Damaged Goods (18 page)

“Virgil? It's Hannibal. Can I get you to help me out for a day's pay? Great. No, this actually might call for a little finesse. Yeah, and bring Quaker with you. No, finesse isn't really his style, is it? Well, that's why I called you first.”

Brendon “Buddy” Hathaway sometimes thought that the best thing about his new life was that he could play his country music as loud as he wanted it without anybody whining. His outdoor speakers really rocked the house, but now that his last couple of guests were getting into their pickups he would go inside and turn the music down.

It had been quite a bash, with what might have been a record crowd of good old boys. He was pretty sure there were a couple of fellows there that night that he had never seen before. Not that it mattered. He had plenty of beer and the ribs had come off the grill just about perfect. Of course, that was five hours ago, but there were plenty of chips, nuts and pork rinds to keep anybody from going hungry.

Hathaway felt a chill as he stepped inside. He understood why. The side door had been standing open for hours, making the air conditioner run full tilt. He pulled the door closed and headed for the stairs. He had enough beer in him to guarantee a good night's sleep. He was just reaching for the banister when he realized what was missing. The door hadn't made
the little beep noise that indicated the alarm was on. He needed to go set it at the box by the front door.

As he turned his bleary eyes toward the door he realized that he wasn't alone. The skinny guy in front of him had wild brown hair over an angular face, sitting on top of a pencil neck. Hathaway thought he looked a lot like the star of the old Max Headroom television show.

“Who the hell are you?” Hathaway asked. “I didn't say anybody could stay over tonight.”

The stranger shrugged. “Sucks, don't it?”

Then someone pulled a cloth bag over Hathaway's head and cinched its edges tight around his neck. Hathaway swung his arms wildly for a few seconds, but lack of oxygen combined with the impact of hours of heavy drinking turned his efforts to fight into meaningless thrashing in the dark. He felt a deeper darkness descending on him, and wondered if he was to die without ever knowing why.

Hathaway's eyes fluttered open grudgingly, as if they blamed him for the pain bursting behind them. His hair was hanging in front of them, and he was staring through it at the wooden box he was standing on. He tried to raise his head without success. His arms were tied behind him, and he could not lower them. They must be tied to the ceiling, he reasoned.

“Hey, sleeping beauty's awake.” That was the voice of the intruder Hathaway had seen just before he was attacked.

“Good,” a deep, flat voice said. “Let's get what we came for and get the hell out of here.”

“What do you want with me?” Hathaway asked. Twisting his head he managed to get a brief look at the second man. He was very big and very black, with puffy arms and hands. The whites of his eyes had a brownish tint. Hathaway had seen that look on homeless men in Washington; men he assumed were drug addicts. This could be bad.

“You think he'll talk if we just slap him around a bit?” the white intruder asked.

“Talk?” Hathaway asked. “Talk about what? Who the hell are you?” At that, the white man walked closer. The room was very dark, lit by only a couple of candles in a distant corner.

“You can call me Quaker,” the first man said. “It ain't my official name, but it'll do. There's a fellow at Isermann – Börner wants to know exactly what you and Cooper stole from them. Something about proprietary information?”

Hathaway let his head drop. Did they think they could beat his secret out of him? Let them try, he thought.

“Look at him,” the Black man said. His words slid out like the voice of Eeyore in the Winnie the Pooh cartoons. “He's kept his secret long enough now he won't open up to anybody for anything. Besides do we really need to know?”

Quaker paused and thought a moment. “Well, I guess all we really need to know is that it's not something he'll blab around, Virgil.”

“That's easy enough.” Virgil said. “We just stick him in a hole and cover it up.”

The room felt very close right then. It was hot, and the humidity made it so much harder for Hathaway to breathe, especially with his arms cinched upward as they were.

“Well, that might be easier,” Quaker said, “but it's not all the boss asked for.”

“So what?” Virgil asked, in a louder tone. “You want to waste a couple of hours down here, punching and kicking this idiot? I say we ice him, we hide him, we leave. Neater that way.”

One of the candles went out, making the dim visions ever harder to see. Hathaway could smell the smoke from the extinguished wick. He was finding it hard to think, but the conversation he was hearing seemed clear on one point.

“Hey, are you guys arguing about killing me?”

“Shut up,” the bigger man said.

“Look,” Quaker said in a tired voice. “I know it's work but if we get the information we can leave him alive. That way, nobody's looking for us real hard.”

“He's making sense,” Hathaway said, feeling his stomach lurch. Trying to stay on his feet was making him queasy, but if he relaxed his legs it threw his arms into agony.

“Didn't I tell you to shut up?” Virgil said. Then, to Quaker, “See what I mean. He's a hard case. We could be here all day getting him to tell us what they stole. If he's dead, the story ends right here.”

“I don't know man,” Quaker said. “Maybe you're right.” He pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade flicked out at the touch of a button.

“Wait a minute, fellows,” Hathaway muttered. “It ain't a secret worth killing for. Not that big a deal, really.”

Virgil grabbed Hathaway's hair, lifted his face up, and then let it drop. “He's drunk. He won't even feel a good beating and he'll probably pass out. Then he won't be able to tell us jack.”

