anything to stop the pain." He straightened. "And when that time comes, your soul will belong to me."
Conor watched his captor leave, taking with him the blessed relief, housed within the syringe.
Alone once more in the darkness, Conor had to clench his teeth to keep the moans from escaping.
Tied as he was to the cot, he could not draw his knees up to help alleviate the cramping in his belly.
Every breath he took was an agony unto itself. His one and only hope was that his heart would just
simply cease to beat. Death was better than the torture that had become his life.
The door opened again.
"Whatcha you know, pig?" The black man chuckled. "He's gonna let you have your goodies after all."
Conor couldn't stop the hitching sob of relief that ripped out of his throat. He knew the black man
heard because the bastard threw back his head and laughed.
"That's it, pretty boy," he heard the black man crooning. Conor relaxed his leg so his captor could find
a good vein. "Just like that. Here we go, now. Better hang on for the ride!"
The needle went in and the burning rush began.
"That's good shit, ain't it, baby boy?" The black man ran his rough hand over Conor's leg. "Pretty
soon, you'll do anything we say, huh?"
Conor blocked out the man's words and the hideous feel of the hand stroking him.
He thought of Rhianna; of her sweet face and laughing eyes. Of how much he loved her and how little
time he had had with her. Of how he wished he'd been able to take her in his arms, to his bed, and show
her what she meant to him. He longed to explain that the women he'd bedded had meant nothing to him.
He wanted her to know they had been a substitute for her because he'd respected her too much to ask
for such a sinful thing from her. He thought of all the little things she did that made her special. All the
wonderful things that set her apart from the women he'd known, that had made him love her in the first
place. The uncanny way she had of anticipating things he was going to say and do never failed to amaze
him. As his world began to shut down, he smiled. Rhianna's eyes followed him into the dark and, with her
there, he felt safe.
*Chapter Eleven*
Cortesio put his arm around Rhianna's shoulders. "What can I do, Marek?"
Rhianna didn't answer. She put the contents of Nolan's desk into a cardboard box, not even bothering
to look at what she was holding in her hands. She was afraid if she examined the Irishman's belongings
too carefully, she would break down and start crying all over again. A week of that had gotten her
nothing but a trip to the ER for the migraine from hell.
"We won't stop looking," Cortesio told her. "I promise you we won't."
"A little too late for that." Rhianna pushed his arm off her shoulder.
"Leave her be, Joey," said Triplett.
When Cortesio glanced around at him, Trip shook his head.
"He was my partner," Cortesio said to no one in particular.
"Is
your partner." Rhianna slammed the desk drawer. "He's alive and that bitch knows where he is."
Fullick, Donne, and Corbettson looked at one another then resumed writing the reports on their desks.
"I'll find her," they heard Marek vow. "No matter how long it takes, I'll find her."
"You don't even know who she is," said Cortesio. "Or what she looks like."
"Someone does." Rhianna hefted the cardboard box, snarling at Cortesio when he made to take it
from her. "Just go back to your neat little world, Joey, and leave me the hell alone!"
The detectives watched her storm out of the squad room. No one spoke. What was there to say?
Nolan had simply vanished without a trace and during the month he had been missing, Rhianna Marek
had grieved.
"You think he's skipped?" Corbettson asked, looking around him.
"Yeah," Fullick replied, quietly. "I think so."
"Marek doesn't," said Donne.
"You know what they say about a woman scorned." Corbettson laughed, but no one joined him. He
hid his embarrassment behind a protracted cough.
"What if she's right?" Trip asked. "What if there was a woman and she had something to do with Irish's
disappearance?"
Donne looked up. "You guys remember that woman from the Witch's Brew?"
"Myra?" Fullick snorted.
"No," Donne said with disgust. "The one that bumped into him that night."
Fullick shook his head. He hadn't been out to the Brew since his old lady had read him the riot act.
"The blonde?" Cortesio asked. He nodded slowly. "Yeah, I remember her."
