The man froze where he sat, twisted round from the monitors, and the rigor went all the way from his eyes into the depths of his soul. For ten, maybe fifteen seconds—which is a lot longer than it sounds when you’re waiting—he didn’t move and he didn’t speak. He didn’t even blink. Then he did. A moment later his voice returned as a hoarse croak. “Are you serious?” Whatever Horn had expected—and he really hadn’t known what kind of reaction his declaration would provoke—it wasn’t that. His brows gathered in a troubled frown. “You think it’s something I’d joke about?” “Patrick Hanratty cut his own rope.” “Yes.” “You said he wasn’t responding—that you thought he was dead. You thought he was dead, and when you couldn’t hold him any longer you cut the rope.” “I lied.” “Damn sure you lied to somebody about something,” snarled McKendrick. As his emotions defrosted, the one that thawed quickest was anger. “Why in God’s name should I believe you this time?”
