Here and Gone(67)

Whiteside waited for more, but got only Mitchell’s needle stare.

When it was clear she would offer no more, he said, ‘Yeah, that’s her story. Doesn’t matter how many times you tell it, doesn’t make it true. According to this woman’s husband, she’s been unstable for years. God knows what kind of fantasies she has in that head of hers. It’s nonsense, all of it. Me and Collins stole her children. I mean, what in the hell for? Did you ever hear such a thing?’

Mitchell smiled a cold smile. ‘Actually, I have. Just this evening.’

He looked from Mitchell to Showalter, who shrugged, then back to Mitchell.

‘What?’ he said. ‘Quit fucking with me, Mitchell.’

Her smile sharpened. ‘I was told an interesting tale earlier. About a man whose wife drove off with their little girl. The wife got stopped by a small-town cop and arrested on some trumped-up charge. When the wife asked after the welfare of her little girl, the cop said, “What little girl? You were alone when I stopped you.” Sound familiar?’

He pictured the man in the diner this afternoon, the man who ordered another sandwich to go, the man who said he knew what Whiteside had done.

‘So someone else thought up the same story. So what? Let me guess, was this story told by a Chinese gentleman?’

‘An Asian-American man, yes, that’s right. What might also sound familiar is that the assumption of guilt fell on the mother. Everyone was convinced she had harmed her child somewhere between leaving home and being stopped by the police officer.’

‘This is a big country,’ Whiteside said. ‘There must be hundreds of thousands of traffic stops every day. And how many missing children? And out of all those missing children – you should know this – out of those children, how many times does it turn out that a parent hurt them? So you got a similar story from another whack job. One crazy attracts another crazy. Bet you’ve seen that before too.’

Mitchell did not drop that goddamn smile, like she held all the secrets of the world behind her teeth. Whiteside concentrated all his effort on keeping his face blank, mild annoyance at the intrusion, nothing more.

‘There were some interesting details, though,’ she said.

Whiteside wanted to slap the smile from her face. ‘Such as?’ he asked.

‘You’ve heard of the Dark Web, yes?’

‘I think so,’ he said, shrugging. ‘It’s like the back streets of the Internet. They share kiddie porn there, at least that’s what I’ve heard.’

‘Among other things,’ Mitchell said. ‘Child pornography, snuff films, illegal software, hacking tools, anything one might want to discuss in secret with like-minded others. Any sort of illegal activity, really. People arrange the sale of drugs and weapons, even organize contract killings. And in one dirty little corner, so I’m told, a group of very wealthy men uses corrupt law-enforcement officers to procure children.’

Whiteside’s mouth dried, his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth. A cold bead of sweat took a slow course down his back. But he kept his face blank, not a blink, not a twitch. If he allowed a tell, no matter how slight, he might as well put his pistol to his head right here and now. He rolled spit around his mouth, freed his tongue, and said, ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that. Sounds like a nasty business.’

‘It is,’ Mitchell said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d volunteer to hand over all computers, tablets, and smartphones to my colleague, Special Agent Abrahms, for inspection?’

Another drop of sweat. And a twitch. Below his left eye, he felt it like an angel’s touch. And Mitchell saw it too, her eyes flicking toward it and away again.

‘You suppose right,’ he said. ‘You want to search anything of mine, you show me a warrant. Now, I think I’ve had about enough of this conversation. I need some sleep, and I’m going home to get it. You want to question me further, you put me under arrest and do it with a lawyer present.’

He got to his feet, kicked the chair away, walked to the door, and said, ‘Goodnight to you both.’

Out in the office, the glow of the laptop’s display reflected on Abrahms’ boyish face. He wore earphones, scribbled on a notepad. Whiteside resisted the urge to slap the pen out of his hand and tear up the notes. Instead, he marched to the men’s room, kicked the door open, slammed it closed behind him.

Inside, he passed the urinal and entered the single stall, locked himself in.

‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Fucking goddamn shit motherfucker.’

Tremors erupted from his core, out to his arms and legs, his hands quivering. He put a knuckle between his teeth and bit down hard, seeking the clarity it would bring, but none came. His lungs expanded and contracted, air ripping in and out of him, as if some giant hand pumped his chest. A constellation of black stars in his vision, his head seeming to float somewhere above his shoulders. His lungs going harder, faster, his heart running to keep up.

Panic attack.

I’m having a panic attack, he thought.

He dropped down onto the toilet seat, hands either side of the stall to keep himself upright.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ.’

He bent over, put his head between his knees. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. Inhale through the nose, one-two-three-four, hold, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven, out through the mouth, one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight. Over and over, in, hold, out.