Marek and Trip were almost to Rhianna's Mustang when Nolan came out of the precinct house. He
hurried toward them, shielding his eyes from the bright morning light.
"Rhianna!
"
Trip glanced back and saw Nolan coming toward them. "I take it last night didn't live up to your
expectations."
"Get bent," Marek snapped as she jerked open her door. She slid beneath the wheel and jammed the
keys into the ignition. "Let's go. We don't have all day, Triplett."
Trip ducked his head and peered through the passenger window. "I think your boyfriend wants to talk
to you."
"Will you get in the goddamned car?" she snarled at him and wrenched the key.
"Running away, are we?" Trip chuckled, opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat.
Rhianna shot him a withering look as she twisted in her seat to look out the rear window.
"Goddamn it!" Nolan called. "Wait a minute!"
Trip stared at Rhianna as his partner's mouth tightened and she used a word he had never heard her
utter. His mouth dropped open as she shot out of the parking space, nearly running Nolan over in the
process. If the Irishman hadn't jumped between two parked cars, Marek would have flattened him for
sure.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, Rhianna!" Trip jerked his head around to make sure Nolan was all right.
"Didn't you see Irish standing back there?" Already they were moving out of the parking lot with a hell of
a lot more speed than was either safe or legal.
"I saw him."
Neville Triplett turned his head and stared at his partner's stony profile. "Wanna tell me what happened
between you two?"
"No." The word had a ring of finality
Trip chewed on his lower lip for awhile, then reached out to put a brotherly hand on her rigid shoulder.
"Want me to beat the son of a bitch to a bloody pulp for you? Crate him up and ship him over to
Belfast?"
Rhianna laughed and shook her head. "Thanks, but I can handle him." She leaned her cheek against
the back of his hand. "You're a doll for offering, though."
"How 'bout I castrate him? How'd that be?"
"Painful for him, I'd think." She laughed again. "Don't worry about it, Trip. Everything's okay."
"You're sure?"
She nodded. "I'm sure."
"No more kissy-face in the break room, huh?"
Rhianna shook her head. "No more kissy-face."
****
Conor Nolan stood in the middle of the parking lot and stared after Rhianna's car. It was bad enough
that he was so sick he could barely stand; now he had his conscience to contend with and that was
worse yet.
The bright sunlight was an agony blinding him and once more the nausea leapt up his parched throat
and pushed at his uvula. He swallowed it down again, retching as he did, and bent over the pavement,
vomiting the vilest tasting, most evil smelling liquid up from the very pit of him.
"Easy does it, bro," he heard someone say as hands reached to steady him. Strong arms went around
his waist and held him. "Did you drink the whole freaking distillery man?" He recognized Brett Samuel's
voice.
"It sure as hell feels like I did," Nolan admitted. "Do me a favor and get me a taxi; I left my car at
home this morning."
"Nah, man, I'll drive you," his rescuer told him. "You live on Devon Way, don't you?"
"Yeah," Nolan managed to answer before his knees buckled. He would have crashed had not the man
beside him tightened his grip.
*Chapter Seven*
Not long after sunset, Conor Nolan turned over in bed and groaned. He had been lying there since
one o'clock, alternating between freezing and retching into the plastic pail Samuel had placed beside his
bed. He felt himself dehydrating and his stomach had not stopped cramping all day. His head felt as
though a Pygmy tribe had crawled inside his skull and were stomping around on his brain. He had made
up his mind to call Joe and ask him to cart him to the hospital.
Sitting up, he clutched at the side of the mattress to keep from spiraling into the out of control
merry-go-round that was his bedroom. The bed tilted wickedly beneath him and he gagged, barely
making it over the pail before more ghastly fluid erupted from his belly.
"My poor, poor baby. Did I give you too much X?"
Nolan jumped, his heart nearly stopping at the sound of the low voice, which spoke almost in his ear.
He jerked around, his eyes going wide as he saw her standing at the foot of his bed. How had she gotten
in?
