he's been waylaid by some_ femme fatale_, let her think it." He thrust his arms into his coat
sleeves.
"He's your partner and you don't seem all that worried about him," accused Rhianna.
Cortesio jammed his ski cap down over his ears. "I know him, Marek. He's probably shacked up with
some hooker, drunk outta his gourd and having the time of his life."
"I won't accept that. Something's happened to him."
"Believe what you want." Cortesio pointed at Triplett. "I'd hold off with that goddamn APB if I was
you. Wouldn't even mention it to Darling until next week. The man is mad as hell at Nolan as it is and one
more feather in that pillow is gonna get that Mick shit canned."
"Don't worry about it," snapped Rhianna. "You just go on with your pat little world and leave finding
Conor to us!"
Cortesio opened his mouth, started to speak, but shook his head, spread his hands and bowed. "Have
it your way, Marek, but don't say I didn't warn you when he shows up Monday morning looking like
something dragged his ass through turpentine."
"I pray to God you're right," she said, her mouth tight. "I'll kiss your wop butt in front of the whole
squad room if he does."
"And if he doesn't?" Triplett asked quietly, catching Donne's eye. "What then?"
"Then," said Cortesio, his gaze flint hard, "we worry."
____________________
*Chapter Ten*
It was dark.
And cold. So very, very cold.
And soundless.
He reached out with the only means available to him and encountered only the dark and the cold and
the silence. The loneliness was unbearable and it pressed down on him like tons of dirt. The pressure of
his aloneness was a physical hurt that overshadowed the cold invading his body.
Yet there was another pain, far more agonizing than the frigid cold in which he was encased. It was far
more excruciating than the helplessness and loneliness that surrounded him. He experienced this pain with
such a degree of horror and hopelessness that it left him screaming soundlessly in his mind.
How long had he known this terror? He thought wildly as he struggled to swim up through the layers of
cold. How long had he lain here, enduring this agony that drove red-hot spikes through his brain and
spinal cord, the pain that clawed at his belly and oozed through his veins like crawling insects? How long
would the torture continue before he gave in?
"You must be taught," the man he had come to realize must be a Colombian had promised.
Striving hard to block the agony, Conor tried once more to reach beyond this hell into which he'd been
cast. For one brief, hopeful moment, he had sensed contact, but the pain came down on him so hard, it
drove him back, whimpering with defeat.
He slunk back, away from the hellish reprimand, and burrowed himself once more into the icy
wasteland that was now his mind. Crouching there, driven back into his unendurable loneliness, he felt
himself crying silent tears that ran like blood from his sightless eyes. He could not give in to what had
been demanded of him; he would not. His life was already forfeit. He could not allow his soul to be taken
as well.
"How strong are you?" they had taunted him. "Let's see how much of a man you are, pretty boy."
He heard the words in the deep recesses of his agonized brain and they sent shivers of hate through
him. They would never let him go, he knew. They had stolen his very life and he despised them for it.
The withdrawal symptoms started again.
"Oh, God," he moaned, feeling the cramps begin in his gut.
Were they coming? Was that the scrape of a footstep outside? Were they bringing the needle to jab it
into his thigh and douse the flame in his gut? Or would it be like the day before when he'd had to endure
the fires of hell as they withheld the drug for more than twelve hours before the black man came in to
stop his mindless screaming? Or the time several days before when he'd gone a full day in agony as his
addiction cried out to be relieved. How many times had
sleeves.
"He's your partner and you don't seem all that worried about him," accused Rhianna.
Cortesio jammed his ski cap down over his ears. "I know him, Marek. He's probably shacked up with
some hooker, drunk outta his gourd and having the time of his life."
"I won't accept that. Something's happened to him."
"Believe what you want." Cortesio pointed at Triplett. "I'd hold off with that goddamn APB if I was
you. Wouldn't even mention it to Darling until next week. The man is mad as hell at Nolan as it is and one
more feather in that pillow is gonna get that Mick shit canned."
"Don't worry about it," snapped Rhianna. "You just go on with your pat little world and leave finding
Conor to us!"
Cortesio opened his mouth, started to speak, but shook his head, spread his hands and bowed. "Have
it your way, Marek, but don't say I didn't warn you when he shows up Monday morning looking like
something dragged his ass through turpentine."
"I pray to God you're right," she said, her mouth tight. "I'll kiss your wop butt in front of the whole
squad room if he does."
"And if he doesn't?" Triplett asked quietly, catching Donne's eye. "What then?"
"Then," said Cortesio, his gaze flint hard, "we worry."
____________________
*Chapter Ten*
It was dark.
And cold. So very, very cold.
And soundless.
He reached out with the only means available to him and encountered only the dark and the cold and
the silence. The loneliness was unbearable and it pressed down on him like tons of dirt. The pressure of
his aloneness was a physical hurt that overshadowed the cold invading his body.
Yet there was another pain, far more agonizing than the frigid cold in which he was encased. It was far
more excruciating than the helplessness and loneliness that surrounded him. He experienced this pain with
such a degree of horror and hopelessness that it left him screaming soundlessly in his mind.
How long had he known this terror? He thought wildly as he struggled to swim up through the layers of
cold. How long had he lain here, enduring this agony that drove red-hot spikes through his brain and
spinal cord, the pain that clawed at his belly and oozed through his veins like crawling insects? How long
would the torture continue before he gave in?
"You must be taught," the man he had come to realize must be a Colombian had promised.
Striving hard to block the agony, Conor tried once more to reach beyond this hell into which he'd been
cast. For one brief, hopeful moment, he had sensed contact, but the pain came down on him so hard, it
drove him back, whimpering with defeat.
He slunk back, away from the hellish reprimand, and burrowed himself once more into the icy
wasteland that was now his mind. Crouching there, driven back into his unendurable loneliness, he felt
himself crying silent tears that ran like blood from his sightless eyes. He could not give in to what had
been demanded of him; he would not. His life was already forfeit. He could not allow his soul to be taken
as well.
"How strong are you?" they had taunted him. "Let's see how much of a man you are, pretty boy."
He heard the words in the deep recesses of his agonized brain and they sent shivers of hate through
him. They would never let him go, he knew. They had stolen his very life and he despised them for it.
The withdrawal symptoms started again.
"Oh, God," he moaned, feeling the cramps begin in his gut.
Were they coming? Was that the scrape of a footstep outside? Were they bringing the needle to jab it
into his thigh and douse the flame in his gut? Or would it be like the day before when he'd had to endure
the fires of hell as they withheld the drug for more than twelve hours before the black man came in to
stop his mindless screaming? Or the time several days before when he'd gone a full day in agony as his
addiction cried out to be relieved. How many times had
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