Four long arduous days ago he’d walked out of his cell and fought a running battle to make it through the breached facility’s gates before the Mexican officials could lock the prison down again.
He was not a wanted fugitive. He was simply a lost boy. He was simply the long needed closure to a seventeen-year-old mystery.
"And see, see how close the Pratt guy stands to him. The body language is quite telling. Don’t you agree.”
“Fuck, I’d go absolutely bat shit crazy, totally bat shit maybe beyond bat shit crazy if I had to do that."
As the color crime scene photographs fell one onto another beneath his left thumb, he swallowed the bile rising in his throat.
“You need to see this, Erik. I can’t believe it, but it is what it is. A records request for a Rascal McDermott from an ortho doc in Selwig, Maine. It can’t be, can it? Can it?”
“Watch those sorry degenerates. They’re bad news.”