by Peter Clines
Eli glared at the old man. His wrists ached. Something trickled from his armpits that could’ve been sweat or blood. Maybe both.
“And I know you too,” said Truss. “At least, I know your type.”
“A minute ago,” Eli muttered, “you didn’t even know my name.”
The old man’s too-white grin widened. “You ended up on the road by accident, didn’t you? Lured into a car by Pritchard’s charms? Or did you just see something you shouldn’t have?” He pointed a bony finger at Eli. “You don’t want to be on the road. I’ve seen it dozens of times. You just want to go home to your nice, safe, normal life. And I can make that happen.
“One question, Mr. Teague. Answer it honestly. This is your only chance to walk out of here. Your last chance to get the carrot. Lie to me, try to string me along, and it won’t go well for you. Understand?”
Eli nodded. The movement made his head throb again. Memories of Sanders, his mother, his friends his life—they all flitted across his mind. Regular meals, regular showers, a real bed. He imagined going home with even a fraction of the money Truss had promised them in New Orleans, and all the things he could do with it.
Truss adjusted his glasses on his nose. “So?”
“Even if I knew anything,” Eli grunted, “I wouldn’t tell you.”
The old man shook his head and sighed. “Fine, then.”
Something scraped in the dirt behind him. He heard a short muffled screech, then a longer one. The dragging sounds stopped for a moment, then came closer to Eli. He twisted his head around and set his body swaying again.
Svetlana came into sight and grunted. Her broad shoulders flexed and she pulled her burden alongside Eli. Another heave brought it between Eli and Truss. She made a final small adjustment and then walked off behind Eli again.
Two wide planks made up the top of the workbench. Cuts and gouges and small holes covered the surface. The legs looked the same, but with less wear and tear.
A thick wooden dowel, almost a broomstick, pinned two big blocks of wood to the side of the workbench closest to Eli’s legs. Threads ran the length of the dowel, like a huge wooden screw, with a heavy crossbar at the far end. Together, the two blocks could’ve filled a shoebox.
Eli realized what the contraption was just as Svetlana came back and dropped a hammer on the workbench. It had a long handle and the head of a small sledge, just a rough block of steel with a little bit of shaping on the edges. It looked like the kind of thing a blacksmith would pound an anvil with.
Truss pushed himself up off the crate. He stepped forward and put himself on the opposite side of the workbench. His fingers danced on the planks like a man playing piano. “Now, let’s be clear about something, Teague. I’m going to have my woman here break both of your knees.”
Eli tried to kick off the bench, to put some distance between himself and it, but Svetlana set a strong hand against his back and kept him hanging in place. He tried to swing his legs back, to shove the woman away. Knuckles rapped against the lump on his head again.
“It’s going to happen,” Truss continued. “Three things you can take as absolute fact—you’re going to pay taxes, you’re going to die someday, and tonight both your knees will be smashed into gravel. The only question, the one uncertainty you’re facing, is how it’s going to happen. And that’s entirely up to you.”
Eli looked down at the workbench.
“Tell me what I want to know, when I ask, and it’ll be quick. Two blows with the hammer. Badda-bing, badda-boom. You’ll scream a lot, believe me, I’ve seen her do it many times before. But—it’ll be over in seconds. You’ll pass out and by the time you wake up your body will have already reset your nerves to make it less painful.
“String me along or refuse to answer, and I’ll have her put your knees in the vise. One at a time.” Truss spread his fingers at the wooden blocks, a geriatric spokesmodel displaying the latest in torture equipment. “We’ll take three hours to turn the crank for each one. Three hours of pressure for each kneecap before they break and pop and get crushed down into shards and powder. Six hours altogether. Maybe more.
“If, somehow, you’re still not talking—I’ve seen this dozens of times and it’s never failed to get me an answer, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt—if you’re still not willing to talk after the knees, we’ll move on to your elbows. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Eli. “Yeah, I understand.”
“And you believe me?”
