slipped beyond hearing, feeling, or seeing.
****
"How could this have happened?" Dr. Gilbert shouted at his nurses. He was furious and his normally
placid face was mottled with rage.
"We checked on him at midnight," the night duty nurse stammered. "He was fine."
"He's in a_ coma!_" the doctor bellowed. "A goddamn coma! He isn't fine now, is he?"
Franc Boucharde wasn't fond of hospitals, but he had a vast amount of respect for physicians. In his
twenty years with the Bureau, he'd met quite a few, but none had impressed him even half as much as this
man. The doctor's temper was something to behold. He wondered if there wasn't a Cajun lurking in Dr.
Gilbert's family tree.
"Get his sister on the phone," the doctor ordered the frightened nurses. "And Detective Marek! How
am I going to explain this to her?"
"They didn't try to kill him, did they?" Boucharde asked, intercepting the doctor who was bulldozing
his way down the corridor.
"No, thank God." Dr. Gilbert barely glanced at the FBI agent. "But if I find out it was someone on my
staff who did this, you'll be arresting
me
for murder!"
"Do you know yet what he was given?"
"Triftazine, a very potent neuroleptic drug," the doctor snapped. "The syringe was lying on the floor
next to the bed. I have no idea how much they administered, but mixed with the other drugs I've been
giving him, it induced the coma."
"This will set back his recovery time, won't it?"
"Hell, yes, it will!" the doctor thundered. He stopped and spun around as a nurse came running down
the hall calling out his name urgently.
"What?
"
"Mrs. Greiner said to tell you," the nurse said, breathing heavily for she was overweight and out of
shape, "she is her brother's next of kin."
"I
know
that!"
"She's going to have him moved," the nurse continued, untouched by the physician's fury.
"Moved?" Dr. Gilbert's voice lowered to a deadly whisper.
"While I was on the phone with her, she put through a conference call to her lawyer. It was her
lawyer's suggestion that they move him to a private clinic where he will be safe."
"If you incompetent nincompoops had been watching him, he would have been safe!"
"We'll put a twenty-four hour guard on him," Boucharde promised. "No matter where she takes him."
"The Midwest Clinic," the nurse said, eyeing the agent with speculation. "It's in Altoona."
"At least one good thing came out of this," Dr. Gilbert snapped.
"How's that?" Boucharde inquired, failing to see anything helpful in having Conor Nolan comatose.
Dr. Gilbert scowled. "Now they have to believe him," the physician stated firmly. "He didn't inject
himself and there are bruises on his wrists where they held him down." He glared at the FBI agent.
Boucharde nodded. "I agree. Even Darlington will have to concede Irish was telling the truth."
****
"I've put a guard at his door and one at both entrances to the clinic. We're not going to take any
chances with him, Rhianna," Darlington told her.
"Other than camping out across the street, I don't guess there's much I can do until that snotty uptown
bitch allows me to see him." said Rhianna.
"I'll keep you informed," he said, knowing that was uppermost in her mind. "She can't keep us from
speaking to his doctor." The Captain folded his hands on his desktop and looked her in the eye. "There
was another reason I called you in."
"If you're thinking of putting me on the Yelverton murder…" Her boss held up his hand.
"I've an assignment for you, but it's one you won't mind handling." He tapped his clenched hands on
the desk blotter. "Think you could work with Boucharde on Irish's case?"
"Boucharde is handling it?"
"Kidnapping is a Federal offense and since he's family, so to speak, the Bureau let him have the case.
He had to pull some strings to get them to let you tag along…"
"Tag along where?" Rhianna cut in. She sure as hell didn't want to get too far away from Irish.
"I may regret allowing this," the Darling said with a sigh, "but Boucharde has asked that you
accompany him to Austin."
"Austin, Texas?" Rhianna gasped. "What the hell is in Austin, Texas?"
"Other than the state capitol?" Darlington smiled. "A man named Daniel Keane."
"Who's Daniel Keane?"
