The Match (Wilde, #2)(57)

Wilde knew better than to contradict Gruff Voice: “Yes.”

“We aren’t interested in pinning it on you, if you didn’t do it.”

“Good, because I didn’t. And before you hit me with that zapper again, I know you don’t have me on CCTV. If McAndrews had those kind of surveillance videos, then you’d have also seen the killer weeks earlier.”

“You broke in.”

The metal was against Wilde’s neck again. He shuddered.

“Are you denying that?”

“No.”

“Why did you break in?”

“He was anonymously harassing someone.”

“Who?”

“A reality star. He used bots and fake accounts.”

Another voice: “You really think you can talk shit about Henry?”

This blast from the cattle prod must have been set at the higher level because it felt to Wilde as though his skull had exploded into a thousand pieces. His body wouldn’t stop convulsing. He dropped again to the floor, but this time whoever had the cattle prod kept it on him. The voltage kept coursing through him. His legs jerked. His arms spasmed. Wilde’s eyes started rolling back. It felt as though his lungs and internal organs were being overloaded, as though his heart would burst like an overfilled balloon.

“You’re going to kill him!”

Through the din, Wilde heard the buzz of a phone. The cattle prod went silent. Wilde kept convulsing. He flipped over and vomited.

From seemingly a great distance, Wilde heard a voice say, “What? But how?”

Everything stopped, except Wilde, who was still madly twitching, trying to ride out the agony, the hot electricity still scalding his veins. His ears rang. His eyes started to close. He let them. He wanted to pass out, anything for relief. Then he felt the strong hands picking him up again. Wilde tried to help, but his legs wouldn’t obey any command.

Soon he was back in the car.

Fifteen minutes later, the car stopped suddenly. Someone uncuffed him. The car door opened again. The strong hands shoved him out. Wilde hit the asphalt and rolled away.

“If you tell anybody about this,” the gruff voice said, “we’ll come back and kill you.”





Chapter

Twenty-Two



When Oren Carmichael answered Wilde’s knock, his eyes went wide.

“My God, what the hell happened to you?”

Oren Carmichael had been there that day thirty-five years ago when little “feral” Wilde had been found in the woods. He’d been the first one to talk to him, lowering himself to the boy’s level and, in the most comforting voice, telling him, “Son, no one is going to harm you, I promise. Can you tell me your name?” Oren Carmichael had driven Wilde to his first foster home, stayed in his room until he fell asleep, been there when he woke up the next morning. Oren Carmichael had both tirelessly investigated how Wilde had ended up in those woods and been a huge help in that lost boy’s transition into this new world. Oren Carmichael had coached Wilde in various sports, chosen him to be on his teams, looked out for him, made sure that Wilde felt as much a part of the community as a boy like Wilde could. Oren Carmichael had offered advice when he felt Wilde needed it, and even helped a rebellious Wilde navigate teen trouble. Oren Carmichael had been the first officer to arrive at the car accident that killed David.

Oren had always been kind, compassionate, strong, measured, professional, intelligent. Wilde admired the way he carried himself, and he’d been happy when Oren and Hester started dating. Hester had been the closest thing Wilde had to a mother, and while he wouldn’t go so far as to call him a father figure, Oren Carmichael had been the closest thing Wilde had to a male role model.

“Wilde?” Oren asked now. “Are you okay?”

Just as it had happened to Wilde less than an hour earlier, Wilde struck Oren’s solar plexus with the heel of his palm, temporarily paralyzing the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him. Oren made an oof noise and stumbled back. Wilde stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His eyes took in everything. Oren was not in uniform and was not carrying his gun. There was no weapon in the nearby vicinity. Wilde scanned for nearby drawers or places where Oren might stow his gun. There was nothing.

Oren stared up at Wilde with a look so pained—from the physical or emotional Wilde couldn’t say, but he had a guess—that Wilde had to turn away. The strike had been necessary; that was what Wilde told himself, even as he questioned the need and remembered that Oren Carmichael was seventy years old now.

Wilde reached out his hand to help. Still heaving, Oren slapped it away.

“Take deep breaths,” Wilde said. “Try to stand upright.”

It took another minute or two. Wilde waited. He had tried not to hit him too hard, just hard enough, but again he had never hit a man in his seventies. When Oren could speak again, he said, “You want to explain yourself?”

“You first,” Wilde said.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Four cops from Hartford just grabbed me off the street, threw a black bag over my head, and worked me over with a cattle prod.”

The realization came to Oren’s face slowly. “Oh Christ.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“What did they do to you, Wilde?”