“That’s saying something.”
“And most of it was dirty money.”
“Seems redundant.”
Ward ignored Shelby’s political cynicism. “Fritz had to leave the city and assume a new identity.”
“What did he do that pissed everyone off so much they wanted to kill him?”
“When Fritz left Detroit, he took two million dollars with him. So not only does he have knowledge certain people would very much like kept quiet, but he has a good amount of money they think belongs to them.”
“That idiot.” Shelby paused to gather his thoughts. “And what about you? How do you fit into all this?”
“I met him in Los Angeles.”
“Friends?”
“A little more than friends.”
“Lovers?”
Ward nodded. “I fell hard for Jim—I mean, Fritz. And I thought he had for me as well. I should have seen it coming. He began running across the grain with the local leaders, making enemies, trying to climb the ladder.”
Shelby shook his head. The information was coming fast and heavy, and threatened to completely alter how he viewed his friend of the past ten years. His thoughts turned to the metal box he’d taken from the floor of Cabin 5. Had it really contained remnants of Fritz’s past? Or was it simply stuffed full of cash? If the latter, Fritz had used him as a mule for the money. A hot flush began climbing Shelby’s neck.
“He has that effect on people,” Ward said.
“What, pisses people off?”
“And pisses on people. I don’t think he means to. He’s not a malicious man. He’s just…he can be selfish and self-serving.”
“I knew he was an asshole,” Shelby said, “but I always thought he was my kind of asshole. He seemed solid. The sort of guy you’d want at your back in a pinch.”
“He certainly is, as long as you’re fighting for the same thing. But when the goal diverges, he’ll choose himself. Of course, there’s a chance he’s mellowed, but…”
“But recent events seem to suggest otherwise.” Shelby punched his open palm with his fist. “He played me. Used me to do his dirty work.”
Mack cleared his throat. “What now, Shel? Let the bastard rot? Wherever he is, it sounds like he deserved it. No reason to keep sticking your neck out.”
Shelby had to admit it was tempting. Pack up, go home, and tend his wounded pride. But he shook his head.
“No, can’t do that.”
“He screwed you over, Shel. You could’ve been killed—”
“He’s a friend, Mack. And he hasn’t had a chance to tell his side of things. What’s more, I’d be willing to bet that no matter Fritz’s faults, the guys after him are far worse.”
Ward chuckled. “The lesser of two evils?”
“Something like that. Mack, you have no allegiance to Fritz. And Ward, you came here to warn Fritz, an objective now rendered pointless. You two have no reason to get further involved, and I won’t think less of you if you bow out.”
Mack shuffled his feet and coughed. “I just got here and I’m not in any hurry to get back, so I guess I’ll stick around. Hell, maybe I’ll get to shoot someone.”
Both men turned to look at Ward. She smiled.
“I’m not quite the fool for Fritz I was once. But he still means a lot to me. And like Mack said, I just got here.”
Shelby look first at Mack, then Ward, then back again. He cracked a rueful smile. “Aren’t we the biggest trio of idiots ever.”
“I hope Fritz appreciates this,” Ward said.
Shelby shook his head. “Don’t count on it. He’ll probably think it’s, what you say, our duty.”
15
Fritz slowly became aware of a monotonous humming. It was close by but seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. It reverberated inside his head, almost rattling his teeth. Then he realized it was a low moaning…and he was the one doing the moaning. That revelation was quickly followed by another: he was in a lot of pain, a dull, aching pain radiating out from his body like waves. He tried to swallow but found his mouth dry and his tongue thick with thirst.
“Water,” he said, and the voice was foreign, a dry croak that sounded more like a rusty hinge than a human voice.
“Did you hear that, Trainwreck?” a new voice said. “He wants a drink. Think we should give it to him?” There was a pause and then the same voice answered the question. “Go ahead. We’re not animals. Maybe it’ll bring him around a little. I want to see if he’s finally ready to cooperate.”
