Bedbugs (14 page)

“After I finish eating, he goes back upstairs and starts pacing again.

“Back and forth. . . . Back and forth. . . .

“Doesn’t this guy have a job or something he’s got to go to?

“Doesn’t he ever leave the fucking house?”

—A
NDY CAMPBELL

“I know they’re gonna find me eventually. . . .

“Find him.

“There’s no way around it. The cops have already been by the house a couple of times, asking questions and sniffing around.

“I’m pretty sure it was Stone’s appointment book that tipped them off to me.

“Damn!

“I thought I’d covered every base!

“I should’ve swiped it off his desk the last time I was in his office.

“My name must’ve been in his appointment book, so as soon as the jerk turns up missing, the cops check his calendar and interview everyone he saw over the last couple days or weeks.

“So I know they’ll be back.

“No doubt about it.

“That detective—what’s his name? Logan? Yeah, Henry Logan. The whole time he was talking to me yesterday, he was eye-balling me like he already knew that I’d done it.

“And his partner. . . . Damn! I can’t remember his name!

“Fuck it. What’s it matter? His partner was a goddamned dim-bulb, anyway. He just stood there, listening and nodding his head like a fucking puppet while Logan did all the talking.

“Don’t the cops call it ‘Mutt ‘n Jeff-ing’ someone?

“So—anyway, I know . . . sooner or later, Logan will be back.

“I just hope it isn’t before . . . you know, before I get what I want out of Mister William J. Stone.

“Mister IRS auditor!

“After that, I don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to me.”

—H
ENRY LOGAN

“Look, it’s like this, okay? After you’ve been on this job long enough, you get so’s you have a sixth sense. Cops call it their ‘blue sense.’ We know whether or not someone’s lying.

“Now take that guy, Campbell . . . Andrew Campbell.

“Sure as shit, he’s lying through his fuckin’ teeth. He knows exactly what happened to that guy Stone. He just ain’t talking about it.

“Not yet, anyways. But he will.

“I’ll wear the little cocksucker down, don’t you worry ‘bout that! I got a nose for this shit, you see?

“‘Course, I can’t say as I exactly feel sorry ‘bout what happened to this guy Stone. Sure, he wasn’t responsible for my problems with the IRS, but he works for them, don’t he?

“Well then—in my book, that’s good enough. After what those cocksuckers did to me last spring! Hell, I lost my house and family, and almost lost my shield because of it.

“But don’t you worry. I never let personal problems interfere with my job.

“No-sir-ee.

“Dead or alive, I’m gonna find this fella, Stone, and I’ll bet the first six inches of my dick it was that asshole Campbell that offed him!”

—B
ILL STONE

“I don’t know how long I can last . . . not like this. . . .

“There’s no point, anyway.

“I want to die! I pray to God to die!

“I can’t live like this, and I know he’s never gonna let me go. . . . Not after some of the things he let slip the last time he was down here.

“How long ago was that?

“An hour?

“A day?

“What’s it matter?

“I don’t care anymore, anyway . . . except for Maureen I care about Maureen and the baby.

“Oh, Jesus. . . . The baby!

“I know Maureen must be going crazy, wondering where I am. She’s gotta think I’m dead by now because I must’ve been missing at least a couple of days, if not longer.

“But she’s not going as crazy as I am.

“It’s that sound . . . that dripping sound. It never stops. I hear it all the time, when I’m awake, when I’m asleep, and when I’m somewhere in between.

“Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . until it sounds like thunder in my head.

“It just keeps getting louder and louder, and now I’m starting to hallucinate. I keep seeing . . . someone . . . a dark figure, standing in the corner . . . over by the door. . . .

“Sometimes, when I’m really out of it, I imagine that it’s Death, come to take me.

“But then I realize that it must be that bastard Campbell! He was down here gloating again last night.

“Last night, or was it this morning?

 
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.

“But he knows I can’t last much longer—that I’m going to die soon.

“That’s exactly what I want, too . . . for it to be over.

“But it’s almost like he wants to keep me alive, like he wants me half-way between being awake and asleep . . .

“Between being alive and . . .

“. . . dead. . . .

“Oh, God! Please! I want to die!”

—H
ENRY LOGAN

“Campbell knew I was coming back. The little cocksucker was waiting for me at the front door.

“He thought he was ready for me, but I could see it in his eyes. He’s scared shitless. He couldn’t hide it for long.

“First off, he wouldn’t let me into the house, saying how I couldn’t come in unless I had a search warrant and all that bullshit he must’ve learned from watching cop shows on TV.

“I told him, if he didn’t let me in now, it’d be a matter of a couple of hours, tops, before I’d be back with a fucking search warrant and a warrant for his arrest. I told him—for now, anyway—all I want was talk.

“‘So why won’t you let me in just to talk?’ I ask him. ‘It ain’t like you’re hiding anything, is it?’

“‘No, I’m not hiding anything,’ he says, and then—by Jesus—he lets me in, and it doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes—fifteen, tops—to break him down.

“I start by asking questions, all the while pacing back and forth in the kitchen and making like I didn’t believe a fucking word he’s saying.

“He was some nervous, lemme tell yah.

“It was cold as a fucking barn in his house, but his face was beaded with sweat. He looked like he’d been drinking, too, but I didn’t see any empties around.

“Actually, I felt kinda sorry for the poor bastard. Fifteen minutes later, he breaks down and confesses that he’s got William Stone tied up in his basement.