"He's an agent with the ATF down there," Franc Boucharde answered for Darlington. He smiled at
Rhianna as he stepped into the Captain's office. "He called us and said he would like to talk to you. Says
it's urgent."
"Me?" she asked.
Boucharde shrugged. "He says he read about you in the paper."
"Read about me?" she repeated. "In Texas?"
"About Conor Nolan's disappearance and your connection to him," said Boucharde.
"That was in a paper in Texas?"
"All he said was he wanted to talk to you and nobody else. He said he could be a help to us."
"Is this on the up and up, Boucharde?" she demanded. "Or is he some wacko who sees Elvis at the
local gas station every other Wednesday?"
"It's every third Wednesday." Boucharde sighed. "Listen, I've checked out the dude. He's a decorated
cop; fifteen-year veteran. I don't know what he's got to say, but I think it's worth a shot."
****
"Daniel Keane?" Boucharde asked, showing his badge. "I'm Special Agent Boucharde and this is
Detective Rhianna Marek from the New Gregory, Iowa police."
"Come in," Keane said, stepping out of the way. "This is the worst rain storm to hit Austin in years.
You're getting soaked."
Rhianna smiled as she passed the man they had come to Texas to see. "If it starts raining any harder, I
suggest you think about building an ark, Agent Keane."
"Isn't it awful?" He took their sopping raincoats and umbrella, then swept a hand toward his living
room. "Please, sit down. I'll hang these up and get us some coffee."
The sofa, onto which Rhianna gratefully sank, was as soft as a marshmallow and seemed to mold itself
around her. The plane ride had been bumpy; the seats very uncomfortable as only coach airplane seats
can be. The ride into Austin from the airport, a nightmare of slashing ineffective windshield wipers,
seemed to take forever.
"My God," Boucharde proclaimed as another gust of hellish wind pushed against the stucco house and
rain battered down on the tile roof. "If this isn't tornado weather, nothing is!"
"We've had warnings all morning," Keane told them as he brought in a tray with a silver coffee service
and three delicate porcelain cups. He placed the tray on the glass-topped coffee table. "Hope you like
French Roast."
"You have a lovely home," Rhianna commented, taking in the Spanish-style fixtures, which melded so
well with the home's exterior.
"I have a friend who's an interior decorator," he replied. "I get a discount at his store."
As Keane poured coffee into one of the cups, Rhianna couldn't help but noticed the man's hand
trembling. When he handed her the cup, he met her gaze and smiled.
"I've been ill," he explained.
"I'm sorry." She declined his offer of sugar and cream.
After all three were sitting back with their coffees, Boucharde cleared his throat, gaining Keane's
attention. "How long have you been in recovery?"
There was a slight flushing of Daniel Keane's face, but his polite smile did not waver. "About ten
months now."
Rhianna turned to look at Boucharde, but he was sipping his coffee as though they had been discussing
the weather.
"I know you're anxious to hear what I have to say about Coni," Keane said, putting aside his cup.
"Connie?" Rhianna questioned. "Who's she?"
"Conor," Keane laughed. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "From the newspaper articles,
I understand his friends in Iowa call him Irish." He laughed again. "When I knew Coni, if anyone had
dared called him Irish, he'd have stomped them."
"You know Conor Nolan?" asked Boucharde.
Keane nodded. "For a long, long time. We went to military school together."
Rhianna's brows shot up. "Really?"
Their host nodded again. "We were very close back then. I've kinda kept up with what he's been
doing over the years." He blushed. "I finally broke down and subscribed to the _New Gregory
Press-Gazette_ about a year ago."
"Conor Nolan was missing for five months," Boucharde reminded him. "His disappearance was
mentioned a week after it happened. Why did you wait so long to call us?"
Keane shrugged. "As I said, I've been ill." He ducked his head. "I was in a clinic for more than two
months. Came out and had to go back for another month." When he looked up, his smile was in place
once more. "But I'm much better now."
"When we spoke on the phone," Boucharde said, "you said you might be able to help us find out what
happened to Conor."
