So you’re in on this too? Is that how he’s gotten away with it all this time?”
Neither of them answers, and I know it’s useless.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .”
I can’t believe Keegan is Mirandizing me, this man who fractures the law and uses it like a weapon. This cold-blooded murderer, this psychopath, who will kill anyone in his way. I can’t believe this district attorney put here by the people of Louisiana is kowtowing to him. How is that even possible?
“Where are you taking me?” I demand.
“You’re under arrest for colluding with a fugitive,” Phillips mutters. We step out into the hall, and I look for someone, anyone, who can help me. There’s no one here, but I try anyway. “These men are murderers!” I shout so loud that my throat feels like it’s going to snap. “Somebody!”
Keegan turns and punches me, his ring snagging my lip. Blood drips down my chin, but I can’t wipe it away. Following Casey’s example, I spit the blood toward Keegan, splattering his pant leg. He curses and smashes me again.
I don’t mind that, because every drop of blood I shed will be evidence that can be used later. If they kill me, Casey will still talk to the press, and maybe someone will find this evidence.
“Casey knew I was coming here,” I say. “She’ll tell the press. You won’t get away with this.”
They exchange looks, then drag me to the elevator and push the button to the basement. It opens to a parking garage.
I yell again as they force me out, but Phillips slaps his hand over my mouth and threatens to strangle me. Keegan straps my ankles together and lifts my feet. I fight, thrashing with my knees and my head as they carry me to a car.
Keegan drops my feet and lets me stand as they get the back door open, then they shove me inside and slam the door.
I’ll be okay if they take me to jail. It’s just a matter of time until Macy Weatherow breaks the story. But jail isn’t our likely destination. My mind races as I study the doors for an escape. I twist my body and try to open the door, but the child lock is on.
Even if I could get the door open, I couldn’t get away with my feet bound. I have to wait it out or get the attention of someone passing on the street. But they turn down a back road where there isn’t much traffic, and it’s starting to grow dark.
“Call the lawyer back,” Keegan says to the DA as he starts up the car, and as if he’s Keegan’s trained puppy, Phillips clicks a number into his phone. When he hears the faint sound of ringing, Keegan snatches the phone from Phillips’s hand. As he pulls out of the parking lot, I hear Barbero’s voice.
“Barbero, this is Detective Keegan in Shreveport. We need to get a message to Casey Cox. Tell her we’ve got her lover here with us, and that we advise her to call off the interview she was about to do. Got that?”
I hear Barbero yelling on the other end.
“Bring her here today,” Keegan says. “Otherwise, let her imagine the consequences.”
I spit blood again and yell, “Don’t bring her here!”
I know Barbero hears me, because there’s more yelling. Keegan cuts the call off.
Keegan pulls the car over and thrusts the phone back to Phillips. He gets out of the car, yanks open the car door, lunges across the seat, and grabs me by my throat. I feel the blood pooling in my face, my ears burning, my throat being crushed.
After a minute, Keegan lets me go, and I gasp for breath and try to swallow. I’ll have bruises on my neck and inflammation in my throat at the very least. I cough, trying to breathe. Keegan’s eyes are as lethal as I’ve ever seen them as he breathes into my face. “You try to wave a flag again,” he says, “and I won’t wait. You’ll just be dead and we’ll be done with it. That’s what I wanted anyway. The only reason you’re alive is to get her to do what we want, Lover Boy.”
He walks to the passenger seat and tells Phillips to drive. Phillips gets out and goes around the car. The hierarchy here is dumbfounding. Keegan is definitely the big dog, and Phillips is submissive. Keegan must have something on him, or he’s paying him massive amounts of money. But petty extortion wouldn’t pay well enough to split it with so many, including the district attorney. I don’t get it.
“The lawyer said Casey would turn herself in at eight tomorrow morning,” Keegan says. “I told him that won’t work. It’s gotta be today. But we have to catch her before she actually does it. We can’t let her get to the police.”
“Is she going to talk to the press?” Phillips asks.
“No,” Keegan says. “Trust me. She doesn’t want him to die.”
