Cabin Fever - Roe Horvat Page 0,41

thing on my mind when I crept out of the damned panic room.

The cabin was crawling with people. Uniforms, suits. It was so strange to see so many bodies and hear so many sounds polluting our small refuge. It was supposed to be only Vincent and me. All these other people were just shadows to me, blurred figures and muted, buzzing sounds. The feeling of utter dread was growing and growing until I was drowning in it. Vincent.

“Sir! Mr. Bourgeon!”

I ignored the vaguely familiar voice. Where was Vincent?

The mist had lifted, and the morning sun shone outside.

More people, more uniforms. I didn’t notice faces. None of them were Vincent. A body lay on the gravel, small and slim, dressed in dark green and black, blood seeping into the ground. The uniforms obscured my view further. A chill ran down my spine, and I moved forward, away from that.

“Mr. Bourgeon!”

Where is Vincent?

“Sir. Stop!”

The helicopter was hovering above the pier, the water spiraling underneath, creating a small storm on the quiet lake. Three medics were tying a man to a stretcher.

I couldn’t see his face through the throng of moving limbs, but I knew.

Vincent.

I began running, but hands grabbed my upper arms, my shoulders.

“Vincent!” I yelled, a helpless cry of pure agony.

I broke free, only to see the helicopter rise.

I fell on my knees on the pier, watching Vincent being taken farther away from me, just like in my nightmares. God, I wished it had been just a nightmare, but the damp wood under my knees felt too real.

“Mr. Bourgeon.”

I shook my head. I needed help. I needed to call Uncle Bart. The phone I had from Vincent was useless. It was blocked for calls except for the emergency contact and Vincent’s own device.

“I need to call my uncle. Get me a phone,” I growled.

“Mr. Bourgeon, I’m Agent Andrew Madsen. We met once at your uncle’s house. Do you remember me?”

“Give. Me. A. Phone!”

Miracle of miracles, the agent listened. He unlocked a cell phone and offered it to me.

I typed in Uncle Bart’s number, one of the three I knew by heart.

“Bartholomew Bourgeon speaking,” his formal voice came.

“Uncle Bart.”

“Oh my god, Michael!”

“Vincent is hurt. They took him away in a helicopter. I need to know where they’re taking him.”

“But how…”

“I think Vincent has taken out the killer. I’m fine, but Vincent’s been hurt. I need your help.”

“Vincent killed …? But who was it?”

“I don’t care. Listen to me!” I yelled. “I need your help. Vincent has been shot, okay? You must find out where they’re taking him and make sure he gets the best care possible.”

“Of course, Michael, of course. Vincent is…”

“No, Uncle Bart. You don’t understand. I need you to pull all the strings. All of them!”

Finally, it sank in. He was quiet for a few seconds.

“Sure, Michael. I’ll take care of it immediately.”

“I don’t know when the FBI will let me go. You must help me. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him.” My voice broke on the last sentence. “You need to make sure he’s okay.” I wiped at the useless tears streaming down my cheeks.

“I’ll do everything in my power, Michael.”

“Good, thank you. I’ll call you when I can.”

“I’m so glad you’re safe.”

I couldn’t reply to that. I choked.

A hand pressed on my shoulder. “Mr. Bourgeon,” Agent Madsen said. “Can we talk, or do you need a moment?”

“Yeah.” I brushed my face with my sleeve. “Let’s get this over with.”

It took forty hours. Forty fucking hours away from Vincent. Uncle Bart was sending me updates, which was the only thing that kept me from lashing out at Madsen and getting myself locked up for attacking a federal employee.

Vincent had been shot in his upper chest, by his left shoulder. The bullet had fractured his collarbone. He lost a lot of blood and spent hours on the operating table while they dug the bone splinters out of his chest.

The contract killer was dead. Vincent had taken him out himself after he’d been shot, which made my stomach heave whenever I thought of it. He’d hunted the guy down while he bled.

After identifying the killer, it took the FBI only three hours to arrest the contractor.

Ian Hannity.

Thanks to Vincent’s earlier inquiry, they got him just as he was about to enter a cab to the airport.

“His assets are frozen. Considering what he’s arrested for, he won’t be able to get out on bail. You’re safe, Mr. Bourgeon.” Agent Madsen smiled as if he was congratulating me on