Eli stared into the old man’s cold eyes. “Yeah. I do.”
“Then let’s begin.” Truss moved back to his crate and sat down. It struck Eli that what he’d mistaken for a blanket was his own coat. “Has she found it yet?”
“What?”
“Your girlfriend. Mrs. Pritchard. Has she actually found it? Does she know where it is?”
“Look,” said Eli, “I don’t know anything. I’ve barely been part of this for a week. Anybody—everybody in this town knows more than me. I still don’t even know how—”
“Shut him up.”
Svetlana rapped Eli on the back of the head. Right on the lump. Eli’s head pulsed and his vision faded to gray for a moment.
“Loyal to a fault,” muttered the old man. “Put his leg in it.”
Svetlana grabbed Eli’s foot and swung his legs forward. Eli tried to fight, tried to jerk his leg away, but the woman’s grip was like iron. Eli’s right knee bumped against the side of the vise once, twice, and then slipped between the two blocks.
He threw his weight back and tried to pull free. Svetlana snapped a fist out and caught Eli in the gut. The backhand made his muscles spasm, and for a moment or three he gasped, drowning in the air. By the time he found his breath, she’d spun the crossbar and tightened the vise on Eli’s kneecap.
The pressure felt like kneeling on a hard floor. It came from each side, though. The vise had a firm grip, just enough to worry Eli that thrashing or pulling might wreck his knee faster than the vise could.
“You were a good employee, Teague, as I recall. Brave enough to stand up to the old man, yes? I’ll give you one more chance. The maul instead of the vise.” He leaned forward and stared over his square lenses at Eli. “Does she have it?”
Eli set his jaw and gazed past Truss. He focused on the horseshoes. He could deal with the discomfort of the vise for an hour or so. Long enough for Harry to find him. She couldn’t be far.
Truss shook his head and gestured at Svetlana.
A gasp slipped off Eli’s tongue before he could stop it. In one second the mild discomfort jumped to actual pain. Senior year of college, he’d dabbled with Buddhism for a month to impress a redhead whose name he couldn’t even remember. Two hours of kneeling on the student center’s threadbare carpet convinced him that nothing the poli-sci major could offer him would be worth putting his knees through that again.
The pressure on each side of his knee was worse than two hours of kneeling on carpet-covered concrete.
“That’s half a turn,” said Truss. “At this width, there’s about twenty-two threads between the sides of the vise. That means we can tighten it by the same amount forty-three more times.”
He glanced at Svetlana, and the big woman wrenched the crossbar around again.
Eli screamed. Light flashed behind his eyes as nails of pain squeezed into his knee. He thrashed against his ropes but the vise had him. Flailing just made his leg twist around the unmoving knee. He sucked in three sharp breaths and heard a moan rattle behind his teeth.
Truss left him like that for a minute. A full, seconds-ticking-away minute. A few deep breaths helped Eli focus past the pain and get his heartbeat under control.
The old man kicked his toes against the bench. The tremors echoed up through the vise. “You can feel free to scream more, if you like,” he said. “No one will hear you. We’re almost a mile outside of town. North side, away from where everyone parks. No one comes out this way.”
Eli managed to bite back
a moan.
Truss studied his nails again. “Has she found it already?”
Eli tried to clear his head. Harry’d mentioned how valuable information could be on the road. Theo had made a living selling clues and factoids. She’d mentioned how important having the advantage could be.
He hoped she’d forgive him.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe. There’s a guy in New Orleans. We were going to double back and question him again, but she got worried when you showed up.”
The old man’s lined face twisted into a snarl. “What guy in New Orleans?”
“Hawkins. Frank Hawkins. He’s a miner, a prospector, whatever you’d call him. We backtracked to him, and he acted like he wasn’t inspired by the dream, but we think he was hiding something.”
“The dream?” spat Truss. He shot a look past Eli to Svetlana. “I don’t care about the damned dream. Has she found the favor?”
Eli blinked. “The…what?”
