else you can remember from that conversation?”
I took a sip of the coffee from the thermos cup and realized it had cooled considerably. Still, it wet my throat and that was primarily what I was after.
“His manner of speech, maybe,” I replied.
“How so?”
“This morning he was much more formal. He seemed calm, and his selection of wording was less conversational and more like it was staged. That’s pretty much how he was that night on the bridge as well. Deliberate and rehearsed.”
“That’s not uncommon when dealing with a psychosis,” she returned, making a quick note. “The insane will often slip between conversational and non-conversational English. It’s an indicator of the individual’s current state of stability.”
“Yeah.” I nodded in agreement. “But this whacko is a wildcard. It’s when he sounds rational that I really get worried.”
“That’s how most of them are,” Agent Kavanaugh replied with a curt nod as she proceeded to circle a few more spots within her page of notes. “I want to go ahead and get this out to the team so they can get it up on the board for the negotiator,” she told me as she stood up, still perusing the handwritten words. “I shouldn’t be gone for very long. There’s an agent right outside…”
“…To make sure I stay inside,” I completed her sentence.
“I was going to say, in case you need anything,” she replied flatly.
“Yeah, okay,” I said, unable to keep all of the sarcasm out of my tone.
“But since you brought it up…” She purposely allowed the comment to go uncompleted.
“I’ll be good,” I replied. “But could you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Ben Storm,” I said. “The detective I was with. Could you let him know where I am? He tends to worry like a mother hen.”
“He already knows,” she told me. “But I’ll say something to him.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
CHAPTER 36:
Agent Kavanaugh had only been gone for a minute or so, and I was finally starting to come down from the most recent in the daylong series of adrenalin dumps my body had been experiencing.
I looked behind myself, first over my left shoulder; and then over my right, just to make sure I wasn’t about to touch something that I shouldn’t; then I leaned back against the wall of the van. This was no easy task considering the bulk of the flak vest I was trussed up in. If I hadn’t thought Kavanaugh would throw a fit, I would have taken it off before she returned.
The metal bench I was seated on wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it beat standing. I gave a quick glance down its length and postulated that I just might be able to stretch out on it if I positioned myself correctly. After a healthy measure of seconds spent considering the idea, I decided I had better not.
It seemed ironic to me that I had just been sitting here discussing the mental state of Eldon Porter with an FBI agent because in reality, right now my own psyche was as fragile as spun glass. I was rafting on emotional whitewater, and my oar was lodged under a boulder two hundred yards behind me.
On the one hand, I was relieved that Porter was holed up in the building because at least now we knew where he was. On the flip side, I feared for the safety of his hostage, not to mention the overwhelming guilt I felt because that hostage was Star.
Then there was everything in between. I was jittery, disgusted, sad, excited, angry, and virtually any other emotion you could think of, all at once. I was struggling with the sudden shifts from one to the next as I would run through the full range, only to find myself repeating it all over again in the very next moment.
The one thing that remained constant was the fact that I was just flat out exhausted.
I tilted my head back and tried to relax. I knew Agent Kavanaugh would probably be back any moment, and as soon as she was, the questions would start all over again. Her story had impressed upon me the importance of this interview, but I was still dealing with my overwhelming impatience.
What my irrational brain wanted me to do was rush into the building and bring about an end to Eldon Porter once and for all. What my logical brain wanted for me was to go to sleep. The few hours I’d managed to abscond with earlier had held me over for a while, but they were nothing more than a stopgap. I needed to be unconscious for a while-a long while-but I was afraid that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.
Drained as I was, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep even if I tried. The headache that had started me on this odyssey was still in place and stronger than ever. It was going to be a while yet before I got my reprieve.
I found myself denying the diametrically opposed ideas being tossed about by the hemispheres of my brain and concentrating instead on the events of the past twenty-odd hours in search of answers to yet unasked questions. I was methodically trying to remember minute details of the day, unimportant and utterly mundane but details nonetheless. However, each time I would happen upon a gem to grasp, my overtaxed brain would release the previous tidbit and send it floating away into dark obscurity. The whole exercise quickly turned into a game of “keep away,” where I was the odd man out, desperately chasing after things that I remembered and then promptly forgot again.
I allowed myself to slouch lower then shoved my hands into my coat pockets for lack of anyplace else to put them. My right knuckles immediately thumped against something hard. I pondered the sensation absently for a moment and then wrapped my fingers around whatever it was and pulled it out. I’m not sure what my clouded brain was expecting, but it was only my cell phone. I vaguely recalled someone giving me my charred coat at the hospital, which must have been when I recovered the device. I guessed that Felicity must have transferred it to this jacket when we arrived home.
The sight of the phone in my hand renewed a little hope. It reminded me that I wasn’t as cut off from the outside as I had been feeling. I punched the power button and waited as the lights behind the dialing keys winked on, then the display flashed my number across the screen. I automatically thumbed out the pattern of Felicity’s cell number that my hand had memorized then hit send and put the phone to my ear.
I listened as the ring tone sounded at the other end a trio of times before ending abruptly in the middle of the fourth. The half-buzz was followed by a tired but familiar Celtic-patterned voice.
“Aye, Rowan?” Felicity asked.
“Yeah, honey, it’s me,” I replied. “Where are you?”
“We’re at the hospital. University down on Kingshighway.”
“Good hospital,” I murmured. “So how are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “What about you then?”
“Tired and achy,” I admitted. “But still in one piece.”
“Aye, you’d best stay that way.”
“I don’t think I have much choice,” I told her. “The FBI has me sitting in the back of a panel van trussed up in a bulletproof vest with an agent right outside the door.”
“Good for them,” she answered. “Remind me to send a thank you card.”
I ignored her jibe. “How’s Constance?”
“Aye, it looks like she’ll be fine. The doctor didn’t want to tell me anything at first, but I convinced him I was her sister.”
“And he fell for that?” I asked. “You two don’t look anything alike.”
“Aye, and what’s your point then? We’re twin sisters from different parents.”
“Yeah, sure,” I half chuckled. “I can see that.”
“Anyway,” she continued. “She has a broken nose, a concussion, two broken ribs, and a fractured wrist. Most of it came from the airbag they think.”
