“That rainbow tattoo? That real?” He studied my wrist with a curious expression.
I laughed, not sure what he’d do if I didn’t. “It was a fraternity dare. I told you I was getting it covered next week. How about you tell me why you thought it was okay to beat the fuck out of me?”
“It sets a tone for how much bullshit I’m willing to entertain from you, don’t you think?” He put both his hands on his hips and donned a cocky expression. I expected nothing less, certain the man wouldn’t know bullshit from chocolate mousse.
I believed men like Martin Dale deemed themselves true leaders for the rest of us poor slobs and would beat us into submission if we disagreed. “Or it sets the tone for the upcoming lawsuit I plan to file,” I snapped at him.
Dale laughed and pulled out a pocketknife, cutting the tape used to secure my hands and ankles. He offered his hand to help me up, but I channeled my cousin, the tough soldier, and I slapped it away, standing on my own and nearly passing out in the process from the pain in my torso brought on by the gut punches and kidney kicks.
“I like you, kid. You’re a go-getter, and I admire that in a man. So, what do you want to ask me in this interview? We can do it now if you want.”
I needed to buy time so I could figure out how to get in touch with Heath—or the police, sheriff, or anyone who could get me the fuck out of here. “I need my phone to make notes. I don’t have a laptop with me to write the article, but I could—”
“Let’s go to my place. I’ll let you use my laptop, but I’ll get your phone delivered to my cabin from the intake building. Let’s go. You didn’t get to eat, so I’m sure you’re starving.”
Eating was buying time, but I had to be sure he didn’t poison me. “Only if you join me. We can talk and set up any boundaries you have regarding questioning. Get a feel for the types of questions I’m going to ask.”
He slid his phone from his pocket and pressed some buttons. “I’m heading to my place. Bring our spy’s cell phone and bring us some food. We haven’t eaten. Thanks, Art.”
Martin turned to me. “On the way. Let’s go.”
We trekked through the woods until we came to a dirt path leading around a small body of water. The path veered to the right, but Martin kept going toward a large copse of cedar trees that blocked the view ahead.
“Where’s that path lead?” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder in the opposite direction we were going.
“That leads back to the campground. My place is up here. Where do you live exactly?” Martin slowed down, noticing I wasn’t speeding along as I prayed to die.
“Me? Oh, I live in Fairfax County up in Northern Virginia. Grew up there,” I answered. Might as well stick as closely to the truth as I could. Fewer lies to remember that way.
When we cleared the cedars, I saw a much nicer cabin than any of the others on the property. “Who owns this place?”
“Well, it’s sort of complicated. It’s owned by Word of God Church in Pinehurst, which my mother and I got kicked out of when I was younger, but I’ve been welcomed back since the former predatory minister disappeared a few years ago with the church’s money. I got some friends together, and we took the church back. I’m one of the elders, as is Art Judge, and—well, maybe don’t use this in the article—Marvin Thompson, Art’s half-brother, is another. He oversees the financial aspects of the church and the campground for us. He works in DC for a senator, I think, but he comes down when we’re having a recruiting drive like now.”
Ah, that had to be the man who hadn’t appeared as though he belonged on the stage with the rest of them. “Who was the guy in the overalls?”
Dale frowned. “That’s Owen Seifert. He’s sort of the loose cannon of the group. He handles problems when they come up, kinda like a head of security for the church and the campground. Anyway, there are more members of the church who—”
God, the information was coming at me so quickly, and I would never be able to remember it all. The sooner I got my phone, the better.
Knock! Knock!
Martin grinned. “That must be Art. He was fast.”
He walked over to the door and opened it. “Owen!”
The man standing there wasn’t Art Judge. It was the loose cannon, and he was dragging a bloody man behind him. When he flipped the guy over on the front porch, my breath hitched.
Chapter Fifteen
Sean
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, thank you for coming in to see us again,” Detective Compton said as he sat in the chair across from me, looking ten kinds of cocky, the prick.
I was in an interview room at the Indiana Avenue substation with Officer Mathers and Detective Compton. Austin Torrente was sitting in the waiting room, likely champing at the bit to get back to his husband, and I was slated to suffer through another round of questioning.
“It wasn’t as if I had a choice, Detective Compton. I have appointments this afternoon, so let’s get on with it. I’d like my phone back, by the way. What do you want to know?”
“You were out of town. Where’d you go?” Compton asked.
