Phantom Limb

by Dennis Palumbo

  “It’s Skip. He was supposed to be here at the bar an hour ago. But he never showed, and I can’t get a hold of him. I called his cell, the room number at his motel. Even the pool hall where he’s started hanging out.”

  “Yeah, I know the place. I was with him there earlier.”

  “They said he left hours ago. I tried the VA, and this one other friend of his I know. Another vet. But the guy said he hasn’t seen Skip in weeks.”

  “Did you call the motel front desk? Maybe the manager can go knock on Skip’s door.”

  “I keep trying, but all I get is a busy signal. Maybe the phone’s off the hook, or broken or something. I don’t know. Skip’s been drinking so much lately, I’m afraid he’s passed out on the street somewhere, or—”

  “Don’t worry, we just have to—”

  “But that’s not all. Noah’s gone, too.”

  “What?”

  “He saw how upset I was and suddenly decided he’d go pound on Skip’s door at the motel. He said Skip was probably sleeping off a drunk and doesn’t hear the phone. It’s room 103.”

  “Jesus, Charlene, you should’ve stopped him…”

  “I tried, but you know how Noah’s been acting lately.”

  “Yes. Erratic. And aggressive. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blame you. I called Nancy Mendors about adjusting his meds….”

  “I know. She’s supposed to come by tonight and check him out. Oh God, what am I gonna do? Now both Noah and my brother are gone.”

  I’d already pulled out of the lot and was heading across town, back toward East Liberty again. With traffic thickening, it’d take me at least thirty minutes to get to Skip’s motel.

  “I’ll find them, Charlene. How long since Noah took off?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. He grabbed the keys to the old pickup and ran out the door. Danny, please! I’m going out of my mind! You know what a bad driver he is, and—”

  “I’m on my way. Just hang in there.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Three Rivers Motel was a squat, ugly, single-floored string of rooms forming a U around a gravel lot. The peak-roofed registration office, curtains closed, was located at the far end. As I pulled into the lot, it occurred to me that it was awfully early in the day for the windows to be covered.

  My Mustang was only one of a half-dozen vehicles parked in the lot. Thankfully, this included Noah’s dented, paint-flecked pickup. It was parked at an angle across two spaces, nose aimed at room 103.

  I jumped out of my car and headed for the door. When I reached it, I saw that its lock was broken.

  The door swayed open at my touch.

  My breath tightened like a fist in my chest. Fighting the impulse to call out to Noah, I went inside.

  No lamps were on, and the single shuttered window blocked whatever fading sunlight might’ve shone in. It was a fairly large room, but the walls were dingy, dirt-streaked. Furniture old, musty. The bed, set back about two feet from the far wall, was bare except for a tangle of sheets, some of which spilled to the threadbare green carpet.

  Something was moving under the cascade of linen on the floor. A figure wedged between the bed and the wall.

  I hurried around the end of the bed and pulled back the sheets. It was Noah Frye, facedown on the floor. Slowly, awkwardly moving his arms and legs. Like a big, rangy crab trying to get purchase on the thin carpet weave.

  “Noah!”

  I bent down, took hold of both hands, and helped him get to his feet. Though he almost toppled over again.

  I knew I’d have better luck wrangling a bear, so I pivoted and guided him down to a sitting position on the bed. His shaggy head fell to his chest, and I quickly tilted it up from under his chin. His eyes were dull, clouded. Mouth slack.

  “Noah, are you okay?”

  He mumbled something, then reached with one big hand to rub the back of his neck. It was then that I noticed the familiar, painful-looking lump on his head. It was just like the one I’d received from Max Griffin, back at my office that day.

  “Noah…?”

  “I’m all right, dammit,” he growled, blinking up at me. “Some chicken-shit bastard clobbered me from behind, that’s all. I’ve had worse done to me on the streets. Lots worse.”

  I sat next to him on the bed.

  “Jesus, Noah, Charlene’s worried sick. I’m going to call her in a minute. But first, tell me what happened.”