Daniel Keane's smiled slipped away this time. "I didn't know, you see, until after I came home from the
Clinic the second time that Coni had been abducted. There were four months worth of newspapers to go
through. It took me awhile to read them." His mouth quivered. "When I read that Coni was missing, I
nearly had a heart attack. When I read he'd been found and was in the hospital, I knew what had
happened."
"And that was?" Boucharde prompted.
"That he had been kidnapped by people who shot him full of heroin, getting him hooked on the stuff."
"How
did you know, Danny?" Rhianna asked.
Keane's smile returned, but there was a pained look in his dark blue eyes. "Because they had done it
to me, too."
Rhianna drew in a quick breath. "When was this?"
"Back in September of last year," Keane replied. He plucked at a loose thread on the chair arm.
"There were four masked men who showed up at my house late one night while I was taking a shower.
Lindsey, my roommate, had let them in."
"What happened then?" prompted Boucharde.
"When I came out of the shower, someone grabbed me from behind, pushed me down on the floor,
and I felt a sharp pain in my arm. The next thing I remember is waking up on the floor of a van, trussed
up like a Christmas goose."
No mention had been made in the papers of the actual details of Conor Nolan's abduction. Everything
Keane had said so far was exactly as Conor had described his own experience.
Except one.
"I take it Lindsey was your lover. Was he in on it?" Rhianna asked.
Keane looked up at her, searching her gaze, and when he saw no condemnation in her face, nodded.
"I believe so, yes, although I never saw him again."
"He seduced you?" she asked quietly.
Keane's mouth twisted bitterly. "I met him at a local gay bar about three days before all this happened.
I couldn't keep my hands off him that night. I brought him home and he stayed."
"For Irish, it was a woman named Felicity Rogers. Do you know her?" When Keane shook his head,
Rhianna asked if he'd ever heard the name or if there was a woman with the men who had abducted him.
"If there was, I never saw or heard her."
"What can you tell us about the others?" demanded Boucharde.
Keane sighed. "I only saw the face of one of them." He shuddered. "The man had obviously been in a
very bad fire. His face was horribly burned." He smiled apologetically. "Burned so bad I can't even begin
to describe what he looked like. He spoke with a Hispanic accent. As for the others, there was at least
one black man, but I can't tell you much about him. He usually gave me the injections."
"Do you know where they took you?" asked Rhianna.
"I have no idea," Keane answered. "Somewhere out in the country, I think. Out where no one could
hear me screaming for help. It was a barn is all I can tell you."
"When you were being held, did they ever withhold the drug from you?"
"You mean put me into withdrawal?" He shook his head. "No, thank God. They…" He stopped. "Oh,
please tell me they didn't do that to Coni!"
When Rhianna looked away, Keane closed his eyes. "That must have been horrible for him
considering…"
"Did the men say anything to you?" Rhianna interrupted. She held Keane's eyes with her own. "Give
you any indication about why they had abducted you? Why they were pumping you full of narcotics?"
Daniel Keane's head tilted slightly to the right as though he were listening to something other than the
words she spoke. He was a very astute man, and in his understanding of the meaning of her interruption
and her look, he did not allow himself to dare a glance toward the FBI agent.
"The two who spoke to me, the Hispanic and the black, kept calling me pig, but I never did find out
what it was all about. I fully expected them to kill me. Then one day they just up and blindfold me, gag
me, and tie my hands and feet together and put me in the same godawful-smelling van.
"They brought me back to town and dumped me on my own doorstep at three o'clock one
morning…" He looked at his hands. "I was in bad shape." He closed his eyes for a moment. "There were
some people who thought I enjoyed it."
"Who are some people?" asked Boucharde.
Daniel shrugged. "The guys I work with who didn't believe me when I told them what had happened."
"They thought you made it up?" Rhianna pressed.
He nodded. "I'm a gay man. Most straight men think all gay men are liars. And worse. They thought
my lifestyle had just gotten a bit out of hand."
"Did you think you were chosen at random, then?" Boucharde asked.