frantically under the couch for something, it was quiet. No rotor noise. Which meant that the chopper was parked, waiting, on the roof above them.
Bishop regarded her thoughtfully. “You have some intimacy issues, don’t you?”
She had wanted to see what he’d do. Now it felt more like he was testing her .
“We’re wasting time,” he said, glancing upward.
“I haven’t said I’m going with you,” Kick said.
“Yeah,” Bishop said. “And I haven’t told you that my nut sack hurts so much I can barely stand.” He grimaced and adjusted himself. “But we both know it’s true.”
Kick felt a satisfying pride in that.
Bishop slipped the photo back into his blazer. “You’re comingwith me, and I’ll tell you why,” he said. He had lowered his voice, so that she had to lean in to hear him. “In not very long, Mel Riley is going to die in prison of kidney failure.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was a given. Kick was afraid to move, afraid that the smallest gesture might give away more than she wanted to.
“He’s done ten years’ hard time,” Bishop continued, “and he hasn’t given up a single detail about his network of associates.”
Bishop moved closer, and she wanted to lean back, to step away, but she made herself stand her ground. “His contacts , ” Bishop said, and the word sounded vulgar. “Child pornographers, pedophiles, the scum off the sole of humanity’s shoe, the people who aided and abetted your abductors, sheltered them in some cases—they are still at it, exploiting children with impunity.”
“Stop it,” she said. Her body hurt. It was like she had more nerve endings; suddenly she could feel the perimeter of each and every bruise.
“You could have stopped it ten years ago,” Bishop said. “All you had to do was nothing. ”
And there it was. He knew about the database. No one was supposed to know. That testimony had been sealed. It didn’t fit the narrative. The rescue story worked for everyone: the FBI, Kick’s family, the media. It made for feel-good television. The fact that Kick had autonuked Mel’s database of contacts and blown the FBI’s shot at taking down hundreds or thousands of criminals? That was an inconvenient truth that no one wanted to talk about. The floor felt like it was softening under Kick’s feet.
“I get why it eats at you,” Bishop said. “Why you have that map, with the pushpins, on your wall; why you paper your bedroom with abduction stories. You must think: How many Amber Alerts could have been prevented if you’d done nothing that night?”
How many? “So?” she said.
“So that’s why you’ll come with me,” Bishop said. “Not becauseany of that shit I just said is true, because it’s not, and you know that—you were a kid, and you’d been manipulated—but because you blame yourself anyway. And you know that sticking pushpins in a map isn’t going to change anything. But coming with me to the house in that sat photo, using your background to see things I can’t—that’s at least in the ballpark.”
God, he was maddening. It wasn’t that he was wrong; it was his complete confidence that he was right that really irritated her. “How’s your nut sack now?” she asked.
“Maybe it’s not too late to get someone else,” Bishop said.
“I’m in,” Kick said. She wanted him to look at least a little surprised, but he didn’t, which only made it worse. “Not because of your speech,” she added. She didn’t need him. She had spent most of her life training for this. She was an escape artist, a warrior. She couldn’t walk away from an opportunity like this. Because while saving a kid wouldn’t make up for what she’d done, it would be a start. “I guess I’ll get dressed,” she said.
Monster yelped with pleasure and a purple tennis ball rolled out from under the couch and across the room. Monster hustled after it as fast as a hobbled, arthritic, blind canine can.
Bishop shifted painfully,
Bishop regarded her thoughtfully. “You have some intimacy issues, don’t you?”
She had wanted to see what he’d do. Now it felt more like he was testing her .
“We’re wasting time,” he said, glancing upward.
“I haven’t said I’m going with you,” Kick said.
“Yeah,” Bishop said. “And I haven’t told you that my nut sack hurts so much I can barely stand.” He grimaced and adjusted himself. “But we both know it’s true.”
Kick felt a satisfying pride in that.
Bishop slipped the photo back into his blazer. “You’re comingwith me, and I’ll tell you why,” he said. He had lowered his voice, so that she had to lean in to hear him. “In not very long, Mel Riley is going to die in prison of kidney failure.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was a given. Kick was afraid to move, afraid that the smallest gesture might give away more than she wanted to.
“He’s done ten years’ hard time,” Bishop continued, “and he hasn’t given up a single detail about his network of associates.”
Bishop moved closer, and she wanted to lean back, to step away, but she made herself stand her ground. “His contacts , ” Bishop said, and the word sounded vulgar. “Child pornographers, pedophiles, the scum off the sole of humanity’s shoe, the people who aided and abetted your abductors, sheltered them in some cases—they are still at it, exploiting children with impunity.”
“Stop it,” she said. Her body hurt. It was like she had more nerve endings; suddenly she could feel the perimeter of each and every bruise.
“You could have stopped it ten years ago,” Bishop said. “All you had to do was nothing. ”
And there it was. He knew about the database. No one was supposed to know. That testimony had been sealed. It didn’t fit the narrative. The rescue story worked for everyone: the FBI, Kick’s family, the media. It made for feel-good television. The fact that Kick had autonuked Mel’s database of contacts and blown the FBI’s shot at taking down hundreds or thousands of criminals? That was an inconvenient truth that no one wanted to talk about. The floor felt like it was softening under Kick’s feet.
“I get why it eats at you,” Bishop said. “Why you have that map, with the pushpins, on your wall; why you paper your bedroom with abduction stories. You must think: How many Amber Alerts could have been prevented if you’d done nothing that night?”
How many? “So?” she said.
“So that’s why you’ll come with me,” Bishop said. “Not becauseany of that shit I just said is true, because it’s not, and you know that—you were a kid, and you’d been manipulated—but because you blame yourself anyway. And you know that sticking pushpins in a map isn’t going to change anything. But coming with me to the house in that sat photo, using your background to see things I can’t—that’s at least in the ballpark.”
God, he was maddening. It wasn’t that he was wrong; it was his complete confidence that he was right that really irritated her. “How’s your nut sack now?” she asked.
“Maybe it’s not too late to get someone else,” Bishop said.
“I’m in,” Kick said. She wanted him to look at least a little surprised, but he didn’t, which only made it worse. “Not because of your speech,” she added. She didn’t need him. She had spent most of her life training for this. She was an escape artist, a warrior. She couldn’t walk away from an opportunity like this. Because while saving a kid wouldn’t make up for what she’d done, it would be a start. “I guess I’ll get dressed,” she said.
Monster yelped with pleasure and a purple tennis ball rolled out from under the couch and across the room. Monster hustled after it as fast as a hobbled, arthritic, blind canine can.
Bishop shifted painfully,
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