  “Not much to tell. I got here, saw that the lock was busted, and came in. Prick musta been hiding behind the door, ’cause all of a sudden I feel a helluva pain in the back of my head and everything goes black. Next thing I know, you was helpin’ me up off the floor. Christ, Danny, if this is the kinda shit that goes on in reality, gimme back my hallucinations. At least when Satan and I mix it up, my goddamn head don’t hurt so much after.”

  I went into the bathroom and, after a moment, brought him back a glass of water. While he gratefully gulped it down, I called Charlene on my cell. She answered at the first ring.

  “Danny, is Noah—?”

  “He’s fine, Char. I’m sitting right next to him. But he’s gonna have a nasty headache for the next day or two.”

  “Thank God. Just bring him back home to me, so I can give him a big hug and kiss. Right before I beat the hell outta him.”

  “I know. He has the same effect on me.”

  Then her tone became grave.

  “What is it you’re not telling me, Danny? About Skip…”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t here. But that’s all I know. Maybe he never came back to the room.”

  Now Noah was looking at me. An oddly lucid, pensive stare.

  “Let me get Noah home, okay?” I said into the phone. “Then we can alert the police. Get some real help in finding Skip.”

  I’d tried to put more confidence into my voice than I felt. But I don’t think Charlene was fooled.

  After I hung up, and despite Noah’s grumbled protests, I did a rudimentary check for signs of a concussion.

  “I think you’re okay,” I told him afterwards. “But when Dr. Mendors comes by the bar tonight, make sure she does a more thorough exam.”

  Then I clicked on my cell and called for a cab. Luckily, the dispatcher said there was one only a few minutes away.

  More protests from Noah. “Hey, what about my truck? We can’t just leave it here. In this fuckin’ neighborhood.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t get stolen. Trust me, nobody’s that hurting for wheels.”

  “Nice. Ya know, you got a real mean streak, Danny. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  “I’ll add it to the growing list of complaints. Now let’s get going.”

  My arm around his shoulder, I walked us both awkwardly out of the room. At the same time, a city cab rolled onto the lot. I put Noah in the backseat. He squinted up at me.

  “Why can’t you drive me back?”

  “I have a few things I need to do. But I’ll check in with you later. Okay?”

  He shrugged, and settled himself comfortably back against the cab’s seat. While I was giving the cabbie some cash and the bar’s address, Noah spoke up again.

  “By the way, Danny, I like to tip big.”

  To which the cabbie responded with a widening grin. I took some more bills from my wallet and handed them over.

  I watched as the cab pulled away, then went back into the motel room. And sat down once more on the bed. My eyes riveted to the cell phone I held in my lap.

  Waiting.

  I hadn’t been entirely honest with either Noah or Charlene. Skip had in fact come back to his room. I knew this for certain because of what I saw in the bathroom when I went to get Noah a glass of water.

  It had been thrown casually to the tile floor, angled against a corner. One of its straps torn loose.

  Skip’s p
rosthetic leg.

  My guess was, Griffin had broken into the room, assaulted Skip, and removed it. Maybe purely as an act of cruelty, maybe to ensure that his victim was hobbled.

  Then, after subduing him, Griffin must’ve heard poor Noah approaching. Probably calling out for Skip as he headed for the room. So Griffin hid behind the opened door and hit him from behind as he entered.

  Which left me wondering how they’d found Skip so quickly. Maybe one of Sykes’ under-bosses had people scouring the streets looking for him. Or maybe, now that I gave it some thought, one of those three biker dudes at the pool hall knew someone in Sykes’ operation. Followed Skip when he left the place and went back to his motel. Then made a couple calls.

  I’d probably never know for sure. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that Skip was gone, and that Sykes had him.

  As the grayness of dusk filled the room, I considered—for perhaps the tenth time—calling the cops. But I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t.

  Skip’s life depended on my playing my part in this final act exactly as Raymond Sykes planned it.

  Which meant waiting, cell in hand, for him to call.

  I didn’t have long to wait.

