"I couldn't think of anyone I had angered enough to want to do that to me," Keane replied. "I work
mostly on arms cases with the ATF. Drugs are out of my league. I figured it might have been a gay issue."
"And now?" Rhianna encouraged.
Keane shook his head. "Not after I read about Coni," he said. "There's got to be a connection since
we know each other. We're both cops, of course. Our father's were cops, both of them ex-military.
There's got to be a connection somewhere else. I don't believe in coincidence."
"Neither do I." Rhianna she turned to Boucharde. "What do you think, Franc?"
Boucharde didn't look at her. "Were you two involved with the drug scene when you were in school
together?"
Daniel Keane's eyebrows shot up. "Good Lord, no!" The question surprised him and his surprise was
too genuine to fake. "If you know anything about military academies, Agent Boucharde, you know they
check you very closely for substance abuse. Especially in the mid-seventies when everyone and their
brother was into the stuff."
"The two of you weren't dealing?"
Rhianna glared at the Fibber. "That's an asinine question!"
"It may be," Boucharde conceded, "but I want it answered."
"No, sir," Keane said, emphatically. "I can assure you neither Coni nor I were dealing drugs in school
and neither was anyone we knew!"
"But you do agree drugs are the real connecting issue here, don't you?" Boucharde countered.
Keane looked directly at him. "I think it plays a large part in all this, yes, but why us? Why me and
why Coni?"
"I think we need to start at the beginning to answer that," Rhianna suggested. "Where the connection
began - the military academy."
Seven*
The Commandant of Nellis Briggs Military Academy came into his office and took his seat behind the
desk. "I have their records here. Sorry it took so long, but the files were in the vault." He sat down and
opened the first folder. "Let's see: Cadet Conor James Nolan was here from October of nineteen
seventy-five until graduation on June ninth, nineteen seventy-eight. He had a very impressive four-point
GPA, graduating at the top of his class that year. He was star forward on the basketball team his junior
and senior years, and captain of both the basketball and track teams. He was well-liked by both students
and staff. Won a basketball scholarship to the University of Florida upon graduation." He looked at
Rhianna and Boucharde. "An exemplary student."
"What about Keane?" Boucharde demanded. He wasn't happy to hear Nolan had a spotless record at
the school.
"Daniel Dermot Keane," the Commandant stated, "came to us at the beginning of his freshman year in
nineteen seventy-five when his mother passed away. He maintained a three-point-seven-five GPA and
graduated Salutatorian in seventy-eight. He was captain of the chess team, the debate team, and the drill
team. He was one hell of a sprinter; won every track meet he entered. He, too, was one of the
Warhawks."
"Wait a minute," Rhianna stopped him. "Warhawks?"
The Commandant smiled in apology. "I'm sorry. Our basketball team is called the Mighty Warhawks.
Danny Keane was a guard on the team." He leaned back in his chair. "We took the conference all three
years The Five Horsemen played together."
"The Five Horsemen?" Boucharde asked.
"Nolan, Sullivan, Cullen, Keane, and Collins." The Commandant laughed. "The finest athletes this
school has ever known. Cullen was our soccer star; Collins was an All-Conference champion wrestler.
And Sullivan was the best nose guard we've ever had at NBMA. He could have played pro ball if he
hadn't wanted so badly to go into law enforcement like his father."
"Sullivan's father was a cop, too?" Boucharde inquired, exchanging a quick look with Rhianna.
"All their fathers were," the Commandant said. "And so are they."
"Sullivan, Cullen, and Collins are policemen?" Boucharde was stunned.
The Commandant pushed back from his desk. "Give me a minute here," he said, going to a file cabinet
on the far side of the wall. "Most came back for their tenth reunion back in eighty-eight," he said. He
took out a booklet with the year 1988 emblazoned on the cover. "Except for Cullen. He was in the
hospital; emergency appendectomy if I remember correctly." He turned the pages. "Yes. Mick Sullivan is
a lieutenant with the New York State Highway Patrol; Timothy-Patrick Collins works for the Billings,
Montana Sheriff's department; and Jamie Cullen is with the Drug Enforcement Agency in Jacksonville,
Florida." The Commandant chuckled. "Collins made some crack about them all being soldiers in the war
on crime."
