“I…” Flix frowned. “Who the fuck remembers?” He passed a hand across his eyes. “Wait, I had gone to see Lucy, my niece. She’s been at the Bethesda Institute of Mary Immaculate, recovering from drugs.”

“Who put her there, Flix?”

Orteño’s face went vacant again, and Whit thought, zombified.

“St. Vincent,” Flix said, at length. He seemed like two separate people.

“Luther St. Vincent?”

“Uh huh.”

“From NSA?”

Flix nodded.

“Was he there on your last visit?”

“He’s always there. He supervises the visits.”

“Why? What’s Luther St. Vincent have to do with Lucy?”

Orteño looked away. His face was pale and sweating, as if the two people inside his brain were fighting a dreadful war.

Whit suppressed an urge to lean forward. “Compadre, what is it?” He didn’t want to trigger another aggressive response.

“She…” Flix licked his lips, his head dropping down. “She was in trouble with the law. State police, he said. And the FBI. Cuz she got caught crossing state lines with drugs.”

Now it all became clear to Whitman. “So he got Lucy out of hock—if she ever really was in trouble with the feds.”

Flix’s head came up. “What d’you mean?”

“The whole thing could have been staged by St. Vincent.” Whitman peered into his friend’s face. “Flix, d’you understand? The cocksucker is using your niece as leverage.” Whitman struggled to hold Flix’s gaze with his own. He couldn’t afford the eyes going out of focus, his consciousness beaten back again at this crucial moment. “Why, compadre? What’s St. Vincent using Lucy for?”

“Jesus, Whit.” Orteño looked and sounded miserable. “Jesus, don’t be pissed. He wants me to spy on you. To report back whatever you do. He said it was because of the leak.”

“And you believed him?”

“Honestly?” Flix blinked back a budding wetness in his eyes. “Honestly, I was thinking of Lucy, and my sister Marilena.” Then he groaned. “Christ, Whit, what the hell’s happening to me?”

“Let’s get back to that last trip to see Lucy. You saw her and then what?”

Flix closed his eyes. “It’s all one big kaleidoscope, compadre. My brain feels like a piñata that’s been hit over and over.”

“I know, Flix. But think. Try to concentrate. You left Lucy and…?”

“And nothing, nada…” His expression was horrible to see—twisted, seeming to morph from one aspect to another, gripped by interior shadows. Then he gasped, surfacing again. “No, wait a minute. I remember St. Vincent walking me out. There was a car, an ambulance, then he said, ‘Watch your head!’ as I was getting into…”

He shook his head. “Nothing, Whit. Nothing, except waking up in the hospital.” Unconsciously, he put a hand to the side of his neck.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I … don’t know.”