  ***

  To my surprise, it was a video. Streaming live.

  Given my cell’s small screen, the images weren’t very distinct. But there was no question about what I was watching.

  It was Skip, mouth sealed with duct tape, bound to a chair with thick rope. One of his trouser legs, the left, hung limp.

  Drawing a hard breath, I looked closer. Skip’s eyes were open wide, white with fear. Staring straight at the camera.

  Then I saw what I was supposed to see. Squared packets held against his chest by leather straps. When Sykes finally spoke, his face unseen off-camera, the first thing he did was tell me what they were. Though I’d already guessed.

  “As you may have surmised, Dr. Rinaldi, Skip here has a number of C-4 packs strapped to his chest. Connected wirelessly to the trigger I’m holding in my hand.”

  The camera moved slightly, and I got a quick look at a portion of wall behind where Skip was positioned. I saw a couple life rafts hanging from hooks. A crescent of glass that was probably a porthole. He was on a boat of some kind.

  Then, abruptly, the camera moved again, and I was staring at the face of Raymond Sykes. His smile a thin curl of disdain.

  “I’ll be succinct, Doctor. So please do not interrupt me. As you’ve also no doubt guessed, before I disappear for a well-earned sabbatical, I need to tie up some loose ends. One of which involves Mr. Hines. He and I go way back to Afghanistan, where some unpleasantness occurred that I’m only now having the opportunity to redress.

  “But then there’s you. Because of your interference, and, to my mind, unholy luck, I have to leave the country. Perhaps indefinitely. Putting my whole operation at risk. Obviously, this total disruption of my various business ventures needs to be punished. Which I intend to do. In fact, I refuse to leave for warmer climes until I have done so.

  “So I propose a trade. You, in exchange for Julian Hines. Or ‘Skip,’ as he childishly refers to himself. Despite his discourtesy when under my command overseas, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. Once you’ve taken his place, he can crawl out of here to safety. Back to the hollowness of his miserable life. Are you willing to make that trade, Doctor?”

  The camera lens quickly returned to Skip’s listless form, head now bowed. The explosives rising and falling on his chest with every forlorn breath.

  “Or do Mr. Griffin and myself vacate the premises, making sure we’re at a safe distance, after which I press the button and blow Mr. Hines into a hundred little pieces?”

  I’d barely breathed myself during Sykes’ monologue, its narcissistic self-justification wedded to sadistic malice. I knew I couldn’t take his word for it that he’d release Skip if I agreed to the exchange. But I also didn’t see any choice.

  “All right, Sykes. I’ll take the deal—me for Skip. Where and when?”

  “Here and now. Simple enough, right? Now, tiresome as it is to have to keep repeating myself, I’ll expect you to come alone. No cops or Feds. Just you. Are we clear? Because you and your colleagues seem to have a hard time following instructions.”

  “We’re clear. Now where the hell are you?”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The lights along Allegheny River Boulevard were just coming on. At this stretch of road, ten miles past Oakmont, there was a mix of homes, apartment buildings, and block-long industrial supply stores. Lumber, concrete, marine equipment.

  I squinted in the thickening darkness for the turnoff that Sykes described. With every mile, there were fewer and fewer lights. More empty road between streetlamps and buildings, commercial or otherwise. The only things moving were the tops of trees, bending before the stiff wind coming off the river.

  Finally I found the turnoff and swung the Mustang onto the gravel access road. Narrow, curving, and barely visible in the dark, it meandered down to what looked like an abandoned wharf. Though given its small size and lack of a service building, it was more like a dock. Reaching out into the black waters of the Allegheny, its wooden platform weathered and tar-patched.

  I shut off the engine and peered at the boat tied to the end of the dock. It was an old tugboat, obviously long out of service. Creaking mournfully as it lolled in the water.

  I got out of my car and made my way slowly down the length of the dock. The splintered planks moaned and buckled under my every step. My eyes now accustomed to the gloom, I spotted a lone sedan in the nearby weeds. Sykes and Griffin had obviously ditched their van for the car, which was probably stolen.