They don’t know about Macy getting the thumb drive. If she reports it tonight, they’ll probably bury me alive.
I close my eyes and pray that God won’t let Casey walk into this trap. She knows she can’t turn herself in to Keegan, but she doesn’t know about the DA. I’m almost certain my e-mail didn’t go out to her. They must have blocked my Internet access.
Why didn’t I realize what Phillips was doing? How did I let this happen?
My mind flashes to an image of that Afghani store owner, sweeping his front sidewalk after our IED explosion, while my buddies lay in pieces just yards from his shop.
I shake my head, telling myself to stay present. I can’t succumb to another PTSD episode, but I’ve never been good at controlling it. I fight the nausea rising in me, the panic, the sweat drenching my clothes. The man keeps sweeping, ignoring the tragic suffering, looking away from the evil taking place right before him, the skin burning, the blood, the smell of death.
I latch onto a Bible passage that always gives me comfort. Romans 8:28. I move my lips to the words as that image of the Afghani storekeeper tries to pull me in.
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
All things . . . all things . . .
I fix my mind on that, playing the verse through my mind over and over, trusting it, believing it. Whatever happens, death or life, betrayal or escape . . . It’s going to work for good.
Isn’t it?
I say the verse again in my mind as the smell of smoke and scorched flesh almost chokes me. All things, I say as I’m there again, dragging Dex out of the fire . . .
All things. All things. All things.
My panic subsides, the image of the sweeping man and my dying friends fades like dust.
I’m here now, not on that street in Afghanistan. I force my mind to rehearse an escape. I look around, searching for anything I can use. But I can’t come up with a plan that works with my hands and feet bound. As I suspected, they’re driving away from the police department and not toward it, and I know I’m going to wind up in some remote location like Casey did last night, where I’ll be murdered and buried.
And Casey will still be considered a murderer, and she’ll never get away. All that we’ve been through will be worthless. She’ll never get her life back. Her family will grieve for her, and they won’t know if she’s dead or alive.
She’ll probably be dead.
No, I can’t fixate on that. All things work together for good.
I think of Jesus, suffering on a cross, bleeding to death, betrayed and mocked. That, even that, worked for good. And this will too, somehow, even if it seems like the worst possible thing.
All things.
I force my thoughts back to the possibility of escape. If I have any chance at all, it will come when they get me out of this car. I watch every turn, trying to keep track of the landmarks, and eventually we wind up driving down a long gravel road, past a mechanic’s shop that looks like its doors are boarded shut. The sign is rusty and fading. It hasn’t been open in a long time.
Keegan pulls onto a gravel road behind the shop, and we drive through forest for several minutes. Eventually a cabin emerges from the trees. It’s nicer than I expected, and I wonder if it’s another of Keegan’s expensive blood-money toys.
We pull up to the front of the house, and Keegan gets out and finds the house key under a rock in the garden. It must not be his house. He comes back to my door and opens it. He cuts the bindings on my ankles, freeing them.
“Get out,” he says, but before I can move he draws his weapon, holding it aimed at my head just in case I try to make a move.
The DA pulls out a firearm as well, and they’ve both got them trained on me. I sense that either one of them would be okay if the other one shot me right here on the spot, and they could be done with part of this nightmare. But they need me alive so they can manipulate Casey.
I let them walk me in. The house looks like it could be featured in a magazine. Every detail is perfect. Keegan goes to a room in the back of the house, then comes out with a metal rod that looks like a closet rod and some louvered doors. “It’s idiot proof now,” he says.
“Sure you want to keep his feet loose?” Phillips asks.
“Yeah, I’m sick of carrying him. Let him walk.”
Keegan leads me to a room that looks like it could be the maid’s quarters. It’s empty of any furniture, and the closet doors and rod have been removed.
They shove me in and lock the solid wood door. I look around for an escape. There aren’t any windows in here. The floor is carpeted, and there’s only one light fixture. The ceiling is ten feet high at least, so the fixture is too high for me to reach.
Casey will demand to hear my voice. If they let me talk to her, I’ll tell her to run. Leave the country. There’s truly no one she can trust.
But I fear it’s already too late.