by P. N. Elrod
Ye gods.
I stared for the longest time, not quite believing it. After a bit, I blinked, looked away, and looked back, but they were still at it and didn’t seem to be slowing.
Ye gods. Again.
Jeez, I never suspected he had that kind of osculation going for him. Good night and little fishes, but much more and there’d be a new event for the next Olympics.
Now wasn’t the time to make my presence known or to even say I’d been in the same county. I slipped off as quietly as I could down to the basement and left them to it.
“Wow,” I puffed at the foot of the wooden stairs. There was a lot to think over, only my brain wasn’t doing much, still being in shock. When a thought did surface, it was to wonder what Bobbi was doing about now. I’d have to get the number of that hotel from Coldfield. Late as it was, she might be awake.
But . . . I still had business to finish here. And in other parts of Chicago.
Damnation. I had to give myself a shake to shift gears. It was hard going, but eventually I got focused on the task at hand.
The makeshift cell was silent. The record had run itself out by now, the needle clicking away on blank surface. I went in.
Dugan was on the floor, back against the wall, his long legs drawn up, manacled arms resting awkwardly on his knees. He had a sour expression, which was good. Anything to shatter his ingrained confidence in the stupidity of his fellow man and how to take advantage of it. He had been banking on that quality to get him out of trouble. Not anymore. He watched, wordless, while I changed records, stowing the first one away in the flat box.
“Why don’t you just kill me?” he asked, just as I steadied the needle over the outer groove.
“You want me to?”
“It’s preferable to dying like this. Shoot me. Snap my neck. Or maybe you would rather drink my blood.”
“Thanks, but I’m not that desperate. Want to save yourself some suffering ? Pen and paper’s right there.” I pointed to where they lay on the floor just within reach of his chain leash. “Tomorrow night you can be in a nice warm cell, have a hot shower—”
“You seem fixed on bodily discomfort as a method of persuasion.”
“Because it works. I heard it worked great in the Tower of London once upon a time.”
“You heard? Or you saw firsthand?” He was giving me a good, hard stare.
How old did he think I was? Well, it wouldn’t hurt to play along. “I’ll leave it for you to decide. Lemme tell you about something. There used to be this thing in the castles back in the old countries, a hole, more of a pit, really. No way to tell how deep, and I’ll tell you why in a minute. They used to throw prisoners in and leave ’em there. If they were lucky, the initial fall killed them straight off. If not, then they starved to death on a pile of their own shit. The king, or whoever dropped them in, shoved a big metal grate over the hole and walked away and didn’t come back until the next time he had someone he wanted out of the way. The reason you couldn’t say how deep that pit ran was because of the layers and layers of bones that piled up over the centuries. Maybe it’d started out a hundred feet to the bottom, but there were so many bodies that the latecomers only had a twenty- or thirty-foot drop.”
He remained silent.
“I tell you that because you’re damn close to experiencing that yourself. It wouldn’t take too much for me to find a really deep cesspit . . .”
“I get the idea, Fleming. From what you’ve said already, I’m expected to sit here and suffer in this more modern version of such a place until I give in. I will not be intimidated.”
I shrugged. “Fine by me.”
“You are such a fool!” He was finally showing what was behind his usual cool face. Anger. Frustration. Oh, yeah, this was getting better and better.
“Really? I’m not the one chained to the wall for being a bad boy. From what I heard, you should have been here years ago.”
“Look at yourself!”
I spread my arms. “What?”
“You’re wasting what you are!”
What was this about? “I am?”
“The abilities you have, the powers, if I had even a tenth of them—”
“Whoa, there, Raffles. Then I would have to kill you.”
“You’ve got so much, and you squander it playing saloonkeeper, helping out that would-be knight errant on your tiny little crusades in defense of what? Worthless creatures like that idiot female. She drools, Fleming. Most attractive!”
“Well, let’s see how you look after a week down here, and then I’ll decide who I want to take out for ice cream.”