  Standing at the dock’s end, I peered up at the shadowed frame of the tugboat. The small pilot house was caked with dirt, windows blackened. Even in the unremitting darkness, the hull showed the ravages of long years spent moored in the river. Oil-streaked, dotted with bird droppings. A relic of a time when tugs numbered in the dozens, hauling heavy barges laden with coal down this venerable river. Past the Point, and on to the Ohio River, and then to harbors east, south, and west.

  I found myself taking short, uneasy breaths, but not against the stinging river smell. It was the unmistakable sign of my rising anxiety. Almost a panic. The reality of what I was about to do hitting me hard, like a sudden jab to the face.

  I knew Skip’s life was at stake. I knew that his only hope was to let Sykes exchange him for me. And that I was going to let him do it.

  I also knew something else. I was afraid.

  Yet there was nothing to do but acknowledge it. Own it. Swallowing a mouthful of rank air, I stepped onto the boat.

  ***

  I found them in the main hold, below deck. A low-roofed rectangular space thick with river musk and the dust of years. A generator in a far corner fed electricity to three sets of lights positioned around the room. Meaning the retired tug had probably been used by Sykes as a safe house for a long time. Just as he’d converted the abandoned printing factory into a clandestine sex-and-drugs retreat for his wealthy clients.

  In the middle of the room was Skip Hines, bound and gagged, explosives still strapped to his chest. His eyes were hooded, his head lolled. He was either drugged or wearily resigned to his fate. Or just hungover.

  Facing him was a video camera on a tripod, similar to the one I’d seen at the printing factory.

  I registered all this in a few brief moments, while I tried to adjust to the tug’s steady lift and roll. Keep my balance. Then I heard a familiar voice behind me. Griffin.

  He was leaning against a bulkhead. As before, a measured distance away from me. An automatic pistol was in his hand.

  “Welcome aboard, asshole.” He grinned that easy grin.

  Behind him, stepping like a wraith from the shadows, was Raymond Sykes. In a clean, newly pressed white shirt and
tie. His civilian uniform, I thought. The shirt plumed about him, as did his voluminous trousers, like a sail caught by a breeze. His visible wrists, hands, and face grotesquely thin.

  “I’m glad to see you’re a man of your word, Dr. Rinaldi. If you’d taken much longer to get here, Mr. Hines would have been suddenly and rudely disarticulated.”

  I met his gaze. Fear turning unexpectedly to anger.

  “Spare me the fancy bullshit and release Skip. Now. Then you can verbally bore me to death.”

  I smiled over at Griffin.

  “Really, Max, I don’t know how the hell you stand it.”

  His jaw tightened. “Shut the fuck up, Rinaldi. I mean it.”

  Sykes took another few steps toward me. The smile beneath his thin mustache was bemused.

  “I’d hoped you’d present us with something entertaining. The defiant, wisecracking hero. Good choice, Doctor. I’m glad you went with it.”

  “Whatever. Now, come on, Sykes. I kept my end of the bargain. I’m here. Let Skip Hines go.”

  Sykes put his hands in his loose pockets.

  “To be candid, I’m still considering my options. There’s yet some time before an associate arrives to pick up Griffin and me. A seaplane, landing on the river at night. A real sight, they tell me. Few pilots can do it. Luckily, my gifted associate is one of them.”

  “You’ll never make it. Air traffic controllers log every plane. Private and commercial. And they’re on alert for you.”

  “As I assumed they would be. Which is why the flight plan has been filed with someone in my employ. As is the dock captain at the Boston seaport who’ll expedite our passage on a merchant ship bound for distant shores.”

  “Let me guess. You’re taking the same route, with the help of the same corrupt bastards, that your human trafficking setup uses? A small operation, like Gloria Reese said. Profitable, yet not so extensive, or financially successful, that it threatens or entices the big boys. At least not while you’re around. What happens after you go into hiding is another matter.”

  Griffin, still keeping a safe distance from me, growled.