by Ike Hamill
The man smiled up at Reynold.
“I have information, yes,” the man said. “You have something to trade?”
The rest of the puzzle pieces clicked together. This was him—the man that Zinnia had talked about—the Trader.
“Holy fuck,” Reynold said.
The Trader’s smile faded. He almost looked disappointed.
“Tell me what you know about Wendell,” Reynold said.
The Trader seemed to be considering the order silently.
“That’s what we’ve been saying,” Eric said. “He won’t answer.”
“The fuck he won’t,” Reynold said. To an old man, prone on the pavement, a toe to the gut might have done him in. Instead, Reynold chose a gentler kick. He raised his foot up and then stomped down at the man’s belly, forcing his breath out with a surprised, “Ooof!”
Reynold took a step back. His dirty footprint was plastered on the Trader’s vest and jacket. The old man let out a long, slow wail. Reynold took a step back and shifted his eyes up to the houses on the hill. A year ago, he might have been able to convince everyone that everything was okay. They were just having a minor disagreement with a gentleman on the road—nothing to worry about. That had all changed with the investigation into Wendell’s disappearance. The neighborhood opinion of the Carroll family had dropped to a new low. Even though they were the victims, their neighbors had judged the Carrolls to be a nuisance to the peace and order of the community. If someone spotted him kicking a man in a suit, they would assume the worst and call the police.
“We should get him back to the house,” Reynold said.
“We can’t,” Eric said.
“He freaks out,” Nicky said.
“I don’t give a shit. Here—take my keys,” he said, handing them to Nicky. “Back down the street and pull right alongside here. We’ll toss him in back and then you gun it back to our house.”
He didn’t bother to ask if she would mind being an accessory to kidnapping, since he had no plans of accepting her answer if it happened to be no. Instead, he looked her in the eyes, communicating the gravity of his command. Zinnia did it all the time to people. This time, it worked for Reynold.
“Yeah,” she said, taking the keys.
“It’s the Gran Torino, up around the corner.”
“I know.”
When she started moving, Reynold turned back to Eric. Tendons were standing out on the kid’s neck. He probably wouldn’t be able to hold the old man by himself much longer.
Reynold move around the pair of wrestlers on the ground so he could approach the Trader from the back.
“Okay, sir, we’re going to stand you up now. If you try anything, I’m going to personally fuck you up really good.”
“Don’t let him grab you,” Eric said.
Reynold shot him a look to tell him to shut up. The two of them had the power. He didn’t want the old man to think anything else. The sooner he gave in, the less trouble he would be.
Reynold reached down to grip the upper part of the man’s arm. His fingers hesitated just before they made contact. There was real heat coming off the guy. It didn’t matter. Fever or not, he was going to answer the question.
It was like grabbing a baked potato, straight from the oven.
When Reynold had been a kid taking classes, working towards a two-year degree, he had paid the rent by working in a hotel restaurant in Augusta. The potatoes had been wrapped in tinfoil and stored in a big oven that was loaded up at about two in the afternoon for the dinner prep. After working there a week, Reynold had barehanded them right out of the oven, just like the rest of the crew. That memory shot through his head as his hand clamped down on the Trader’s arm. Through the thin shirt and suit jacket, the man’s flesh was sending out waves of heat.
Reynold ignored the pain and gripped even harder.
“Come on,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “You’re getting up now.”
From up the hill, they heard the squeal of the Gran Torino’s tires on the slick pavement. Nicky probably wasn’t accustomed to such a big car. The tires chirped again and the vehicle roared down the hill.
As soon as Reynold began to seriously lift the man, a scream came out of the Trader’s mouth that could have woken the dead. Eric let go for a moment and then clamped his hands down on the man’s leg. Reynold was proud of him—the kid was terrified, but he wasn’t giving up. Together, they dragged the Trader out into the road as Nicky screeched to a stop. His screams and protests rose to a godawful crescendo and it almost looked like he was stretching as he hung on to the snow.
Reynold saw that his hand was actually clutching a root of the tree down there. It must have been a trick of the fading daylight because it looked like the roots were growing into the old man’s fingers and being torn from his flesh one by one. Just like a weed, when the last of the roots popped free, the man pulled from the ground all at once. He was on his feet and thrashing in Reynold’s grip, throwing off waves of heat.
Eric reached back and opened the back door of the Gran Torino. Reynold pulled and then shoved the Trader towards the open door. His screams subsided as he piled into the back. Reynold followed him in, shoving the old man to the far side of the bench seat. Sideways, Reynold reached back to close the door as Eric got into the passenger’s seat in front.
At the sound of the doors slamming, Nicky stood on the accelerator. The tires screamed as loud as the man had seconds before.
“Slow down, Nick,” Reynold said. He kept his eyes locked on the old man. Red circles stood out on his cheeks. Sweat dripped in fat lines down from his balding head and soaked into the collar of his shirt. Reynold thought that it was going to take more than an “Ancient Chinese Secret,” like that detergent ad on TV, to get the stains off the man’s collar when this was all done. From a distance, his suit had made him look almost distinguished. Up close, the suit was threadbare and dirty. Of course, a decent amount of that dirt was from Reynold’s own boot.
