J. Huss - PANIC

“How’s your tutor? Is it time to go?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, glancing up at the clock. “I do have to go or I’ll be late.” I think avoiding talking to Ford about anything to do with that tutor is a good idea right about now, so I give him a wave and skip out.

I think about what Gage will say to me tonight all the way over to the college and when I finally get there and park, he’s waiting for me outside again. “Wanna go to student lounge and study instead of the math center?”

“OK.” I could care less where he checks my work, as long as it gets checked and I can turn it in before midnight, because that’s the deadline for this set of problems. We walk across campus to the building that contains the bookstore and the only café-type place on the small campus, order our drinks, and then find a table near the back where there are only a few other students studying. I hand my paper over to Gage and busy myself watching people as I wait.

He works on it for a little bit, then hands it back with all the wrong answers circled in red and a short note about where I went wrong.

I’m not stupid at math, I just get mixed up at what I’m supposed to do at each step. I forget how, but once Gage points it out to me, it makes sense again. So I guess if I just tried a little harder to memorize the steps I might do better. Gage busies himself grabbing some paperwork from his backpack while I work and then I hand it back.

He checks it again. “Yeah, that’s good. Now just enter it into the computer and you’re all set.”

I do and then tick the little box that says I promise I didn’t cheat, and press enter.

“Done! And we’re early, it’s only seven forty-five.” I reach down to get my backpack so I can shove my shit inside and leave, but Gage slides some papers across the table at me. “What’s this?”

“Printouts of your friends, Rook. I hope you thought about what I said last week. They’re dangerous.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Gage, I think I know them better than you. They are the farthest thing from dangerous I’ve ever seen in my life. Maybe you’ve just been really sheltered or something?” I flutter my eyelashes a little to play it down and make him back off.

“Uh-huh.” He pushes the papers towards me with one finger. “Just read them, OK? Read them and then I’ll never say another thing about it. Deal?”

“Whatever. I already saw them, though. I looked it all up online.”

“This stuff isn’t online, Rook. So just read it.”

I pick up the stack of papers and read the first headline. It’s not a newspaper. It’s an FBI report. “What the fuck is this?”

“Just read it.”

It looks like your basic FBI wanted poster you’d see on TV, except it doesn’t say ‘wanted,’ it says ‘person of interest.’ And that phrase conjures up only one image since the 9/11 attacks. Terrorists. I look up at Gage and raise an eyebrow.

He pans his hands out in an innocent shrug. “Just read it.”

I continue. It’s all about Ronin. Height—so very, very tall. I snicker to myself. Weight—buffed the fuck out. Eye color—electrifying. Age—young. He’s only nineteen in this dossier. “Well, these are his general stats which I am already very familiar with. And his picture just makes me want to kiss the photo.” I look up with a smirk.

“You’re laughing now, but wait.”

I glare over at Gage and toss the paper back to him. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what he did in the past or why the FBI thinks he’s important. It’s over. He’s a good guy. I love him. I’m thinking having his blue-eyed babies might be a good idea in about ten years.”

“Ronin Sean Flynn, age nineteen—”

“I said I’m not interested. Besides, that was years ago if he was just nineteen.”

“—picked up for human trafficking, cocaine distribution, grand larceny—”

My heart about beats out of my chest at the first charge. Human trafficking? “No! That’s not him. He didn’t do that stuff.” This is some kind of joke, for the show or something? I look around wildly.

“Rook, I swear to God, OK? The fucking FBI handed me these papers not two hours ago, they wanted me to tell you so you don’t get caught up in this, they would like you to talk to them—”

I grab my bag and bolt out the door, leaving Gage there with his stack of bullshit papers that might be ripping apart my whole world right now. I look around. Are they watching me? I stop in front of my truck, scanning the dark parking lot.

Nothing. No one out here at all.

I get in and take a few deep breaths. This is not my Ronin. Whatever those papers said, it’s a lie. He’s not involved in that kind of stuff, I know it. No man as gentle as him could possibly be involved in that stuff. I pull out of the parking lot, trying my best not to speed so I don’t get pulled over, and head east towards College Ave.

Shit. Who the fuck can I ask about this?

Why don’t I have any friends?

I chew on my cheek as I think. I have Elise, Spencer, Ford, Antoine, Ronin. That’s it. My whole fucking circle of friends could possibly be involved.

Except one, maybe.

Veronica.

I know for a fact that Spencer is a commitment-phobe, so even if some of this stuff with them is true—and I’m not even thinking it is yet, but even if it was—I don’t think Veronica would be involved. Spencer refuses to even call her his girlfriend.

I turn left on College and head up towards downtown to her tattoo shop. It’s Monday night so the place might not even be open. But it’s all I have right now.

Veronica, the girl who endured the agonizing pain of a bullet-induced scrape across her hip, called my ex an ass-faced bastard, and probably saved me from being dragged back to my own personal hell in Chicago, is as good as I’ve got as far as second opinions go. 

So this is how it works.

Listen to the question, breathe. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Recite the question back to myself so that I understand every word. Answer yes or no.

That’s it.

