“Is Nicholas dead?”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
He shook his head. “As I said, I want to help.”
“There’s nothing you can do for me.”
“If she’s missing or has been hurt—”
“I want my lawyer.”
“Fine.” Agent Cerone stuck the drawing back into his briefcase. “You know, the truth always prevails. At the end of the day, the truth is what sets you free.”
48
Time drifted by in a haze, like curls of smoke obstructing Haven’s surroundings. She would come to the surface to find food waiting, and she would eat what she could stomach before slipping back under. Jen appeared a few times with Nunzio to check her vitals but never spoke a word. In fact, people were always in and out of the building, but no one acknowledged her except for Natalia. She would bring her fresh clothes and offer words of encouragement, helping her up whenever she needed to use the bathroom.
Each day grew progressively worse. Haven’s strength diminished as her body began to reject everything. She would vomit profusely whenever she tried to eat, her skin clammy and pale. A pounding in her head made it hard to focus, everything becoming a blur of nothingness.
It was about then that she started hallucinating, hearing voices and seeing faces she couldn’t be sure were truly there. The nightmares were extreme, filled with flashbacks in an inconsistent loop. Dr. DeMarco haunted her with the piercing glare of hatred she had seen that day in his room. She could feel the gun pressed into her throat as she gasped for air. She screamed in the darkness, her chest vibrating with the high-pitched shrieks.
The moments of lucidity became few and far between. Unfamiliar people stood over her, having strange conversations that made little sense. Her monster even surfaced, his mangled face appearing as if it were melting away. He said nothing, just stared as the fire engulfed her from the inside out.
* * *
The Metropolitan Correctional Center, a three-sided triangular skyscraper in the middle of downtown Chicago, has no barbed wire or electric fence, no armed guards standing in towers along the edge of the property. With its flat surface and narrow vertical windows, the front of the building resembles an old punch card. It appears harmless, indiscriminate, but some of the most dangerous people in the world call the place home.
Vincent sat in a small cell on the twentieth floor, a few yards from where Corrado was housed. The window was frosted, obstructing Vincent’s view of the outside, so all he had to look at were the drab gray walls surrounding him.
Every day was the same: three meals, frequent head counts, occasional sirens, and little conversation. The guards watched their every move, all calls and visits monitored so none of them could risk communicating.
He sat there early one day, right after morning roll call, when a few corrections officers approached. They placed him in restraints and led him to a room, where Agent Cerone waited at a small table.
“Vincenzo DeMarco,” he said, motioning toward the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
Vincent sat down, grateful to be out of that dreary cell. They tried to secure him to the table, but the agent stopped them. “That’s unnecessary. We’re both civilized human beings here.”
The officers looked at him with disbelief but walked out, leaving Vincent unsecured. The agent folded his hands on the table. “You’re probably wondering who—”
Vincent cut him off. “Doctor.”
Agent Cerone’s smile faltered. “Doctor?”
“And unless you’re my mother or my priest, don’t call me Vincenzo. It’s Dr. Vincent DeMarco.”
The agent stared at him before nodding. “Right. And I’m Special Agent Donald Cerone with the Justice Department . . . head of organized crime.”
Vincent sighed exasperatedly. “I have nothing to say.”
“I figured that much. You wouldn’t have made it as far as you have if you weren’t cunning. But truthfully, I’m not here about your case. I hoped we could discuss something I found.” Reaching into his briefcase, Agent Cerone pulled out a black notebook. “Do you recognize this?”
Vincent didn’t respond, having no intention of saying another word to the man.
“I’ll take the lack of reaction as a no,” he said. “We found this in a bedroom on the third floor of your residence.”
He flipped it open, and Vincent saw the page was covered in barely legible juvenile scrawl. Realization hit him that it belonged to Haven. He tensed, concerned as to what information those pages might contain.
“The entire thing’s engaging, but there were some passages I found particularly interesting. I thought I’d share them with you.” He stopped on a bookmarked page and scanned the lines of writing with his finger before reading a passage out loud.