“Pull to the back of the driveway,” Reynold said. “Eric, jump out and open the bulkhead.”
Both the kids nodded. A current of regret flowed through Reynold. It didn’t matter that they had already been engaged with the old man when he pulled up—he should have never involved the kids more with this crime. It was too late now.
The car ground to a stop in the driveway.
Reynold kept his eyes locked on the man, waiting for any sign that he was going to try to bolt. He didn’t want to grab that molten flesh again, but he would if he had to.
The Trader was looking off with worried, darting eyes. He seemed disconnected from reality.
Eric ran back from the rear of the house and positioned himself outside the Trader’s car door.
Reynold nodded to him through the glass.
# # #
“Look at me,” Reynold said, snapping his fingers. “Right here. Look at me.”
The old man’s eyes kept darting to the rock wall that made up one side of the cellar and then the giant slab of granite that intersected it. The foundation had been enlarged over the years, as more sections were added to the house. Some parts of the stonework were truly impressive. One slab of granite was more than twenty feet long. Reynold couldn’t even imagine how much effort must have gone into moving that rock.
The Trader glanced at Reynold and then back to the rock wall.
In the dim light from the overhead bulb, Reynold followed his gaze. There were some errant roots, reaching into the cellar like blind fingers. A chill ran through Reynold as he wondered if that’s what the man was obsessed with. The image of the roots burrowed into the Trader’s flesh was already fading. Reynold knew that it must have been some kind of optical illusion, but the way he was staring at the roots made it come back to Reynold.
Before he knew what he intended to do, Reynold slapped the old man. It was part anger and part frustration that moved his hand. He regretted it as soon as his skin touched the face. His burned hand was still raw and the man’s face w
as still baking with heat.
He tried to not let the pain show on his own face.
“The bulkhead is locked and the door at the top of the stairs is bolted. I poured concrete into the old windows years ago—they were letting in a draft. There’s nowhere to go until you answer my question.”
“I could tr…”
Reynold didn’t let the sentence come out of the old man’s mouth again. It seemed to be the only response he knew.
“I am not going to trade with you!” he screamed, crouching down so the man could feel the wind of his fury.
The Trader didn’t flinch.
Through the floor, Reynold heard a stampede of footsteps. He looked to the stairs and then back to the old man. It had to be Zinnia returning—she would have news of whatever was going on with Jessie. He couldn’t risk leaving the old man though. Despite the locked door on the bulkhead and the bolt on the door to the mud room, there were still ways out of the cellar. Reynold couldn’t let the man escape.
Instead, he pulled up another of the old chairs. It creaked and leaned under his weight. The chairs needed to be clamped and glued. That’s why they were down in the cellar. The cellar was the last refuge for neglected projects before they were either resurrected or dumped.
Reynold crossed one leg over the other and wondered about this old man—would he be resurrected or dumped?
“Where are you from?” Reynold asked. The question sounded absurd as it left his mouth, but he let it stand.
“Here,” the Trader said.
“Name?”
The old man smiled. “My mother always called me Lueck.”
“Luke?”
He shook his head and said the name again. “Lueck.” It sounded like his tongue was flipping in the middle of the sound. Reynold didn’t try to reproduce it again.
Reynold glanced towards the ceiling again. He wanted to know what was happening up there, but knew he would have to wait. Eric would tell Zinnia and she would be down before long.
“I’m from Winthrop and then Monmouth. You ever been up that way?”
The old man shook his head.
Reynold looked down at his hands. The palm of his left hand was red and a little puffy from the burn.
“You’re running quite a fever,” Reynold said. “You ought to get that looked at.”
The man smiled. The mood between them seemed to have shifted. Reynold had watched the sales guys at work while they chatted up customers. The best of them had a way of laying back in a conversation until the mood was just right. A lot of times, people would wander in the showroom with a chip on their shoulder. They had some idea about the new floor they wanted in their kitchen or bath, but they were somehow convinced that they weren’t going to find what they were looking for in a flooring store. The pushy salespeople never made any money on people like that. The only way to get their wallets open was to lay back and wait for the right time to make a subtle pitch.
“What’s with the trading? Why are you so intent on that?”
The old man raised his eyebrows and considered his answer before he opened his mouth. “I’m not blessed with a lot of skills. The one skill I do have is locating the things that people want. Trading is how I make my living. People come to me looking for just about anything and I do my best to fulfill their needs.”
“And that’s how you met my son?”
The old man shrugged. As he had said before, specific information like that was going to require a trade.
Reynold asked again anyway.
“How did you meet Wendell?”
The blank look from Lueck—or whatever his name was—almost made Reynold lose his temper again. He was leaning forward in his chair, closing the distance between himself and the Trader, when he heard the door to the mud room unlock and then creak open. Reynold let out his breath and sat back in his chair while Zinnia started to pick her way down the stairs.
“Reynold?” she called as she worked her way down. She hated the cellar.