“If you’re afraid to use your talents yourself, then let me guide you. You’re wasting them. You can go anywhere, do anything if you just—”
“Dugan, tell it to the Marines, I’m not interested.” I dropped the needle, and Dugan’s voice, sounding condescending and in charge, came out of the speaker. “I’ll be back when this plays out. I suggest you stop worrying about how I live my life and think how you want to spend the rest of yours.”
“Fleming—!”
I backed toward the door. “Your choice. A confession now before things get really bad will save you a lot of future grief. You have to decide how much suffering you want to go through, how much your pride’s worth to stick it out. I don’t care one way or another. You won’t impress me with how long it takes for you to change your mind.”
I heard a step behind me. Escott, I thought. Talk about bad timing. I did not need him crashing my big exit. I’d finally gotten Dugan upset enough to shout about something, even if it wasn’t concerned with what I had in mind. He must have been doing plenty of thinking, just not on the right subject. This wanting to make use of my abilities must have been what Dugan had in mind all along. Another experiment. Well, to hell with that—
Escott punched me hard in the back. Too hard. As though he’d used a sledgehammer. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have felt it this badly, wouldn’t have grunted as my knees gave way, wouldn’t have pitched forward onto the cold floor. What the—
A broad face leaned within my suddenly blurred view. Not Escott. Not...
Hog Bristow grinned down. “Hello, punk. It’s buckwheats time.”
15
I worked out I was hurt, and whatever it was continued to hurt, growing worse. I tried to vanish. Never mind if Bristow saw. Nothing happened. No pleasant escape, no weightless gray limbo, no healing. Something terribly wrong in my back. I flopped one arm around, fingers encountering, then grasping what felt like a screwdriver handle. Quick before anyone could stop me I pulled hard, and heard a man’s hoarse cry a full second before the blinding pain shot up through my skull.
Bristow laughed. I’d smash his face to jelly once I got this damned thing—it snapped away . . .
But the pain continued.
In my hand was the top part of a rusty ice pick. The rest of it, at least half a foot of disruptive metal, remained in my back, screwing things up inside, preventing me from vanishing. To hell with that, I could still fight. I surged toward Bristow, but he danced out of my way, leaving it clear for his men to step in. Three of them. The one I’d decked earlier was recovered, now armed with brass knuckles.
They went to work on me, or tried to. I landed enough punches to get some respect, but that also made them mad. Fists and feet, clouts and kicks rained on me. One bright boy hammered on my lower back where the ice pick point was imbedded. That was the worst. I roared and swung, sending him hurtling across the room into Dugan.
Things blurred again. I was on the floor again. Didn’t know how I’d gotten there. Head felt like a drum. Could barely hear. Could not move.
“. . . killed him, you idiot,” growled Bristow.
“He can’t be dead.” Sounded like Dugan. But his voice also droned tinnily from another direction.
“Shuddup, you. Turn that crap off, I can’t think. What is that?”
They shut off the phonograph. “Donno, Boss. Looks like a homemade record.”
>
“Break it,” cried Dugan. “Break them both!”
“I said shuddup. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m being held prisoner here. Please, help me. I’ll pay you anything. Get me out of here.”
“Why you chained up like that? What the hell kinda place is this?”
“There might be a key to these manacles outside, send one of your men to look.”
“Screw that; you answer me.”
“Sir, there’s no time. The other people in the house may have heard, they could be calling the police. Take me with you, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Nobody knows that much. Reef, why’d you hit him so damn hard? I oughta buckwheats you to learn you better.”
“He can’t be dead,” Dugan insisted. “Not Fleming.”
“Why, he your boyfriend? Well, too bad for you, gunsel.”
“You don’t understand, there’s something different about him. He’s—he’s playing possum.”
Bristow snorted.
“Boss,” said one of the others. “We should get outta here. Let’s leave’em and go.”
“Take me with you. I can help!” Dugan’s voice was high, desperate.
“We don’t need no help,” said Bristow.
