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He'd told Karen he was taking matters into his own hands, nipping things in the bud. Well, he'd planned to. He'd already taken steps to achieve that end, although he'd veered in a different direction than he'd originally intended. But he had to live with himself— and, hopefully, with Karen. If those damned detectives had only solved the crimes, he could have slithered off into the sunset, leaving minimal upheaval in his wake. Instead, they'd come up empty and now there'd been another murder attempt, which meant a stepped-up investigation and an accusation waiting right around the bend. An accusation against the most likely suspect— him.
He was damned if he told the truth and damned if he lied. And he'd just run out of time. "Mr. Hager?"
Stan nearly jumped out of his skin as Dr. Radison approached him from behind. He whipped around. "Yes?"
The doctor gave him a curious look. "Mr. Brooks is asking for you. He's doing well, by the way. No lasting effects from this morning's shock, if that's what's got you so on edge."
"Great." Stan's relief was as tangible as it was real. Carson had to get well. He had to. Because
no matter how things played out, Stan had a painful and long-overdue confession to make.
"You can go down to his room now," Radison prodded.
"Oh. Thanks." Stan sucked in his breath, straightened his shoulders, and marched down the hall. This whole meeting could be a no-biggie. Maybe he was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. But he didn't think so.
He pushed open the door and walked in.
Carson was sitting up in bed. He did look stronger, and there were only a few tubes and contraptions still hooked up to him, plus his IVs and that shunt-thing in his arm used for the dialysis. But his expression was intense, brooding, like he had something heavy on his mind.
Stan knew that look. And it wasn't a good sign.
"Hey," he greeted his friend, pulling up a chair and forcing himself to sit down and appear relatively calm. "Radison says you're doing great."
Angling his head slightly, Carson gave Stan a penetrating stare. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. And I'm sure as hell not going to sugarcoat what I have to say. Not to you. Not after what you've done. Whitman and Barton are another story. They'll get the modified version. That way we can minimize the trouble you get into. I'm not sure you deserve the protection. But you're my friend, so you're getting it. As for now, when we're one-on-one, you're going to hear exactly what I think of you. Then, we'll get into the song and dance we're going to lay on the cops to save your ass."
The knot in Stan's gut tightened, and he paled as his worst fears were confirmed. "You honestly believe I tried to kill Sabrina tonight?" he blurted out. "Worse, you think I tried to kill you?" He groped for his pills, popped another into his mouth. He didn't give a damn how many he'd taken. His insides were on fire.
He reached over to Carson's tray. Taking a glass, he poured some water from the pitcher with a hand that shook so badly the water sloshed everywhere. Then, he swallowed the pill and put down the glass. He was sweating, and he yanked out a handkerchief, mopping at his forehead. "Christ, you really think I'm a killer. The scary part is, I can't blame you. But I'd never... I'd never..." He broke off, dropping his head in his hands as he realized how lame anything he said would sound.
"Hey." Carson's voice brought his head up. There was an odd expression on his friend's face—a combination of sorrow, pity, and nostalgia. "You've suffered a hell of a lot, haven't you?" Carson muttered. "I guess in many ways that's punishment enough. No, Stan, I don't think you tried to kill anyone. In fact, I know you didn't. It's time the cops knew, too. So later today, we're going to tell them."
Taken aback by Carson's response, Stan turned his palms up in a baffled gesture. "I've already told them. Repeatedly."
"They need proof. You've got it. Give them your alibi."
"What alibi? I was home watching TV and—"
"You weren't home watching TV," Carson interrupted. "You were in Tuckahoe, screwing Karen. Just like you were last night when Sabrina and Dylan were attacked. Once the cops know that, they'll go away." Silence.
"And before you ask, I know everything. About Karen, about the updates on Pruet, about the twenty years it's been going on. The works."
Stan sank weakly back in his seat. "I don't believe this. Why didn't you call me on it? Why didn't you do something, like throw my ass out the door?"
"Because you're a better COO than you give yourself credit for. Also, because you're my oldest friend. And don't make me sound quite so soft and squishy. I did do something. I kept tabs on you like you wouldn't believe. My PI practically lives up your ass. I also made sure you were isolated from any projects that might entice you to use what you'd learned from Karen. You have Dylan to thank for that. He's a hell of a lawyer. He kept you clean, and now he's laid out a plan to help keep your ass out of jail. But before I get into that, tell me two things. Where do things stand with Ferguson, and what the hell were you shredding when I called today?"
"Dylan's in on this, too?" Stan managed in a faint voice.
"Damn straight. I'm not a lawyer. I needed to protect Ruisseau. That's what I pay Dylan for. Now answer my questions—Ferguson and the shredding."
Ferguson. The shredding. Jesus, Carson really did know everything. And apparently, so did Dylan.
"I'll answer your questions. Just tell me who else knows."
"Sabrina. I told her a few hours ago. Whitman and Barton will come later. I wanted to talk to you first."
Nodding, Stan rose, drawing in a breath and running a shaky hand through his hair. "Ferguson's off the hook. I told him so this morning. What I was shredding were any personal notes from Karen, copies of Pruet's internal memos, and details I'd jotted down based on what Karen passed along. I never used any of it, by the way. I'm not sure I could have brought myself to, even if they'd been needed. I felt like a shit. I just needed to feel in control." A hard swallow. "No point in telling you what you already know. Just tell me what you don't know, and I'll fill you in."
"How did Ferguson find out what was going on?"