"You remember how she was lookin' at Irish?" asked Donne. "Man, she looked like she could gobble
him up where he stood."
"Worth a shot," said Cortesio. "Any of you remember her name?"
"Rogers," Rhianna said from the doorway. "Felicity Rogers."
Donne blinked. "How the hell did you remember that?"
Rhianna shrugged. "A woman looks at your man the way that bitch did, you remember everything
about her."
Triplett's left brow quirked upward. "Your man?"
"Damn straight," Rhianna said as she reached for the phone. She was punching in the number for the
Witch's Brew. "I hadn't thought about her, but it's worth a shot."
"If anyone knows who that broad…" Corbettson stopped when Rhianna held up a hand.
"Yeah, is Myra there?" Rhianna asked into the phone. She listened, frowning. "You have any idea
when she'll be in?" After another long pause, she rolled her eyes. "You have an address on her?"
"I know where she lives," said Triplett.
"Never mind," Rhianna barked then hung up. She looked at Trip.
Triplett sighed. "Let's go."
"I've already questioned her," said Cortesio.
"I haven't," snapped Rhianna.
****
Myra spat vulgar epithets as she stumbled through her darkened living room. "All right, goddamn it!"
she shouted at the insistent knocking at her door. "_I'm coming!_"
Working until the pre-dawn hours did not make for a cheery personality when rudely awakened
before noon, Rhianna thought as she heard the security chain rattling on the door. As it opened a crack to
frame a red, bleary eye that grew instantly hostile, Marek thought sure the slut was going to slam the door
in her face.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I've got some questions I want answered," said Rhianna.
"Find yourself an encyclopedia, then."
"Either let me in or you'll spend the rest of the day downtown."
"Shit!" Myra flung the chain out of its slot. "This had better be damned good, Marek!"
Rhianna's nostrils were assailed with the overpowering stench of garlic as she came into the waitress'
house. The room was so dark, she was afraid to step much further, and wouldn't have had Myra not
turned on a small table lamp that cast a warm light into the room.
"I just got to bed," the woman grumbled, fishing a cigarette from a crumpled pack on the coffee table.
The flare of a match lit her haggard face before she fanned out the flame.
"It's past ten o'clock," said Rhianna.
"So? What's your point?"
Seating herself gingerly on a chair, Rhianna looked around. The room surprised her because it was so
neat and orderly, not what she would have expected from the woman. Although the coffee table held the
remains of a fast-food breakfast and an ashtray full of spent butts, every thing else was spotless.
"You know about Irish," Rhianna said.
"I heard," Myra said and Marek heard the tone of her voice change. "Is there any news?"
"Not yet."
"He'll turn up." Myra pulled the silk edges of her nightgown bodice closer over her breasts.
"You know most of the customers who come to the Brew," Rhianna said, watching the way Myra's
mouth tightened defensively.
"Yeah, so?"
"Do you know a woman named Felicity that comes there?"
Myra put her right thumbnail between her teeth. "I don't ask the women their names, honey. I don't do
women, you know?"
"This woman is about five foot six or seven; long blond hair; green eyes; good figure."
"That describes most of the German sluts who come in."
"This one was there the last night Irish was. She had on a white-sequined dress. She bumped into him
on his way out. Made a point of talking to him."
Myra leaned over and stubbed out her cigarette. "Unless you haven't noticed, Marek, half the women
who see Irish make it a point to talk to him."
"I need to find this woman, Myra."
"Why?" Myra pulled her feet up on the sofa. "Did he bang her, too?"
Rhianna knew there was a history between Conor and the waitress, and that was exactly what it was -
history. But if the signals Myra was giving off meant anything, Irish was one history lesson the woman
would love to re-take. "He means something to you, doesn't he?"
"Irish?" Myra said, trying for a flippant attitude. "He's okay."
"You slept with him."
"I sleep with a lot of men, honey," Myra said in a droll voice.