“I tell you he’s not dead. Let me loose, and I’ll prove it!”
“You’re nuts. Why else would they chain you up?”
“Because they’re monsters! I’ll gladly explain everything, but not here.”
“Hey, Boss. I think nutzo there has somethin’. Lookit this.”
Fire in my back as Reef thumped on the ice pick; I flinched, gasped involuntarily. He turned me over, pried open one of my eyelids. Saw me looking back.
“He’s still kicking. Not a lot.”
“It’s enough. You guys get him in the car. You, where you know him from? Why you on the wall like that? You doing some kind of sick games down here?”
“No-no-no! He’s been holding me prisoner for something I didn’t do. We’re mortal enemies. I can help you with him.”
“You’re the one needs help.”
“I can be useful, and I can pay.”
“You don’t look like you got a plug nickel.”
“I assure you I can! Five thousand dollars! I can get it!”
Another snort. “What the hell, why not? You got the money, I’m ahead. You ain’t got the money, you don’t have a head.” He laughed heartily at this. “Reef, find that key he talked about.”
“Don’t need one, Boss.”
An almighty bang filled the room, followed by swearing.
“You trying to kill us? That bullet bounced! You stop!”
“But he’s loose. In one shot. Pretty good, huh?”
Bristow swore and rumbled orders. Reef and another man hoisted me up. They complained about the weight. I twitched to life and kicked, trying to get clear. They came after me; one of them threw too slow a punch. I froze onto his arm and twisted, trying to tear it off. He screamed and just managed to break free with some help. The help was Reef putting one of his heavy shoes into my side. I grabbed and hauled on his leg. Felt like I was moving in syrup, but I still had strength in me. Reef crashed over, yelling. I rolled, taking his foot along. Felt something snap. Heard another scream. Hands on me, tearing, punching.
Face into the floor. How’d I get here?
“He broke it, goddammit! He goddamn broke it!”
I lurched up, spotted Bristow, and lunged at him. He dodged, but I grabbed a meaty shoulder and hung on, pulling myself up, trying to get a choke hold. Yelling, men hitting me . . . the sharp, confined crack of a gun, my legs going out again. Cold concrete, fire in my left side, bloodsmell.
“You kill him, Boss?”
A pause as they investigated. Someone turned me over.
Dugan. Free now. Chains dangling from his wrists. Leering in my face. He tugged at my clothes, digging for the wound.
“What’re you doing?”
“Just look!” Dugan had my shirt yanked out of the way.
“So?”
“Watch! Watch what happens to him!”
“What the hell . . . ?”
Knew what they’d see, tried to move, but there was a flash of light that left me stunned. Someone had hit me again. Must have used wood. As they watched and waited, I had the time to realize they were going to kill me. They would succeed. Of all of them, Dugan was the one who would know how to do it.
Couldn’t let him . . .
“See! It’s healing right up!” he cried.
I lashed at him, hands on his throat, my lips peeled back in a breathless snarl. He struggled, tried to get away—
Shot.
My right side, down in the belly. God, I couldn’t stand it. Blood rushing out, the terrible burning as outraged flesh forced itself to knit together. Wanted to vanish, anything to stop the pain.
“You see?” Dugan panted hoarsely. “You can’t kill him.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bristow sounded interested.
“Boss, we gotta get outta here. Someone upstairs will have heard.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get ’em. You, there, you wanna help, you get Reef walking. Tib, Lissky, pick that skinny bastard up, and get to the car.”
“But, Boss . . .”
“I said he was buckwheats, and I keep my promises. Hey—I told ya to help Reef.”
Noise across the room. The rattle of chains, then a cracking as Dugan broke the two phonograph records to shards. “Yes, of course, right away. Where are we going?”
“Never you mind.”
Long climb up the stairs. I was too hurt to hinder them. They’d just drop me, and I could break something in the fall and make it worse. Had to wait, marshal my waning strength. If I could just get that metal pick out of me . . . my back . . .