Fritz felt something, a bottle or canteen, placed to his lips. He drank deeply and discovered it wasn’t water. It was whiskey. The alcohol stung his split, swollen lips and burned his throat as it traveled down. It did go a long way toward reviving him and he finally felt able to open his eyes. When he did, he wished he hadn’t. Standing before him was the most unsettling duo he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. The shorter one looked like the Hollywood stereotypical gangster: slicked back hair, shirt open at the neck with a puff of chest hair poking out, and, in the name of everything holy, a gold chain. But this Goodfellas wannabe was mere comic relief to the mountainous man lurking behind him. Fritz blinked, hoping the terrifying visage was a mere hallucination, but the man remained post-blink, larger than ever.
And then he remembered. The gunfight at the campground…something crashing down on his head…being tied to a chair in the back of the truck…the giant fists crashing down…
“You’ve proven difficult to crack,” said the gangster. “Your courage is admirable, but I question your intelligence. Trainwreck is only getting started. I had to call him off the last time, because I don’t want you dying before answering my questions. And speaking of questions, are you ready to begin?” The man approached until he was mere inches away. He bent down and looked Fritz in the face. “Question one: who was the guy at the campground who took out my partner? A friend of yours?”
Fritz squeezed his eyes shut, trying to put the pieces together. He’d heard an extra gun enter the battle but hadn’t seen the shooter. And he hadn’t had time to investigate before something—Trainwreck’s ham hock of a fist, he now knew—nearly pulverized his skull.
“I—don’t know,” he said, his voice grating against his throat. “I didn’t see anyone.”
“But you could make a good guess. Was it Alexander? I hear he has a way of showing up at inconvenient moments.”
“I don’t know,” Fritz repeated. He tried to move his arms but found they were tied to the chair in which he sat. His legs were similarly confined. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. “Where—am I?”
“I ask the questions here,” the man said, sounding as clichéd as he looked.
“Then maybe—ask a question I could, what you say, answer.” Fritz coughed. He felt as if something was caught in the back of his throat, but he was too dry to hack it up.
The man backed away and crossed his arms. “Let’s try this one. Where’s the money?”
“What money?”
The man let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re not getting it, are you? You’re not leaving here until you tell me what I want to know. And if you think you hurt now, wait until Trainwreck gets started. A couple of mild body blows is all he’s administered so far. Oh, and did I forget to mention he has a sadistic side? You don’t want to piss him off.”
“In other words, I wouldn’t like him when he’s angry?” Fritz looked at Trainwreck. He could guess where the giant got his name. The man’s face was hell to look at and his eyes, at the same time vacant and cruel, were even worse.
“It’s no joking matter. Now I’ll give you one more chance. Where’s the money?”
Fritz steeled himself and looked the man in the eyes. Without blinking, and with as much dignity as he could muster in his croaking voice, he said, “Go screw yourself. It’s a sure thing no one else will have you.”
The man leaped forward and planted a thudding blow to Fritz’s midsection. Fritz expelled a rush of air and
gagged. The man stepped back, his face black with rage. He grabbed a pistol from a shoulder holster and jammed it against Fritz’s head. His hand shook with anger and he pressed harder to stop the trembling.
“You piece of shit, I should blow your brains all over the side of this truck. If I didn’t think you have the information I want, you’d already be dead. And now I’m going to get pure pleasure out of letting Trainwreck have his way with you.” The man turned to the looming figure behind him. “Make him talk, Trainwreck. But don’t kill him.”
Shelby hobbled around the side of the office, checking the ground for signs of the fight. His tracking skills were rusty, but he could at least determine the number of combatants through footprints and the type of firearms used by examining discarded shell casings. He saw the shotgun shell first, a flash of red almost hidden in the tall, ragged grass along the base of the building. He bent, picked it up, and sniffed the inside of the shell. It wasn’t old, that much was certain. He slipped it into his pocket and kept moving. Around the back of the building and around the other side, he found scattered shells from two additional weapons. And then, in front, some from his own gun. He collected one of each and rejoined Mack and Ward, who were waiting by the Jeep.
