I got it, I really did. If we were being watched—and we were—the reports that found their way back to Sicko would needle him, which was in and of itself a small advantage. He was obviously as interested in manipulating me as he was in achieving whatever end he hoped for. He needed to feel his power over me, Keith said. It was why he insisted I play his game. Not rewarding him with the satisfaction of seeing me cower was our only hope of pushing him off his own game. That was probably why he was making us stew for forty-eight hours, he said. Either that or he needed the time to set up whatever awaited us. It all made perfect sense, it really did. It also felt impossible. We had nearly forty-eight hours before we could go to the warehouse to learn what twisted fate awaited us, and we spent only five of them together, at Heartwell Park off of Carson Street, rehearsing every possibility and angle a dozen times, but doing it like two free-spirited hippies burning up time. Long but only a block wide, the park offered an open line of sight from either Carson or Parkcrest, and we expected to be seen lounging on benches, strolling with hands in pockets, or carelessly kicking chunks of bark along the grass, arms folded.
