Chapter 43
On my way home, I wallow in the pain like some sorrowful creature in the night.
The lights of houses and storefronts seem to float in space, unmoored.
My head and chest hurt from all the nerves and anxiety that have been flooding through me on and off the past few days and culminating so fiercely in my heart and head while I sat still on Jess’s couch and took in her repulsed face.
But behind the exhaustion and raw pain, another question forms. Having taken a practice run with Jess, can I let the whole world know?
The thought of it still rocks my being to the core.
Nausea gathers in my gut like it’s throwing a rally when I think of not just Jess knowing, but the entire world.
The revulsion in Jess’s face will be duplicated a millionfold—in the endless expressions of people everywhere I go—in the way everyone views me for the rest of my life if I come clean for the CA. Not to mention that I might go to jail.
And yet, and yet . . . I can’t deny that small release of pressure I felt coming clean to her.
And if telling her is a starting point, and I feel a modicum of relief, then maybe, just maybe, giving the Confession Artist what they want would not just ensure the safety of everyone I love, but save my life, too.
And maybe, just maybe, make me feel an ounce better in the process.
My driving slows as if my body is getting mucked up and sluggish with the thoughts of confessing. I consciously pick up my speed when I see my phone light up. It’s Tim Mooney calling me back.
I pull over into a Town Pump parking lot. With a scratchy voice, he says he got my messages and tells me that he’s been following me closely on the news. He expresses his condolences and relays how frightening it is to be targeted like that.
“Are you certain you were the target?”
“I can’t say for sure,” he says. “I don’t know, but I confessed and I’m alive. And no one else turned up murdered. I have a wife and kids. After it became national news, I figured I better not fuck it up.”
“So, you put it out there that you felt like a glorified drug peddler and you were sorry for that?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds scratchy. “But there are other things. I’m sure you know. You go through everything in your head. I mean, I’m not a perfect guy by any means. We all make mistakes, right?”
“Definitely.” Yes, yes, yes. It echoes through me but also makes me sick that I’m identifying with this person who I’ve clearly also judged and condemned for doing something scummy and unadmirable enough to become the CA’s target before me.
His confession, I recall, was all about consciously and deliberately peddling a fentanyl inhalant to doctors and getting them to prescribe it en masse while slowly upping the dose to get people hooked, all the details I read in his confession after Alderson and Greene filled me in on him and I figured out who he was by searching the Carssen drug representatives on LinkedIn.
“And we have no idea who we piss off in the process. I mean, as a sales rep, I was just trying to do right by my family. But for what it’s worth and in a weird way, I feel like I’ve become a better person these days. I’m not saying the wacko is good or anything like that.”
I think of the moniker: the Confession Artist. So, okay, it sticks in my craw to say so, but it appears one person’s life might have been a little enhanced due to this person’s idea of “artistry.” The sliver of relief I experienced from telling Jess barrels full circle back to me.
“I understand. But what made you think that it was that one thing and not something else?”
I almost don’t want to know the answer. The only reason I’m asking, I tell myself, is that it might provide a clue or some connection to the killer.
But also niggling at the back of my mind is the other thought—one I’m barely able to consider because it feels like I’m putting my hand on a hot burner when I do.
I want to know how much he shared because it also helps me figure out just how much I should if—and it’s still a big if—I decide to confess.
If I do, I face a felony conviction. Most likely jail time. And if I don’t, I could be murdered. I could die. My breathing goes shallow just thinking it. My head aches and pounds right along with my heart.
Luckily, he launches into describing his former sales practices, so he doesn’t hear my rapid breathing.
He describes throwing the parties, encouraging doctors to prescribe to more than just cancer patients so that they’d broaden their base of users.
“I’m not proud of any of it,” he says. “Like I said, I sort of fell into the company ethos at the time. But”—he sighs—“I’m well aware that patients got hurt. ”
I open my car window to let some cool air in, trying to ignore the crucible staring me down. I take a big gulp of it, then ask another question. “Any idea who would’ve been motivated to go after you?”
“No, the list would be long, right? If you took every doctor involved and went through all their patients, I mean, who knows who could be angry about one of their loved ones getting addicted? About how that affected their lives.”