There was someone behind her. Reynold saw the shoes and the dark pants with the stripe, and held his breath. For a fraction of a second, he thought there might be some way to hide the old man from the police officer that was coming down the stairs. It was no good. Before he could even get to his feet, the officer was ducking down and caught sight of him.
“Mr. Carroll?” Officer Saunders asked.
“I can explain,” Reynold said.
# # #
Reynold didn’t get a chance to explain.
“That’s him,” Zinnia said, pointing an accusing finger at the old man. She looked at Jim Saunders and then stabbed her finger towards the Trader again.
Jim looked to her, the old man, Reynold, and then back to Zinnia. Confusion was written into the creases on his brow. This was clearly too much for Jim Saunders to process.
“I don’t…” Jim Saunders stammered.
“Constable, this man has taken me hostage,” the Trader said. He began to get up from his chair. “I would like to be released.”
“Shut up,” Reynold said. He realized that Zinnia was saying the same thing.
Zinnia turned to Jim Saunders. “He admitted that he knows what happened to Wendell, but he wouldn’t tell me anything more. He also had something to do with Jessie falling through that ice. That’s the reason I knew to go out to the quarry. How could I have known to…”
“Hold on, Mrs. Carroll,” Jim said. “Just hold on a second. There’s a way we have to go about this.”
“Just ask him,” Reynold said, interrupting before Jim could start talking about police procedure. “I don’t think he’ll lie about it.”
“Sorry?” Jim asked.
Reynold turned back to Lueck, who was staring at the young policeman with eyes that almost looked lustful.
“Lueck,” Reynold said, “could you tell Officer Saunders what happened to Wendell?”
Reynold almost heard the response in his head before the Trader even opened his mouth.
“I could trade him for that information.”
“See?” Reynold said. Once more, Zinnia said precisely the same thing at the same time.
“So you have information?” Officer Saunders said, taking a step towards Lueck. He squinted up at the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and ducked around it.
“What do you propose to trade?” Lueck asked.
“I don’t know what that means,” Jim said, still moving forward.
The Trader gave him a shy smile.
“What does he mean?” Jim asked, looking at Reynold.
“How the hell should we know?” Zinnia asked. “Listen, he’s the culprit. He pretty much admits it. Arrest him and get an answer.”
Reynold was certain that he knew what the response would be—they would get no justice from the police. They had been working on the case for months and seemed to excel only at stalling and making excuses. Even when Zinnia found concrete information, like the license plate number of the brown Dodge Dart, the cops had only talked about privacy and harassment. Everyone had more rights than an abducted kid, apparently. When Jim Saunders opened his mouth, Reynold expected nothing more than another disappointment.
“How about you come down to the station and answer a few questions?” Jim asked the old man.
“I would like to be released,” Lueck said.
“And you will be,” Jim said. “Just as soon as we go through some questions.”
Reynold was pleasantly surprised.
The Trader stood up and straightened his dirty jacket. Jim reached out to guide him with a hand. Reynold exhaled and felt relief for a moment. He was turning over the problem of the old man to the authorities. Sure, the police had failed before, but now they had a real, live person who had information about Wendell. It was hard to imagine how they would screw that up. Then, an instant later, Reynold saw the situation from a new perspective. The first question the police would ask would be why Lueck had been in the cellar of their house at all.
“Hey, uh, Jim? Can
I…” Reynold asked. He didn’t want to ask what he wanted to ask within earshot of the old man.
Jim Saunders turned to look at him.
“I’ll follow you up,” Reynold said.
Zinnia went first up the stairs and Reynold held back and went last. The prisoner was in the middle, shadowed closely by Jim. The group stayed in that order through the mud room, kitchen, and then outside.
Jim guided the old man into the back of his police car and shut the door behind him.
Reynold watched as Jim went through his process. He started the vehicle, gave a quick statement through the radio, and then locked everything up before he rejoined Reynold and Zinnia near the porch stairs.
“You must be freezing, Jim. You’re still damp.” Zinnia said. “Come inside for a second.”
He looked to his cruiser and then back to them before he started to apologize.
“Just one second, I promise,” Reynold said.
“Yeah, okay. But then I have to take him in.”
# # #
Jim stood just inside the door, with one eye through the window out at his car. There was a cage between the rear and front seats of the cruiser, so Reynold was pretty sure it was like a little jail back there, but he still appreciated that Jim was taking this seriously.
“I just want you to know,” Reynold said, “that he came here willingly to talk with us. He said he wanted to trade us for information about Wendell, okay? I know it might have looked funny, but we just went down to the cellar to talk because…”
Reynold hadn’t thought it all the way through.
“He doesn’t like bright light,” Zinnia said. She must have sensed that Reynold was out of lies.
“That’s fine,” Jim said. “There’s something really odd about him. I don’t know if he’s going to be considered a reliable witness or not.”
“He knows something,” Zinnia said. “Remember, he’s the one who told me about Jessie and the quarry.”
“Got it,” Jim said. “I really do have to get going. I just radioed, so if I’m not back at the station…”
“Right,” Zinnia said.
“Tell Jessie I hope he feels better, and please tell Lily that I’ll call her tonight?”