Of course, they’re trying to make you fuck up. They ask the question a few different ways. They give you throwaway questions—which, depending on the question, may be a good time to just outright lie. Like if they ask Is your name Ronin Flynn? And you’re me? I say yes, of course, because everyone knows that’s my name. But if they ask Have you ever stolen anything? That’s a dummy question because it’s an absolute—everyone has stolen something at one time or another, even if it was by accident or whatever. It’s throwaway. So to that one I lie immediately and say no, but the needle stays calm, indicating I’m being truthful.

And then I sit back and smile.

Because I just did two things. I set up their machine to record that kind of response as truth and I lied to their faces but it didn’t record and they know it.

A good operator will know what to do with that. They’ll set me up in a pattern of repeated questions, phrased with slight variations, so that I will unconsciously lie. But I’m telling you, this is my God-given gift. Spencer paints naked girls, Ford is some evil version of Einstein, sans the bad hair and with the slight insanity issues, and I’m the sweet-talking bullshit liar.

That’s just how it is.

I can be whatever people want me to be. You want me to be guilty? I can play that part just as well as innocent. In fact, sometimes I do play guilty when I’m being questioned. That really fucking throws them off.

And none of what I’m doing is special, not really. I’m just observant, calculating, and I spent just as much time learning to turn off my emotions as I did turning them on.

“Is your name Ronin Flynn?”

I’m all hooked up to the computer now, sitting in this slightly over-warm room that will at some point in the middle of questioning turn slightly too cold, and I’m ready.

“Yes.”

“Do you live at the Chaput Studios Building in LoDo?”

“Yes.” That’s a lie, but I say it with confidence and the machine agrees with me. Our building is technically in Five Points, not Lower Downtown, but like I said, dummy questions.

The suits bob their heads together on that one, then regroup. “Do you live at Chaput Studios in Five Points?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live in LoDo?”

“Yes.” I blink and breathe to give them something to think about besides my lie. I can do this all day long.

“OK, Mr. Flynn,” the older man running the machine says. “Let’s get down to business. Are you aware of any human trafficking in Denver?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had a conversation about human trafficking?”

“No.” I blink and breathe again. What the fuck is this about?

“Do you know Rook Walsh’s real name?”

Blink, breathe. “Yes.”

“Is it Rook Walsh?”

“Yes.” Another lie. This is a good one because they don’t know if I know it or not.

“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned her husband Jon Walsh?”

Ah, here we go. “Yes.”

“Has Mrs. Walsh ever mentioned a safe deposit box in Las Vegas?”

I blink, breathe, and lie. “Yes.” Because this is getting weird and these assholes actually get a little excited about that answer.

“Did she tell you what was in the box?” Abelli asks hurriedly.

A break in protocol from Agent Abelli is not a good sign. “Yes,” I lie.

“What was it?”

I just stare at Abelli and then ask calmly, “What?”

“What’s in the fucking box?”

“That’s not a yes or no question. Take the straps off and we can talk normally, but I’m not answering any more questions that deviate from the standard test format.”

Machine guy cuts in. “We’re done here. You’re free to go.”

And then I’m being unstrapped and ushered out of the room and over to the elevator where I’m handed off to some bald-headed goon in the FBI uniform.

The next thing I know I’m fucking driving down Speer Boulevard towards home. I cut over on Market and then swing around the building and park the truck. “What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?”

Human trafficking? That’s what this is about?

It’s bizarre, but I’ve been gone almost three hours so I gotta get back upstairs and check shit out with the girls and Roger. I might have to get in touch with Ford tonight and set up a meeting. Vegas. Safe deposit boxes and human trafficking. Yeah, this is not right. This is just not right. Because typically when I’m called in for a polygraph, you know, I’m being questioned about a crime I’m actually connected to. And I don’t know anything about human trafficking or a box in Vegas that may or may not have something to do with Rook.

But I have a very bad feeling that Rook does.

I take out my phone and almost press Ford’s contact, but then I come back to my senses and clear the screen.

That’s what they want me to do. Call my partners and give the Feds another clue.

Fuck.

I get out of the truck and hop the stairs three at a time. Everyone is busy inside the studio. Clare is doing a shoot with Billy, the other girls are milling about in lingerie or getting fixed up in the salon, and even Elise and Antoine are hanging out in the kitchen eating fruit.

“Antoine,” I say in French. “I need a minute.” He follows me out onto the terrace where the roar of afternoon traffic down on 21st Street is enough to layer over our conversation if someone is getting nosy. “I just got back from the police station,” I continue in French. His eyes dart back and forth, a slight panic becoming detectable by the pulsing of his carotid artery in his neck. “Don’t worry, it really wasn’t about me. I think it was about Rook. I think I need to go up North tonight and ask her some questions. Should I go?”

“Do you think it’s safe to involve Spencer and Ford?”

I shrug. “Not sure, really. I’m not sure this is really about us, Antoine. I think it’s about Rook.”

He stares down at the traffic for several minutes and ponders the question. Antoine would never make a good partner in our little private business because he can’t make hasty decisions. He likes to think for a while before committing to things. Most of the time this drives me up a wall but not this time. Rook might be in trouble and I only get one chance to make a move. It’s worth the extra time.

“I think it’s too risky, Ronin. You don’t have enough information yet. Give it one more day, then one of us will go up to the shop tomorrow and see if they’ve heard anything. OK?” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.