"Did any of them have trouble here at school?" Boucharde asked, his heart beating a little faster.
"Not that I know of, but I was only an instructor back then, fresh out of the Army with a brand new
diploma burning a hole on my wall. I taught freshman English and social studies, so I didn't have any of
them in my classes."
"Is there anything in their files that mentions disciplinary action taken?"
"I can check," the Commandant said, getting up once more.
After the man had left the room, Boucharde turned to Rhianna. "What the hell have we got here,
Marek?"
"I don't know, but I think we'd better get the addresses of the others and give them a call."
****
The man who came to the door of the apartment was thin - very thin - and his cheeks were two bright
red spots of color. His haunted eyes were febrile-bright. "Yeah? Whatcha want?" he asked in a hoarse
voice.
"James Rory Cullen?" Boucharde asked, flashing his badge.
"Leave me alone," the man said. Ignoring the badge, he started to shut the door, but found
Boucharde's highly polished loafer blocking the way. With a look that bordered on absolute terror, the
man backed away from the door, holding his hands up as though warding off the demons of hell. "Man, I
ain't doing it! Leave me alone!"
Rhianna put a hand on Boucharde's arm, stopping him from entering the apartment. Without glancing
at the Fibber, she followed the man into the dimly-lit interior.
"Jamie?" she asked in a soft voice.
"Don't," the man said, his voice pleading. He had backed himself up to the wall.
"You are Jamie Cullen, aren't you?"
"I can't take no more," the man said. "Please, God. I can't take no more!"
"We're not here to hurt you, Jamie," Rhianna said, not moving closer to him. "Maybe we can help."
"Can't nobody help me," he said, shaking his head of tangled hair. "Nobody."
"Not even Coni Nolan?"
The man stilled. The name was like a magic invocation and he came away from the wall - only a little,
not out of the shadows - but enough to let Rhianna know she had broken through his fear. "Coni?" he
whispered.
"I'm Detective Rhianna Marek with the New Gregory police department out in Iowa. Coni is a friend
of mine." She went a few steps further into the room. "You are Jamie Cullen, aren't you?"
Cullen ran the back of his hand under his nose. "Yeah." He jerked his eyes toward Boucharde. "Who's
he?"
"Special Agent Franc Boucharde with the FBI," she answered. "He's a friend, too."
"Is Coni here?" Cullen shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Did he come with you?"
"He's in the hospital, Jamie," Rhianna informed him. "In a coma."
For a long moment, Rhianna didn't think he was going to answer her, but then Cullen did something for
which neither she nor Boucharde had been prepared. He threw back his head and howled as though in
agony.
Franc Boucharde jumped, his eyes going wide, as the man before him dropped to his knees on the
floor with his arms wrapped around his body and began to make an eerie keening sound.
"Not Coni, too," Cullen said over and over again. "Not him."
Boucharde would have come closer, but Rhianna held up a hand. She went to Cullen and knelt beside
him. With infinite care, wanting in no way to startle or hurt this wounded man even further, she took him
in her arms and brought his head to her shoulder.
****
"Her name was Felicity," he whispered against the rim of the glass of water he held to his lips; the glass
clinked against his teeth. "Felicity Rogers."
"Yeah, that's her," Rhianna sighed. "That was the name she used with Coni that night. We've got a
composite drawing of her out on the wires."
Cullen gripped the glass as though his life depended upon it. "We were going to be married," he said.
"I'd put my chit in for time off and we were going to leave in a few days."
Boucharde made notes on his pad as Cullen told his tale. The Fibber nodded as though what Cullen
was saying fitted nicely into the pattern he saw coming to life.
"I was on my way to pick her up at her place," Jamie Cullen continued. "The car was packed. I'd
stopped the mail and the paper." He looked at Rhianna. "We were going to Vegas to get married then on
to Colorado for the honeymoon."
