I came out of the room in slow motion, slumping, a man defeated. Laura gasped when she saw me. Quite dramatically, she tore herself loose from Russell and ran over to me, hugging me with more conviction than she’d ever shown. “What did they do to you? Oh, Rollie…” As she hooked her left arm around my neck, she slipped Hicker’s bagel-buttering white plastic cafeteria knife into my hand. “Are you okay?”

Corbin pulled her away from me. “We all get it,” he said dismissively. I noticed for the first time that he was moving slowly; he appeared to be waddling more than walking. The adrenaline that had allowed him to beat on me was slowly dissipating, and his body was remembering his pain.

Russell was leaning against the government car they’d driven up from Washington, a white Chevy Caprice, combing the remaining strands of his hair, adjusting his jacket. Doing the victor’s dance. “Nice of you to join us, Stone,” he said, with a knowing smirk on his face.

It was only as the agents got ready to leave that they realized their problem: Just like the Lake City PD, they had not anticipated the difficulty in transporting a detainee in a wheelchair. They spent several minutes fruitlessly debating if Mighty Chair would fit into the Chevy’s trunk before giving up that idea. They debated renting an SUV or van, but finally decided it would be safe and considerably easier to let me drive Van. Just like the Lake City PD, Corbin volunteered, “I’ll ride shotgun with superschmuck.” Laura would go in the car with Francis.

As Laura climbed into the Caprice’s caged back seat, Dickie asked, “You okay to drive?”

Was I okay? You kidding me? That was an essential part of my plan. You’re damn right I was okay to drive. “I think so,” I managed.

As we watched Van’s ramp rattling flat on the pavement, Corbin poked a warning finger at me. “Let me tell you something, pal. I wasn’t kidding about riding shotgun. I don’t know exactly what you’ve done, but you pissed off some pretty important people. They had the whole world out looking for you. When they told us to come up and get you, they made it clear they didn’t give a flying fuck about how we brought you back.”

He took a pack of Juicy Fruit from his pocket, slid one out for himself, and offered one to me.

“No thanks.”

Corbin unwrapped it and put it in his mouth, savoring that initial rush of flavor. “Damn, that’s good. Like I was saying, they told me that where you’re concerned there’re no rules. Do whatever I had to do. Do it twice if I felt like it. Nothing was ever going to bounce back. So here’s my point, you screw with me…”—he tapped his index finger on his chest to emphasize that me meant him—“you’re gonna die.” He raised his eyebrows as high on his head as he could to reinforce that warning. “You try anything with that chair or this van, it’s pretty likely that girl is gonna die too.