The old man’s snarl turned to a look of disgust. “I thought you were smarter than this.” He glanced at Svetlana. “Give him a full turn.”
32
“Don’t,” said a voice behind him. One word, calm and cold.
Truss and Svetlana both looked past Eli. Svetlana pushed her hand into her coat, but a bark from the newcomer stopped her. Eli tried to swing himself around, but it only made his trapped knee ignite again.
The old man glanced at the wall, at the outside.
“No,” said Harry’s voice. “She won’t be waking up anytime soon, and when she does, she’s going to have a nasty scar.”
“Didn’t kill her, then?”
“Saving all the bullets for you,” she said sweetly. “Can you walk, Eli?”
“Maybe,” he grunted.
“Release him,” she said.
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Truss. “Better to have this talk face-to-face.”
“We have nothing to talk about,” said Harry. Her voice sounded sharper, closer. “Release Eli. Now.”
“Well, well, well,” the old man said. “We find ourselves negotiating after all. I’m holding something you want. You’re holding something I want.”
“I’m holding a .45 pointed at your head. I’d be careful about saying what you want right now.”
“You have it, don’t you?” His smile was half awe, half greed. “You’ve got the favor.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t play the fool with me,” snapped Truss. “You’ve got Porter’s favor! The only one he ever gave out.”
Silence crashed down on the barn, broken by the sound of wind stretching tight across the building’s corners.
“A simple trade,” the old man said. “Give me the favor, I give you Teague. Everyone’s happy.”
“Seeing as I still have this gun pointed at your head,” said Harry, “my counteroffer is that you cut him down and I’ll make an honest effort not to shoot you.”
Truss leered at her. “You’re very impressive, Pritchard, but I think you’re still not seeing the big picture.” He tipped his head toward Eli and Svetlana. “From where I’m sitting, I can see the knife my woman’s holding to Teague’s leg. That’s the…the femoral artery?”
Svetlana grunted.
“Eli?” asked Harry.
“Yeah,” he called into his armpit, “still here.”
“The knife?”
Eli glanced down. The matte-black blade looked like plastic, or maybe some kind of ceramic. Both sides had an edge and a curve, giving it a leaflike shape. The point pressed hard enough against Eli’s jeans that he couldn’t see the tip. “Very real.”
Truss’s leer spread. “Stalemate. Back to negotiations.”
“What guarantee do I have you’ll let him go?”
The old man snorted. “As I was just telling our mutual friend here, I couldn’t care less about the two of you. I just want the favor.”
A new sound rumbled beneath the gusts of wind. A distant engine, growing closer. Truss’s eyes flitted back and forth behind his lenses.
“Sounds like Helena’s back on her feet and behind the wheel. She’ll be here soon, and then our negotiations will be at an end. Three to one.”
“Three to two,” said Harry.
“I don’t think Teague is in a position to help, but if you want to pass him one of your pistols, you’re welcome to.” Truss glanced up at Eli’s bound hands. “Assuming you can reach.”
The engine’s rumble grew louder. Eli couldn’t be sure in the quiet of 1886, but he guessed the car to be maybe two, maybe three miles away and closing.
“Take the knife away and we’ll talk,” Harry said.
“Give me the favor and I’ll have her take the knife away.”
“I don’t have it on me,” said Harry.
The old man shook his head. “That’s a shame. Make Teague bleed a little.”
“I said I didn’t have it on me,” she repeated. “I didn’t say it wasn’t here.”
Truss scowled, then understanding lifted his brows. He looked up at Eli. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“No,” said Eli. “No, I haven’t.”
“He doesn’t know,” Harry said. “I slipped it into his jacket pocket.”
The old man’s eyes went wide behind the square lenses. He twisted to look at the wool coat spread across the crate. He took a step toward it.
“Ah-ahh,” said Harry. “Not another inch until Eli’s down.”
Truss stepped anyway and stretched out greedy fingers.