Mack looked at him. “What’s the score, Daniel Boone?”
“What have I told you about mixing your metaphors?”
“I’ll stop as soon as I learn what a metaphor is.”
Shelby huffed. “Two attackers, one Fritz, and one me. Or maybe three attackers.”
“Why the uncertainty?” Ward asked.
“There’s a third set of prints around the side where the truck was parked, but they only appear a couple of times. Once facing one way, then scuff marks as if the person was turning around, then a set of prints facing the other way.”
“A dead end, then,” Mack said.
Shelby shook his head. “Not quite. It tells us what happened to Fritz, at least.”
“How do you figure?”
“Near the mystery prints is an area of complete chaos. Crushed grass, deep heel marks, scuffs, and dozens of footprints all over each other. Clearly the scene of a fight. There’s a short path that looks as if something was dragged a few feet, and it ends about where the back of the truck would have been. I’m guessing they cornered Fritz, overpowered him, and dragged him to the truck. Then someone dropped out of the back of the truck, picked Fritz up, turned around, and tossed him in. After that, the man climbed back in after him. I heard a roll up truck door that night. That must have been them loading Fritz into the truck.”
“Very clever, my friend. But that doesn’t help us find Fritz.”
“No, it doesn’t. It does tell us Fritz is still alive and that they don’t have the money. After all, why kidnap a dead man? And I’m guessing the only reason they took him alive is because they don’t know where the money is.”
“Fritz might still be alive,” Ward said, her eyes gleaming.
“He almost certainly is. There’s no way he’d break this soon. He’s too ornery. I’d give him another day before he cracks.” Shelby grinned, but the smile faded quickly. “Unless the guy who threw him into the truck is doing the questioning.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The prints. I’ve never seen a boot print that size. Whoever it is must be a giant and a powerful one. There wasn’t any distortion in the prints. Most people preparing to lift a heavy load will set their feet, which distorts a footprint. But these prints were crystal clear. Fritz’s weight didn’t even register on the weight scale for this guy.”
“Whoever he is, he won’t be too big for a shotgun,” Mack said. “With a gun in my hands, I’m as strong as he is.”
Fritz glanced around again at his surroundings. Had the man said “truck”? With that reference point, he could see he was indeed being held captive in the back of a box truck. An electric bulb hung overhead, casting pale light on what must have been a macabre scene. Fritz couldn’t see himself, but if he looked half as bad as he felt, he looked like total shit. He also knew better than to think things couldn’t get any worse. Every time he’d entertained such a thought in the past, he’d been proven thoroughly wrong.
Fritz watched warily as Trainwreck reached down and unzipped the second suitcase from the motel room. He slowly opened the lid and let it fall backward. Fritz’s eyes widened, and for the first time, he felt a stab of genuine fear. The inside of the suitcase was lined with various instruments of human torture: knives of all kinds, needles, corkscrews, a drill, razor blades, and a flat object resembling a cheese grater Fritz guessed was for flaying the skin from victims.
Trainwreck fished around in the suitcase for a moment and came out with a shingle hammer, the kind with a blade on one end and a nailing head on the other. Another quick search in the case produced two nails, each three to four inches long and gleaming in the sick light produced by the electric bulb. He stuck one nail between his lips and the other between finger and thumb. Fritz’s heart flipped up and landed with a thud as the big man approached, his big feet plodding heavily. His expression never changed, the eyes never wavered. No shift around the mouth. The face was made of stone.
Trainwreck stopped just before Fritz and looked down at him. Then he set the hammer down and took a knife from his pocket. Fritz braced, then felt momentary relief and bewilderment as the big man slashed the ropes binding Fritz to the chair. Was he setting him free? Fritz tried to will himself up, to force himself to run, but his legs were jelly and his insides were aflame. If he waited, the big man might change his mind. Fritz summoned all his strength and pushed with his arms and legs. He came out of the chair—only to be driven back with a single shove from Trainwreck’s right palm. Fritz hit the chair hard. And he realized with sickening certainty Trainwreck had never planned to let him go.
