Guilty Minds

81

The beaten-earth yard around Vogel’s compound was crowded with a fleet of police vehicles, mostly from the local Maryland force. Kombucha was standing next to his unmarked car in a black overcoat. He waved when he saw us emerge from the compound.

I was glad to see him. I never thought I would be.

“You look like you need medical assistance,” he said, approaching.

I shook my head. “I’m good,” I said. “Thanks.”

I was in a lot of pain, but only when I breathed. I knew the wise course of action was to get to a hospital and get checked out and make sure I hadn’t also injured my spleen or my lungs. I’d been shot while wearing a ballistic vest before. I knew what could happen.

The wise course of action wasn’t what I chose, and Mandy couldn’t persuade me otherwise.

She was okay, she insisted. She hadn’t been injured or abused, beyond the discomfort of having to sleep on the floor in what was, after all, a cage, and the degradation of being forced to use a commode in front of a guard. I noticed Vogel’s backup hadn’t arrived after all. Maybe they were scared off by the police presence.

“Rasmussen?” I asked Kombucha.

He nodded. “Giving us the probable cause we need to search the compound.”

“I think client files are in the basement,” I said. “Will you excuse me a minute?”

Merlin was in the back of the UPS truck, and he looked antsy. “Nick,” he said, “I need to return this thing.”

“The truck?”

“The stingray. And the truck.”

“Hold on. Help me up.”

He extended a hand, and helped me up into the cargo bay of the truck. I was gritting my teeth and moaning as I climbed up.

“You get shot?” Merlin said, noticing the hole in the shirt of my uniform.

I nodded.

“Shit,” he said. “I can’t return it with a hole in it.”

“How about, ‘You okay, Nick?’”

“You okay, Nick?”

I nodded my head. I was still amped from all the adrenaline. But that was all right. It was probably keeping me from feeling much of the pain from the bruised ribs.

Merlin had been closely monitoring the stingray. I’d given him Vogel’s mobile number, so he knew which of the many numbers the stingray had logged — including even distant neighbors — to lock onto. Once he did, he watched the list of numbers Vogel called grow.

“Seven numbers,” he said. “Check it out.”

I scanned the list of phone numbers.

One of them I recognized, as I was afraid I would, and I felt sick.