"It will pass," she told him as she glided toward him, a glass of bubbling liquid in her hand. "Here,
baby. Drink this."
He tried to protest, but she sat down beside him and thrust the glass to his lips. Reluctantly, he drank,
grimacing at the horrid taste that flooded his mouth.
"That should ensure your cooperation, stud."
"Cooperation?" he asked, feeling his head begin to swim worse than ever. His mouth went numb.
"Hard to focus, isn't it?" she said, grinning at him.
"What did you give me?" His body wracked with pain; the hurt growing worse with every passing
minute. He was on fire, he felt like his blood was boiling inside his veins. Bright pinpoints of light played
across his vision like will-'o-the-wisps.
"Just a little something to make you more controllable, warrior."
Her matter-of-fact tone left him stunned and he gaped at her, bending over, clutching at the spasm in
his gut.
"You p-poisoned me!" he accused, squeezing his eyes shut to help blot out the agony in his belly.
"No. But you just might wish I had by the time he's through with you."
"He?" Conor forced his eyes open.
Then he saw the four masked men standing just inside his bedroom.
"Wanna have a good time, pig?" one of the men asked, holding a hypodermic needle.
Nolan flung himself from the bed, tried to get away, but another unholy bout of pain buckled his knees
and brought him crashing to the floor. He fell face down trying desperately to crawl forward. Pain so
brutal it took away his breath brought his knees up and he clutched at his gut.
*Chapter Eight*
Conor came to consciousness lying on the floorboard of a moving vehicle. He couldn't see anything. A
tight, pulling constriction covered his eyes. He grunted through the obstruction over his mouth, tried to
turn from his belly and found he couldn't. His ankles were bound tightly together and his hands were
cuffed behind his back. The pain in his shoulders was agonizing and his head throbbed so fiercely he had
to grind his teeth to keep from groaning.
"He's waking up," he heard a man say.
"About time. She didn't give him that much," another answered with a Latin accent.
When the vehicle stopped, Nolan was pulled bodily into the frigid February air and dragged into a
musty-smelling place. They stripped the tape from his eyes and he stared around him with growing alarm.
He saw the metal siding that encircled him and knew from his childhood days on a farm that he was
inside an abandoned silo. He could be anywhere in the Midwest for all he knew.
They stripped him down to his briefs, then chained him spread-eagle to a lumpy cot. He fought
savagely, but it accomplished nothing save adding to the bruises already on his aching muscles. When the
Latino ran his hand down Conor's thigh, Nolan stilled instantly, snuffing in a sharp breath.
"Well, now," said the Latino. "And what is this?" Icy fingers probed at the inside of his left thigh -
testing, stroking. A masked head lifted and turned to face the prisoner.
Nolan stared upward and watched amusement turn the dark eyes bright behind slits in the ski mask.
"This is very interesting," the man said, a hint of mirth in his thick voice. He ran his palm up and down
the sensitive flesh of Conor's thigh.
Conor closed his eyes, feeling helpless to the very depths of his being. He kept them closed as they
tied something tightly around his upper thigh.
The Latino pressed down on the femoral artery, ran his thumb up and down it, bringing it up to the
surface. "Good veins," he complimented. "I should have no trouble."
Nolan held his breath as sharp pain tripped the rhythm of his heart to jackhammer speed. The burning
sensation spread up his thigh, into his groin, hips, side, then the numbness began.
Warmth, spreading and insinuating, freewheeling and world-tilting, flooded Nolan's entire body,
flowing rapidly toward his brain, cutting him off from reality. He felt himself relaxing against his will, going
limp despite his great desire not to, unable to move although every fiber in his being begged him to fight.
"That's it, brown eyes," the man taunted, reaching up to smooth the hair from Conor's forehead. "Go
with the flow, baby. Just go with the flow."
The lassitude set in; the cotton-enveloped sound shushed through his ears; his heartbeat slowed.