The giant replaced the knife into his pocket and retrieved the hammer. He grabbed Fritz’s right hand and placed it, palm down, on the arm of the wooden chair. He placed the first nail’s tip on the top of the hand and stood looking at it.
“No!” Fritz’s weakness from a moment before was replaced by renewed strength. He twisted, trying to move out of the chair and around the giant. Trainwreck blocked his escape with a single enormous forearm and drove him backward. Fritz struck out blindly, burying his fists in the giant’s torso, but it was like a fly attacking an elephant. Trainwreck moved in closer, pinning Fritz to the chair. He grabbed Fritz’s hand and forced it onto the chair arm.
Fritz felt the cold, sharp tip of the nail touch his skin. He screamed, struggled, braced himself.
Thud!
Fritz’s eyes, formerly squeezed shut in anticipation, now flew wide with pain. The sharp agony was like nothing he’d ever felt.
Thud!
The horror almost equaled the pain as he looked down and saw the nail sink deeper into his flesh with every blow. The nail was firmly in the chair wood and Fritz knew he wouldn’t be able to move his hand, even if he’d been able to stand the pain of it.
Thud!
The final blow of the hammer came crashing down and bit into the top of Fritz’s hand. While hitting his hand with a hammer had once seemed quite a painful thing the few times it had happened before, it now seemed welcome compared with the driving of the nail.
Trainwreck shifted his position and grabbed Fritz’s left hand, slapping it down on the other chair arm. Fritz closed his eyes. There was nothing he could do. Struggling would only increase the pain in his right hand and would do nothing to forestall what was about to happen with his left. Instead he tried to find a happy place in his mind, a place without box trucks, giant torturers, nails, or hammers.
Thud!
The hammer strike dragged him unceremoniously from his mental refuge and back into the world of pain and horror.
Thud! Thud!
Then the pounding stopped. The giant stepped back to survey his handiwork. Fritz sat in the chair, one hand nailed to each chair arm. Blood ran from the wounds and down the cha
ir leg, puddling at his feet.
The gangster moved forward from the back of the truck, where he’d been observing the proceedings.
“Well, now, that was quite the opening act. And Trainwreck likes to finish strong, so I can only imagine what he has in store for the grand finale. Of course, we can avoid all of that if you’ll tell me where you’ve stashed the money.”
Fritz had to struggle to breathe against the pain. “I—don’t—”
The gangster scowled and waved an impatient hand. “Oh, save it. Just save it. There’s no use denying it. I know all about you, James Ballard. You have the money, all right, and you’re going to tell me where it is. You’re also going to tell me where you dumped the senator’s son.”
This last charge penetrated through the cloud of agony enveloping Fritz’s brain. He peered through squinted, crusty eyes.
“Where I dumped who?”
“The senator’s son. Surely you knew.”
Fritz gave a quick shake of his head.
“You seriously didn’t know the man you killed was Senator Graveno’s son?” The gangster threw back his head and laughed, the sound flat inside the truck. “If there was a contest for getting yourself in a pile of shit, you’d win first prize.”
“He came—after me.”
“At least you admit to killing him. That’s progress.”
“I defended myself.”
“Sorry, the self-defense ploy isn’t going to fly this time. Did you think the senator was going to let you walk?”
“Two million is—chump change to him.”
“It’s the principle of the thing. And it’s not so much the money as what you know. It’s dangerous, especially now.”
“What’s so special about now that makes me such a, what you say, hot commodity?”
“You don’t read much, do you? It’s been in all the papers.”
A new stab of pain shot from Fritz’s hands and coursed up his arms. It exploded in his shoulders like balls of fire. He wasn’t sure what the purpose of playing dumb might be, but he wasn’t ready to volunteer any information.
[Shelby Alexander 04.0] Serenity Submerged Page 8