Escott. Where was he? He must have heard something. Maybe waiting for the right moment, too. He’d want to keep Vivian out of the line of fire. Get her safe, keep everyone in the house quiet, then move in.
But he stayed clear. No sign of him as they hauled me through the kitchen. Had they taken him earlier? I’d left him in the front; these guys had come in by the back. He could have completely missed them. There were a lot of walls in between.
Their car with the missing door was parked next to my Buick. They couldn’t have followed me here, or they’d have crashed the party sooner. Must have trailed Brockhurst instead. They’d have remembered him and Marie, maybe stopped them, asked questions, thinking it would lead to me. Had those two been in on it? Ring the front bell, draw attention in that direction?
Bristow opened the car; Tib and Lissky dropped me in the trunk. I landed bad, bit off the cry as the pick point seemed to drive in deeper. Tib slammed the trunk lid down. Felt jouncing as they loaded into the car. Dugan, too. Could hear his voice against Bristow’s rumble, then the engine gunned, and we rolled forward, bumping over uneven ground before finding the pavement. Swoop and bump as we made the road.
My guts wanted to turn inside out. Sick and sweating, I was able to move, but each time cost me. Pretzeled around with one arm, searching for the pick point. My fingers were numb and slick. They brushed against bloodied skin.
Smooth bloodied skin. No sign of the broken-off point. None. Oh, dear God, I’d healed up with the damn thing inside me.
WANTED to pass out. My body didn’t cooperate. Was conscious of every awful moment of an endless drive full of turns and pauses. The thrum of the motor, the stink of exhaust when I once chanced to draw breath. Cold seeped into my bones, made me shiver. If I could stop it, make myself hold still, not respond to them, look dead, they’d leave me alone. Dugan might see past the ruse, though. He knew a little about me, what I was, but how much?
They finally stopped and got out. The stillness and silence pressed hard, made me think they’d left for good. In a couple days some curious cop might have the car towed, in a couple more days someone might open the trunk and find me. What was left of me. Would I live that long? I didn’t know. Didn’t want to kno
w.
The lid shot up. Tib and Lissky again, grunting and heaving me around like a sack of rocks. I tried to be completely limp, eyes slitted. Glimpse of a dim, empty street, tall, flat-sided buildings. A single light glowing harsh blue on a pole far, far away at the end. Familiar smell in the air: farmyard stench mixed with death. If my heart had been beating, it would have leaped. We were near the Stockyards.
“What place is this?” Dugan again. He was supporting Reef, who hopped along on his left foot.
“Get in or I’ll plug ya!” Bristow. Sounded drunk.
Tib had my shoulders, Lissky my legs. They walked clumsy, lugging my weight with small steps. A doorway. High, looming walls. A second door. Metallic clunk and snick, wash of cold air. Colder than the January air outside. Bloodsmell everywhere. My corner teeth emerged, lengthened. Instinctive hunger. Needed to restore what I’d lost.
“Down over there,” said Bristow.
They dropped me sprawling. More concrete. Like ice. Bloodsmell permeated it, but there was no blood. High above were metal rafters, a system of pulleys and rails like at a laundry, but bigger, bulkier. Hooks, chains, massive things hanging from some of them like misshapen Christmas ornaments. A meat locker of some sort. Those were sides of beef.
“Legs,” said Bristow, the word visible in the clammy cold.
One of them put my ankles together. Instinct told me what might be coming. Memories of stories Gordy passed on told me what would be coming. I fought, kicking; wordless, panicked desperation gave me a burst of strength. I broke Lissky’s arm. He fell away, cursing. Tib slammed into my temples with the brass knucks until I didn’t have anything left but the pain. He tied my feet. Heard a rattling. Too heavy be Dugan’s chains. What . . . ?
Tib dragged a meat hook down and slipped it under the knots between my ankles. The hook was attached to thick chain that looped into a pulley system. It was how they hung the beef up. My turn, now. He hauled sharp on more chain, like drawing a curtain.