Hathaway's mouth was getting very dry, and his eyes ached from trying to look up at the two arguing faces. Throughout their conversation the two thugs never looked at Hathaway. In fact, they acted as if he wasn't even there. Yet this was all about him, and he wasn't about to let some darkie talk this pencil neck into killing him just to make their lives easier.

“Look, we can work this out if I just tell you what I took, right?”

“Who the fuck cares?” Virgil snapped. “See, he'll say anything to try to save his own ass. Now he's going to hand us some crap about taking money from the till or something.”

“No, really,” Hathaway said, shaking his head. “If I tell you, then you won't have to kill me, right?”

“He'll lie,” Virgil said, walking away. “And then he'll run straight to the cops if we let him go.”

“Maybe not,” Quaker said, turning his back to Hathaway. “What if we just got the dope on Cooper? Then he'd have no reason to run scared to the cops and we could just go home.”

“Yeah, that's right,” Hathaway said. “I'd have no reason to tell anybody about you. Please.” It was getting hard to breathe, and he felt like he was going to throw up any minute.

Virgil turned on Quaker, holding a knife that looked to Hathaway like a machete. The man was clearly near the end of his tether, teeth flashing in a hateful grimace. “Look, we don't need this cracker, and he probably don't even know what Cooper took.”

“Addiction!” Hathaway had shouted the word and begun sobbing. The other two men finally turned to look at him. “Cooper cracked it. He was a genius in brain chemistry. I never got past pain medications.”

Virgil wheeled and in the near-darkness Hathaway saw the blade in his hand rise over his head. Quaker put a hand on Virgil's chest.

“No, man. I ain't gonna let you kill him if he don't need to die. You don't need to die, do you boy?”

Hannibal decided to take breakfast on the front porch, enjoying a sunrise that made every shape and color sharper than a cinemascope panorama. The natural beauty of the area was both stunning and humbling, the way visiting the pyramids of Gaza or meeting Halle Berry in person would be. He was glad for the opportunity, even if he did have a pragmatic reason for dining al fresco.

Just as Hannibal was crunching up the last strip of bacon he spotted Hathaway stalking toward the porch steps. His watch told him it was not quite seven-thirty. Good. Hathaway would have to get to work soon. Their talk would be short, and since it was taking place in such a public place, it would not be too loud or violent.

Hathaway walked straight to Hannibal's table and dropped into the chair facing him. Rage crushed his lips together and his brows were so tight his eyes were barely visible. He still smelled of hangover, carrying a little of that odd mixture of liquor and vomit. So, he had changed his shirt but not taken time to shower. Hannibal finished his juice, and decided to break the silence himself.

“Coffee, Mr. Hathaway?”

“You think you're damned smart, don't you boy?”

“Excuse me?” Hannibal signaled the waitress and pointed to his cup.

“I'm sober now,” Hathaway said. “I know you sent those two monkeys last night to interrogate me. Quaker, and Virgil.”

Hannibal suppressed a smile. “Pretty goofy names.”

“Obviously code names. But I know you sent them to torture me for information.”

The waitress cast a worried glance at Hathaway as she placed coffee in front of him and refilled Hannibal's cup. Hannibal gave her a reassuring wink but waited until she had gone before he responded to his visitor.

“It sounds as if you had more to say to these two visitors than you had to tell me. Did they hurt you? You don't look too bad. I mean, no scars or bruises are showing.”

Hathaway sipped from his cup, then lowered his voice and leaned toward Hannibal. “What's this about? Blackmail? Is that your game?”

“Don't get insulting,” Hannibal said in a stern tone. “I told you I needed to know what Vernon Cooper's treasure was so I could help his daughter recover it.”

“You want to talk about insulting?” Cooper snapped. He started to stand, but then his eyes moved around the big porch, noticing the concern in people's eyes. He sat back down, and Hannibal was pleased to see the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Insulting was waking up with my hands still tied behind my back, looking around and realizing that I had been in my own garage loft all the time. Them boys had me pretty damned scared.”

Hannibal watched a pickup truck stop at the intersection to let two others get past. Monday morning rush hour, Grayson County style, he thought. “Sounds like it wouldn't have worked if you weren't already drunk and tired. But, since you are clearly assuming that I already know what you told them, how about just filling in a couple of open spaces. Like, why keep Cooper's secret so dearly? Did he help you with your own special discovery?”

“Well, yeah, okay, Vernon put a lot of work into the new migraine medication and gave me the formula free and clear in exchange for me keeping mum on his addiction formula.” Hathaway was calmer now. Blackmail must have been his real concern. He would be a ruined man if evidence surfaced that his new medication was developed at Isermann –Börner on their time. They could sue, and a court might take proprietary interest of the formula away from Golden Pharmaceuticals.

“You took that discovery to Golden, and they made you a star,” Hannibal said. “But was Cooper's own discovery important enough to steal for? To kill for?”

“Are you kidding?” Hathaway's voice dropped to a whisper now, and his eyes became wild. “Maybe you don't get it. Cooper understood brain chemistry better than anybody I ever even heard of. This was the real deal, man, a genuine cure for addiction. Think about it. Freedom from cigarettes, cocaine, even heroine, in seventy-two hours. You think guys will pay big for Viagra? This could be the pharmaceutical find of the century. That's why he hid the formula. He planned to sit on it for a couple of years until he had no obligations to Isermann. If it wasn't for that accident, you know, but still his daughter was going to be set for life based on that one discovery.”