Harry shot the coat. The crate bucked as the blast rang out between the barn’s planks. Truss shouted out some creative swears. Eli cringed, Svetlana flinched, and the tip of the knife pricked Eli’s thigh.
“Eli comes down,” Harry repeated.
As the sound of the gunshot faded, the engine sound returned. It was louder than the wind now. Eli recognized it.
“Now,” he said, trying to twist his head back. He forced his voice to stay calm. “Get me down now.”
Truss reached back, never taking his eyes off the wool coat, and waved at Svetlana. The big woman looked up at Eli and shook her head. She pulled the knife away and spun the crossbar on the vise.
The pressure vanished so fast Eli gasped from the sudden lack of pain. Then he swung away from the bench and began to creak back and forth. He turned on the rope and Harry came into view. Her tricorne was mashed down on her head. The Colts stretched out before her, one aimed at each of Eli’s captors.
Svetlana did something and he dropped a few inches. The dirt floor slapped up against his soles. His knee flared and static roared through his brain. He wobbled, lashed out, and grabbed a sleeve. He pulled, tried to lift his leg and get his balance at the same time. His spine felt long and loose.
The sleeve belonged to Svetlana. The big woman made no effort to brush Eli off, but also none to steady him further. She just stared at Eli like someone who’d found an odd-colored stain on her arm.
Harry stepped forward. “Come to me, Eli.”
He pushed off the big woman and staggered over to Harry. Staples and thumbtacks filled the space around his knee, biting with every step. She flung her arm around his back, and he threw one across her shoulders. The pistol under his arm settled back on Svetlana.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got you.”
Eli saw his hat on a lopsided chair. He snatched it up, pressed it down on his head, and leaned close to Harry. “We have to go,” he whispered. “Now.”
“I can hold them off.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about.”
Their eyes met. She stared at him, trying to read his expression. Then her mouth wavered and she swallowed. Eli gave the smallest nod he could.
“But they can’t come to Hourglass,” she murmured under her breath.
“We’re not in Hourglass,” Eli whispered back.
“If you’re sure your boy-toy’s unharmed…?” Truss said. His fingers stretch
ed and clawed at the air.
Harry kept the gun on Svetlana, gestured with the one covering the old man.
Truss scurried to the coat. His fingers searched across the wool and worked their way into one of the pockets. Then they slid over, plunged into the second pocket, and flailed inside. His gasp sounded like old-man sex. He withdrew from the pocket, his fist tight. He scuttled to one of the lamps.
Harry glanced at Eli’s knee. “Can you walk?”
“I can manage.”
Truss held the small disk up to the light. His ecstatic look faded to a scowl. “This isn’t it,” he snarled. “This isn’t even a goddamned favor. It’s not marked.” He flipped the green-edged poker chip between his fingers, then flung it at the fire pit.
“Buyer beware,” Harry called across the room.
Outside the barn, the car engine roared like a monster come to life.
The Hudson Hornet smashed through the plank wall, a battering ram of black steel and chrome. Splinters and nails darted in every direction. Truss made a loud squawking noise like a frightened bird. One of the lanterns flew across the room, just missing Svetlana and exploding against a beam. Oil splashed across wood and straw before igniting.
The Hornet’s doors swung open like spreading wings. The tall faceless man from Boston stepped out of the driver’s side. The shorter one from Independence emerged across from him.
“Hello,” they said in unison.
Flames from the lamp already covered a quarter of the barn. Svetlana moved to put herself between Truss and the faceless men, even though it pushed her employer closer to the flames. Harry elbowed Eli back toward the door while trying to keep all their enemies at gunpoint.
The smaller faceless man drew his pistol, a huge semiautomatic, and aimed it at Eli. His shoulders tensed. “Eli Teague,” he said. His free hand twitched and flexed at his side, clenching into a fist. Open, closed. Open, closed.
Eli limped backward and stared at the smaller faceless man. His eyes stretched wide in the fire-dry air. “Zeke?”
The name staggered the faceless man. The arrogance flowed out of his stance. His fingers twitched open and trembled.