Rhianna sat beside Cullen on the sofa, rubbing his back in a calming motion. He trembled violently,
desperately in need of something neither she nor Boucharde could provide.
"They got me outside in the parking lot," he said. "I felt something jab into my arm and I went down,
man. I went down hard and when I woke up, I was lying on the floor of a van, all tied up, and I thought
they were going to kill me." He laughed, a weird, frantic sound that seemed to come from the depths of
his soul. "All I could think about was Kiki."
"Kiki Camerino?" Boucharde asked quietly.
Cullen bobbed his head. "I knew him." He took a gulp of the water. And another. Then placed the
glass against his forehead as though to cool himself. "But when they took my clothes off, I thought they
were gonna rape me."
"Danny thought so, too," Rhianna told him.
There was a tiny smile that tried to tug at Cullen's lips. He swung his head toward Rhianna. "Was he
disappointed when they didn't?"
Rhianna knew his question hadn't been meant as an insult to Daniel Keane. Cullen's haunted eyes were
just a touch less stricken. It was the kind of remark Irish might have made under the circumstances. She
smiled to let Cullen know she hadn't misinterpreted the humor.
"Yeah," Jamie Cullen said, nodding as though he had intercepted her thoughts. "You're an okay lady.
Are you Coni's lady?"
"Why do you ask?" Rhianna surprised herself by reaching out to push a tumbled lock of dark blond
hair from Cullen's forehead.
"I don't know," he answered. "Just the way you say his name, I guess."
"We're working on it," she told him.
"Lucky man."
"Did you see the faces of any of the men?" the Fibber asked. "Recognize them in any way?"
"No. They wore masks. Two of them talked to me; this black dude and a Colombian, but I'd never
heard their voices before." He sucked in a ragged breath. "Least I don't think I had. I couldn't be sure. I
was too damned scared."
"Did they say anything to you about why they had abducted you? Give you any indication of their
purpose?"
"Nada. Zip. Not a damned thing. Like I said, I just thought they were gonna blot me, you know?"
"When were you abducted, Jamie?" Boucharde asked.
"Back in November," Cullen answered. He held out his right hand, studied the way it trembled. "Eight
months ago and I still can't get straight." He lowered his hand to his thigh and rubbed it on his jeans. "I
thought I was stronger than this."
"Did you get help when they brought you back?"
Cullen shrugged. "They put me in a clinic." His face showed his hurt. "Kept it out of the papers." He
rubbed harder at his thigh. "Wouldn't have looked good, you know? 'DEA Agent Gets Too Fond of His
Job.' That kind of thing. You know the Government's like a big cat. It takes a dump, covers it up, then
strolls off like no one will ever find the shit it leaves behind. Out of sight, out of mind." He shrugged.
"That's me."
"They thought you'd gone off the deep end on your own," Rhianna stated.
"You got it," he said, the hurt becoming a mask of unconcern. "'Shape up or ship out, Cullen. If you
can't handle the pressure, transfer to traffic cop. We'll cover you with Tidy Cat and no one will see you.
Might smell you, but they won't see you.'"
Boucharde looked up from his writing. "That must have been worse than a slap in the face."
Cullen smiled bitterly. "It's always nice when your buddies rally around you in your time of need." His
eyes began to water. "No one believed me when I told them I'd been kidnapped." His voice lowered.
"No one."
"Who did you think we were when we came to the door?" Rhianna asked.
"I thought they'd come back for me or else you were Big Brother.''
"Big Brother?"
"Internal Affairs," he supplied. "They've been hounding me. I just got out of Rehab, again, and I
thought you were them coming to check up on me. They treat me like I'm some kind of new variety of
shit they can't get off the bottom of their shoes."
"Jamie," Rhianna said, threading her fingers through his where they rubbed his thigh, "are you using,
now?"
His laugh was filled with self-loathing and hopelessness. "I don't have nothing_ to_ use," he replied. "If
I did, I wouldn't be such a goddamned mess, Sweeting."
"We believe you, Jamie," Boucharde folded his note pad and put it away. "We know you're telling the