Page 103 of Rage

I scan the room, looking for a back door or window, or anything I might be able to use as a weapon. There’s a lamp on the end table. A floor lamp behind the sofa. Are there knives in the kitchen drawer? I look toward the office, seeking a landline phone or computer, but neither is visible from where I’m sitting. I think about the cuff key in my duty belt, wonder if I can get to it without either man noticing.

A knock sounds. Brooks nearly jumps out of his skin. Smirking, the bouncer takes his beer with him and answers. He speaks in a low voice to someone unseen. A moment later, Lance Wingate strides into the room. The young woman who was with him at the club—the one who injected me—is on his arm.

Wingate looks at me and smiles. “I wish I could say I’m pleased you could join us this evening, Chief Burkholder. Since you’re here, can I get you a drink? I’m betting you’re craving something strong by now.”

I give him the best go-to-hell look I can muster, but his smile only widens. He turns to the young woman at his side. “You know the rules.”

Eyes defiant, she unbuttons her blouse and removes it. She’s not wearing a bra, but her nakedness doesn’t seem to bother her. It’s not until I see her walk toward the kitchen area that I realize she’s not quite steady on her feet.

“Get me a whiskey,” Wingate says to her and then looks at me. “Get the chief one, too. She and I are going to have a quick chat.”

Wingate crosses to where I’m sitting and takes the chair across from me. “I suspect you’re regretting your decision to pursue this case so doggedly about now.”

“The only thing I regret is that I couldn’t get to my thirty-eight fast enough to put a bullet in your forehead.”

He grins. “That’s good, Chief Burkholder. You hold on to all that bad attitude. You’re going to need it.”

“There’s still time for you to stop this,” I tell him. “Release me. Turn yourself in.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because we both know there’s no way in hell you or any of your dipshit pals are going to get away with whatever you have planned.”

“Perhaps we’ll wait and see how this plays out then.”

“I’m a cop,” I remind him. “You kill a cop in the state of Ohio and you’re looking at the death penalty.”

“Not if there’s no body.”

“My department, BCI, and the sheriff’s office are looking for me right now,” I tell him. “They won’t stop until they find me.”

The young woman approaches us, two tumblers of whiskey in her hands. Wingate takes one without looking at her, without thanking her. She offers one of the glasses to me. Her eyes are glazed. A false smile painted on her mouth.

I address her in Deitsch. “They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill you, too, because you’ve seen my face. If you want to live, call 911. Now.”

She raises the tumbler to her lips and knocks back half of the whiskey, but not before I see the flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

“Shut up,” Wingate snaps at me, then glowers at the woman. “Get lost.”

Giving him a disdainful look, the woman turns and strides back to the kitchen.

Wingate rests his left arm across the chair back and gives me his full attention. “You speak to her again and I’ll tape your fucking mouth shut. You got that?”

“How old is she?” I ask.

“Old enough to know how she wants to spend her time and who she wants to spend it with.”

“What did you give her? Heroin? Fentanyl?”

“Her choice, not mine.”

“You’re a sex trafficker,” I say. “A self-aggrandizing piece-of-shit pimp.”

“Such harsh judgment.” But the feigned good humor falls away. “Every individual is in charge of his or her own destiny.” When I don’t respond he continues. “If a young, unencumbered woman wants to take a walk on the wild side, who am I to stop her?”

“You’re a predator.”

“I’m an entrepreneur.”