Chapter 40
A decade had passed since Con had seen Matthew Nelson Neil. Over this time, Con had aged at least twice that amount. The lines on his face had deepened, his hair had started to show flecks of gray—although this was thankfully still barely noticeable—and his shoulders had stooped.
And these were just a few of the many physical changes he’d experienced.
The mental aspects were far more obvious.
There had been twelve partners, a job he only tenuously held onto and that he now hated, and a broken marriage, to name a few.
And his anger… he’d once heard that you could only stay angry for a very short period of time. This was why psychologists suggested taking a deep breath or extricating yourself from the immediate situation.
But those talking heads that populated Instagram had never had a twin sister who had been abducted and murdered by a serial killer, and whose bones had never been found.
Con’s anger had only grown.
It only got worse when he got his first glimpse of The Sandman.
Unlike Con, Matthew Nelson Neil didn’t seem to have changed much at all.
He was still a huge man, with a big gleaming bald head and wideset eyes. His nose had long since healed from their first altercation and the slight bend could only be noticed if you stared intently at him, which, of course, was too unnerving for most to actually do.
His teeth were still chipped, though, and this made Con smile inwardly.
The big man’s hands and legs were chained to the table and Matthew was wearing a bright orange San Quentin-issue jumpsuit.
When Con entered the room, Matthew raised his eyes. They were dark and beady, sweaty, and they followed him across the concrete room.
Someone had pulled a chair out for Con, but he walked behind it and gripped the cold metal in both hands.
And then he just stared.
Eleven years and three months.
Despite the changes that Con had undergone, his fury notwithstanding, it felt as if he and Tate staking out the dilapidated house had happened just yesterday.
Yesterday, they’d seen the Arby’s delivery.
Yesterday, they’d bared the heat and the flies.
Yesterday, he’d squeezed the man’s neck.
Yesterday, Tate had pulled Con off The Sandman before he killed him.
At long last, Matthew Nelson Neil finally spoke. He did so in the same monotone voice as he’d narrated the audiobook.
“So, you finally found her, Agent Striker.”
Con snapped.
He leaped across the table so quickly that The Sandman had only time to lean back.
This proved to be a tactical error because it exposed his fleshy throat.
And then, just like eleven years ago, Con once more started to strangle the man.
“Tell me where she’s buried!” He screamed into the man’s face. Con’s hands were sore and tired from digging, his palms shredded. But he still had it in him to squeeze .
Veins in Matthew’s head began to throb, and his face started to turn a deep shade of red.
Although Con couldn’t see it, his face looked nearly identical to that of the convicted serial killer’s, complete with hissing breaths and spit coating his lower lip.
“ Just fucking tell me where she’s buried! ”
The door flew open, and someone grabbed Con’s shoulders. They pulled, but he didn’t let go.
A heavy boot anchored behind Con’s heel and this time when the guard leaned back, Con had to let go or else fall on his ass.
Matthew broke into a coughing fit as Con was dragged to the opposite wall.
“What the hell are you doing?” The guard spun him around and shoved him in the chest. Con’s spine struck the hard concrete. “Agent Striker, what the hell are you doing?”
Con was seething.
“That’s it, you’re done here.”
The guard gripped him by the shoulders, intent on forcing him out of the room.
“No,” Matthew said. His voice was different now—it was strained. The guard stopped. “He couldn’t kill me then and he can’t kill me now. He doesn’t have what it takes.”
The guard appeared confused, his eyes moving from Con, who couldn’t stop staring at Matthew’s still-red face, to the inmate.
“Let me talk to him,” Matthew said.
Prior to entering the room, Con had been given explicit instructions as to what was and what wasn’t permitted.
Top of the list had been making any physical contact with The Sandman.
Oops.
The guard released his hold on Con but remained positioned between the two combatants.
“One more outburst like that, Agent Striker, and I will throw your ass in jail.”
The guard waited for a beat, making sure that Con didn’t act on his urges, then backed down.
He didn’t leave the room this time, however.
“You didn’t find her,” Matthew said. His lips started to form a smile but when Con flinched, it disappeared.
The guard held up a warning hand and Con took a deep breath and held the air in his lungs.
He wants you to get mad, he wants you to lash out again. Do not give this piece of shit what he wants.
“But based on your email, I’m guessing you found my message. You like stories, Agent Striker?”
Although it took all of his efforts, Con managed to remain silent.
“Well, I like stories. Not much else to do in here.” The man laughed. “Not much to do but read stories. I’ll admit, The Great California Gold Rush was a bit of a drag. But I know plenty of more interesting stories. I think… yes, I think that I’m gonna tell you a story. Yeah, I’m going to tell you my story, Agent Striker.”
That tone… that fucking monotone way of speaking.
The last thing Con wanted was to listen to this man talk. He’d had his fill with the audiobook.
But there was nothing he could do.
Except for hope that The Sandman fucked up.
That the bastard finally told him where Valerie was buried.