"You like that, don't you,
amigo?"
That godawful accent was almost more than Conor could bear.
"If he don't, he'll learn to like it before we're through with him!" came a raucous reply from one of the
other men.
"Oh, he knows what he's in for, don't you, brown eyes?" the Latino cooed in Conor's ear. "Or at least
he thinks he knows!"
Conor tried to block out the man's voice. The heroin raced through his system, enveloping him in
memories he had hoped to never experience again.
*Chapter Nine*
Rhianna pulled open the door to the church and walked inside. The faint scent of sandalwood played
over her senses, bringing a comfort she hadn't felt since childhood. Dipping her fingers into the holy water
font, she made the Sign of the Cross, then walked halfway down the red-carpeted aisle, stopped,
genuflected, and sat down in a pew. She lowered the kneeler then went to her knees to take her troubles
to the one person she knew could help.
For a few moments, she recited the prayers of her childhood: the Our Father, three Hail Marys, one or
two more than had been ingrained into her psyche by the nuns at St. Rose of Lima. When she finished,
she stared hard at the crucifix hanging beyond the altar, and began to say the words she felt she had to
say.
"I know he's alive, Lord," she whispered, though she was alone in the quaint little church of St. Mary's
in Grinnell. "I know he's alive and out there suffering. I can't believe he's dead, though everyone wants me
to accept that." She shook her head. "I can't accept it and I won't." She squeezed her eyes shut. "If I
accept that Coni is dead, I have to accept that I will never see him again this side of Heaven."
There was a slight creak behind her and she tensed, turned to look, then relaxed. A white-haired priest
walked up the aisle. He smiled as he passed, accepting Rhianna's return to her prayers without asking if
he could help.
Rhianna watched the middle-aged priest walk into the north sacristy. She did wish to speak to him, but
not at that moment. Lowering her head, she spoke again, her words mere breaths of sound in the empty
church.
"Blessed Mother, please protect him. Keep him safe for me. Bring him home to us." Tears slid down
her cheeks and dripped silently onto her clenched hands. "Intercede with your Son. Ask Him please not
to take Coni away from us. I…"
The sobs tore from her like crashing waves. She slumped down, her forehead pressed against the
oaken back of the pew in front of her. Her shoulders heaving with grief and frustration, she barely felt the
gentle hand on her shoulder.
"How can I help?"
Rhianna shook her head, knowing it was the priest who sat beside her. "There is nothing any of us can
do, Father," she cried. Lifting her head, she looked at him. "Only God can help and I'm not even sure
He's listening anymore."
Fr. Reynolds smiled sadly. "He always listens. He's always there when you need Him." He reached
down to cover her trembling hands with his own. "Would you like to tell me what's troubling you so?"
Rhianna lowered her head. "Yes," she whispered, "but…"
The priest patted her hands. "But?" he prompted.
She eased one of her hands from under his and wiped at her face. When he produced a clean white
handkerchief, she looked at him then smiled shakily. "I need to go to Confession first." She glanced back
at the confessional doors.
He nodded and eased out of the pew. "I'll wait for you."
Rhianna drew in a long breath, then let her attention drift once more to the cross. "Please, God," she
asked. "Please bring him home to me safe and sound. Please?"
When she entered the confessional booth, Rhianna sank to her knees at the screen. "I am so afraid,
Father," she admitted.
"Take your time," was the gentle reply.
A long moment passed before Rhianna gathered the courage to speak. When she did, there was relief
in her shaky voice.
"Bless me, Father," she finally began, "for I have sinned…"
****
Rhianna looked up, her eyes bleak. "What did she say?"
Triplett shrugged. "Hasn't seen him, Rhee," he replied. "Hasn't spoken to him in a couple of months
and hasn't heard from him at all." He sat down beside her and ran his hand through his hair. "It's like he
just walked off the face of the Earth."
"How can that be?" she demanded. She got to her feet and started pacing. "He wouldn't have just up
and disappeared."