Because with his head splitting in two, it took too much effort to mask his accent. “I’m not. This is what I really sound like.”
“You ain’t who you pretended to be,” Barry said.
“You’d figured that out already.”
“Barry,” Trudy said, volume blessedly lower. “Don’t interrogate the poor boy. He’s clearly in pain.”
“He’s ex-army and some sort of cop,” Barry correctly surmised. “He’s probably had his bell rung before.”
“I have.” He was a combat vet. He’d had his bell rung multiple times over. Didn’t make this particular ringing any less painful. “And I am.”
“DEA?” Barry guessed. “You here about the meth heads?”
“FBI. Special Agent Carter Warren.” Eyes still closed, Carter rolled onto his other side, still trying to escape the sun. “And I’m here about the serial killer that’s been hiding in Apex for twenty-five years.”
“Dr. Fear, right? That’s who Ryan is?”
“Yeah.” The sun was still chasing him. “Why haven’t you busted the window yet? Tried to escape?”
“One, because we’re tied up too. And two, because it’s a skylight.”
“Fuck.” He rolled onto his belly, dug his forehead into the floor, and used his abs to draw his knees up under him. He sat back on his bound feet and rested there, head hung, catching his breath and waiting for the world to stop spinning, for the pain and dizziness to subside.
Sedative plus concussion. The former was entered into willingly; the latter was an accident. He hadn’t meant to hit his head on the kitchen island as he’d passed out. Up until then, it had all proceeded according to plan. The one Carter had devised the moment he’d opened the door to Chancellor Ryan McCullough and realized that he’d been one party removed from the real Dr. Fear when he’d confronted Lawrence Petticoat.
Carter had made a decision in that instant: to let Ryan into the house. And then he’d kept making them: letting Ryan brew the coffee, drinking it, and continuing to chat about how much he’d already come to love Apex, all while the blackness at the edges of his vision encroached. And when only a pinpoint of focus remained, he’d struck a deal with a killer, all with the intention of ending up right here.
He lifted his head and eked open his eyes one at a time, moderating the onslaught of light-inflicted pain. Once it subsided, he slowly took in the big building. A-frame roof with skylights, open space from end to end, stables at the far end of the space but no sounds or smells of horses. Just some old farm equipment shoved up against one wall. Otherwise, the space was empty, save for the man and woman tied to the poles across from him. “We’re in a barn,” Carter said.
“Which is a fucking relief. Moved us up from the basement under here last night when he brought you in.”
“Whose property is this?”
“Belonged to the Johnsons,” Trudy said. “We all played here when we were kids.”
“Old man Johnson died in October,” Barry continued. “Kids sold the property. Pretty penny as it’s on the lake. The new owner is some science professor, but he doesn’t get here until summer.”
“Let me guess, crystallography?”
“That sounds right.”
Ryan hadn’t ordered all that equipment to woo a professor. The professor had already signed; it had been ready and waiting. And if Ryan had been watching over that . . . “Who’s watching this place until the new owner gets here?”
Barry laughed, unamused. “I’ll give you one guess.”
“Chancellor McCullough.”
Trudy shivered and Barry strained at his ropes, desperate to comfort his wife. “Just hang on, baby.”
Pain sliced through Carter. Not his head, but his heart. Imagining what the past twelve hours must have been like for Lincoln. Regretting the blowup at the library. Hoping like hell Lincoln would forgive him for all this, assuming they survived it.
“At least we’re out of the basement,” Barry said. “Better than it’s been the past two days.”
“Which of you is claustrophobic?” Carter asked.
“Me,” Barry replied. “Fell down a mine shaft when I was a kid.”
“Chancellor McCullough know that?”