“Do you recall hearing about anyone in particular? Any overdoses?”
“I heard of a few.”
“Do you know their names?”
“I’m sorry to say I don’t. But I can tell you the regions.”
“Please do.” These are specifics I can focus on, details I might be able to use. Just holding my pen poised above my notepad calms my breathing a little.
“There were a few in Idaho. Two in Coeur d’Alene, one in Wallace, and some in Montana, too. Two in Missoula, one in Stevensville, some in Arlee—on the reservation. And one that I know of in Ronan, also on the reservation.”
“And no one contacted you about these? No one wrote you an angry email or anything or complained to your company?”
“No one emailed me directly, and the company, well, they’ve gotten thousands and thousands of complaints. I think the FBI is scouring through those to find ones that came from these regions.”
Mooney tells me he needs to get going, wishes me luck. But before he gets off, he says, “I haven’t seen you confess anything yet. Have I missed something?”
“No, you haven’t.” Again, a throbbing dizziness grabs hold of my head.
“You probably should, with the little time you have left. I’d hate to read in the news, well . . .”
An article about my murder.
“I’m considering it.” Saying it out loud does something to me. At first, I’m not sure what, but then I realize that behind the fear, behind the unimaginable shame of exposure, it’s the same release I felt with Jess, a slight slackening of the knot in my gut.
“Well, if and when you do, make sure you confess the whole thing, not just the tip of the iceberg.” He reaffirms what the agents told me, that he put a half-assed confession out early in the week. But when he felt he was still in danger, he delivered a more extensive version.
The thing Jeremy also knew but shouldn’t have.
“I spilled all the slimy details about bribing the doctors and getting them to up dosages on their patients,” he says.
“And giving my personal motive for acting like such a shit—you know, family pressures, debt. Needing more money and going along with the company ethos. It was the confession you most likely read—a whole two pages long. I poured my heart out. And that’s when I also went to the cops, convinced it was me. ”
“Have you spoken to any reporters about how you got a fright, how you felt you were being stalked?” I already know the answer—if he had, it would be in the news. But there’s a slight chance Jeremy’s contacted him but hasn’t reported on it.
“No, only the authorities. They told me to keep that part quiet. Said it was always good to keep some stuff under wraps when so much national hype was involved. I’m only sharing this with you because, well, you know why . . .”
“Yeah. Because I’m in the same boat you were in not long ago.”
I pull back onto the highway and speed up to get home. I need to start investigating Jeremy Fisher more. Much more.
When I get home, it’s late. The reporters have all left. The turnoff for my driveway is quiet. Too quiet. Too empty.
No Deputy Zane. Or his car.
I stop, climb out. The quarter moon hangs like ice in the dark sky, tingeing the fields silver.
I turn off my car, listen some more. A wash of dread pours through me. Where’s Zane? And if he’s not here, what waits for me at my house? An entirely new knot—one made of cold, dark terror—coils around my sternum. I pull my gun from its holster.
I don’t have many choices, so I turn my car back on and drive slowly up to my house. My headlights spray across Deputy Zane’s unmarked car in my drive, the front door ajar as if he’ll be right back.
Crouched in the field, the house is dark.
I get out of my car. “Zane? You here?”
My car’s engine ticks. The fields are silent with no scurrying rodents or chirping crickets. Even with the slight moonlight, patches of darkness in my yard seem to fold this way and that. I get out my phone, turn on the weak flashlight.
I call out again. Dread sends every nerve in my body tingling. Why is Zane not here? I look around for him, still scouring the woods for him or anything or anyone lurking in my periphery because I can’t help but wonder, is the Confession Artist near?
Have they gotten rid of my protective detail? A new fear spreads like spilled ink in my mind.
This time, a voice drifts out from around the side of my house. “Here.”
“Zane?”
I’m sure it’s him. The voice is strained, so I run to the side and look around, but don’t see him.
“I’m here,” he calls again. Backyard.
I hurry around to the rear, scan with my light in one hand, my gun in the other. I spot him sitting against my crab apple tree.
He’s paler than a ghost and is holding his hand over the apex of his chest above his heart.
“Been shot,” he says.