“‘Tied up?’ I says. This genuinely caught me off-guard.

“I would have bet my left nut he’d already whacked Stone and dumped his body somewheres, maybe out at the town dump or something.

“I can’t exactly say as I’d blame him, if that’s what he’d done, either. He got to telling me how the IRS had screwed him over big time. He broke down, sobbing like a little girl. That pissed me off, but—I have to tell yah this, I kinda felt sorry for the guy.

“Anyways, I read him his rights—did it all according to the book—but before I cuffed him and radioed for backup, I asked if he’d take me down into the cellar so’s I could check on Mr. Stone. Make sure he’s still alive and all.

“Campbell—let me tell you!—he was shaking something awful when he snapped on the cellar light and we started down the stairs.

“I wasn’t taking any chances, though. I never do, so I drew my service revolver and let him lead the way.

—B
ILL STONE

“The sounds of footsteps seemed to come from far, far away. I’d been concentrating on the fast, steady
drip-drip-drip
sound, and then it started to change.

“I wasn’t sure when it happened . . . but I heard voices. Two people, talking upstairs.

“I was so far gone, I couldn’t tell what they were saying or anything. It was like my ears were packed with cotton. Their voices sounded like bees, buzzing in a hive.

“But I snapped back to consciousness when the light came on, and I heard them—two of them—coming down the stairs.

“I knew they’d found me!

“I was saved!

“Everything was going to be all right! I could go back home to my wife and baby!

 
“My eyes kept trying to close as I stared at the diffuse light coming in under the closed door. It was terribly painful to look at.

“I took a breath and tried to speak—tried to call out for help, but I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. The only sound I could make was a low, watery rattle in my chest and throat that hurt my head.

“I was getting dizzy, struggling hard to keep my eyes open . . . to stay conscious.

“The door cracked open. First Campbell, then some other man came into the room. I could tell right away that this other man was a cop.

“I tried to say something, but a loud, roaring sound filled my head. The room swelled with darkness that crashed all around me.

“I must’ve passed out.

“Everything seemed like a dream when, sometime later, I regained consciousness and realized what they were doing. . . .”

—A
NDY CAMPBELL

“I won’t lie to you. I was scared out of my mind when I saw that detective at the door again. I even pissed my pants a little, but not enough to show, I don’t think.

“The cop and I talked some. I don’t know what did it, but something he said got to me, and I broke down and confessed.

“No, I know exactly what it was.

“It wasn’t anything he said. It was because I couldn’t take the pressure anymore!

“Sure. That’s what it was.

“I’d been planning this for so long I was kind of freaking out that I’d actually done it.

“I remember that afternoon two weeks ago, in Stone’s office. We’d met many times since last spring. I’d been trying to convince him that there was no way—no way in Hell I could come up with the money he said I still owed the IRS. After my wife took me to the cleaners—and stuck me with all the bills for her charge card—I had nothing left to live on.

“But Stone—that miserable motherfucker!—wouldn’t listen to me, no matter what I said.

“I remember saying something to him then—something that later got me to thinking. I told him that he ‘couldn’t get blood from a stone.’ That’s an old expression my mother used to use.

“And that’s when I got the idea to do what I’d done. “Stone was going to pay because I was going to get blood from a stone . . . drop. . . by drop . . . by drop.”

—H
ENRY LOGAN

“Once we got down into the cellar, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, lemme tell you! Being a detective for the last twenty-three years in a fair to middlin’-sized city like Portland, Maine, I’ve seen more than my share of weird shit, okay? But I ain’t never seen anything like this!

“This Campbell fella has Stone all trussed up like a baked pig or a Thanksgiving turkey, for Christ’s sake. He has him strapped to a big, oak door that’s propped up on two old saw horses over against the cellar wall.

“Stone’s face was fucking white as a sheet. My first thought was that he’s already dead, but then I hear him sigh and see his eyelids flutter.

“But it was the medical equipment that got my attention.

“Campbell has this guy hooked up to what at first looks like an IV. I can see a big red splotch of blood on the bandage where it’s taped to his forearm. The plastic tube leading from his arm is filled with thick, red liquid—

“Blood.

“The other end of the tube is hanging over the side of the table above a large metal wash bucket. I can see that the bucket’s practically filled with blood that’s dried black and has crusted over.

“The smell in the room was something awful. Stone had obviously pissed and crapped himself, but there was also this sour, metallic stench of the coagulating blood that he’s got collected in the bucket.

“Moving over toward the table, I inspected the hookup Campbell had made.

“It was pretty ingenious, I have to give him that.

“Up near Stone’s wrist, there’s a little plastic valve with a spigot attached. My guess is the tube underneath the bloody bandage has a fairly wide needle in it that goes directly into the artery in Stone’s arm. By opening and closing the valve, Campbell can adjust the flow of blood from Stone’s arm. He’s probably giving him anticoagulants to keep the blood flowing because that’s what he’s doing . . . he’s slowly draining the blood out of him.

“‘You are one sick motherfucker, you know that?’ I said, turning to Campbell.

“He’s cowering by the door, still looking like he could be dangerous. Or maybe he was thinking of boltin’. I figured he’s too scared to try anything.

“‘But you . . . you have to understand,’ Campbell says to me, stammering in a high, wavering voice.

“He suddenly drops forward to his knees and, clasping his hands together like a little choirboy confessing to the priest that he’s been playing with himself, closes his eyes so tightly tears squeeze out and run down his face.