Rhianna let that remark pass. "Tell me about this woman. I know you know who I'm talking about."
"What's she got to do with it?" Myra remembered the look the bartender had given her that night. The
uneasiness she'd felt with the woman's interest in Irish.
"She set him up." Rhianna watched the other woman's eyes closely.
"I warned him," Myra said, shaking her head. "I warned him!"
Rhianna tensed. "Warned him how?"
Myra looked up at her. "I called him. Left a message on the machine. I told him not to let her in."
"Why did you do that? Who is she?"
"No one ever told me her name," Myra said, reaching for another cigarette. "All's I know is she's
trouble. Every time she latches onto a man, there's trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"You don't ever see him again," Myra said. She threw the unlit cigarette down. "They're usually
married, you know? I just figure it's a blackmail thing." She shrugged. "Get 'em drunk or drug 'em up then
take pictures." She risked a glance at Rhianna. "That kind of thing."
"Blackmail," Rhianna said. "Pay up or she'll go to the wife?"
"She usually asks me if they're married." Her brows came together. "Come to think of it, she didn't ask
if Irish was; just wanted to know who you were."
"What else did she ask?"
"All she wanted to know was his name, who you were. That's it."
"Have you seen her lately? Does she come in any special night?"
Myra thought about it then shook her head. "I haven't seen her since that night, come to think of it. It
ain't like I look for her, you know? Like I said, the bitch is trouble."
"Yeah," Rhianna agreed. "I got a feeling she was real bad trouble for Irish."
*Chapter Twelve*
The Irishman's ability to withstand the demon riding his back for longer than most men could surprised
the Colombian. Nolan had resisted him for a month before he gave in to the need to alleviate the craving
on his own. But the day came when he gladly took the needle to his own flesh. And in the end, he
thought, it had not really been the addiction that had driven Conor Nolan to begin injecting himself with
the drug. It had been the threat to bring the woman to the silo.
"Rhianna?" The Colombian could still hear the ache in the Irishman's voice when he spoke that one
word.
"I can abduct her as easily as I abducted you." He'd extended the syringe to his prisoner. "Either
administer the drug to yourself from now on or I'll send word to my men to bring the woman here and
you can watch me addict her."
The Colombian understood Nolan's dilemma - the shame that would come when he finally gave in to
injecting himself with the narcotic. Until then, it had been easy for him to pretend others were to blame for
the addiction now raging out of control. It had been comforting to know he had had no say in the terrible
thing that had befallen him. But to actually shoot up with the drug? To actively take part in his own
decline from law-abiding citizen to drug addict was a different matter altogether.
"Don't you care what happens to her?" the Colombian had pressed.
"Just give me the damned thing. I'll do it," Nolan had snorted as though the admission hurt him worse
than any man-made torture. The Colombian wondered if Nolan had heard the eagerness in his own
voice.
It had been most pleasant - most pleasant, indeed - to watch the Irishman drive the needle into his
thigh. The humiliation, the guilt registered on Nolan's pale face, but it was the long sigh of defeat that was
like music to the Colombian's ear when the Irishman pushed the drug from the syringe into his vein.
"You will be unable to live without the drug now," the Colombian whispered.
"Just leave me alone," Conor said, lying back on the cot. He barely noticed when they re-cuffed his
hands and ankles to the cot.
"A few more days," said the Colombian. "That's all. A week at the most. Then you can go home."
Conor shrugged as if to say it didn't matter. "Sure. Whatever you say."
The Colombian smiled at the slurred words. He watched until the Irishman was under.
****
He felt a presence bending over him. The intense pain of the drug invading his brain had almost driven
him mindless. Strong hands shut off his air.
"Turn his head," the Colombian said.
Conor struggled uselessly, then felt the needle as it pierced his neck. The instant agony exploded in his
head and he tried desperately to draw breath but couldn't. When he was almost to the point of passing