Deadly Justice (29 page)

B
UDDY AWOKE TO FIND
himself strapped to a chair. His hands were tied down on something—a table, perhaps? It was dark and he couldn’t tell for sure what it was. Or where he was. Or what, the hell had happened to him on his way home from The Stroll.

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

Buddy heard the steady clickety-clack of heels crossing the floor, drawing closer to him. “What’s going on here? What happened to me? Why am I tied up?”

There was a click, and then the room was flooded with light. Buddy still couldn’t tell where he was. A cheap motel room? He couldn’t be certain. A man Buddy had never seen before in his life hovered over him. The man was dressed entirely in black, down to the tips of his cowboy boots.

“Taking your questions in reverse order,” the man said, “you’re tied up so that you can’t get away; I clubbed you over the head when I saw you on Eighth Street; and you’re about to tell me where Trixie is.”

“Trixie? Who is this Trixie? People have been asking about her all week, and I don’t know the slightest thing about her.”

The man smiled handsomely. “My sources say otherwise.”

“Well, your sources are screwed in the head. I don’t run with women. Especially hookers.”

“Really. And how did you know she was a hooker, since you don’t know the slightest thing about her?”

Buddy hesitated for just a second. “Well, it stood to figure—”

“Don’t bother. Your face betrays you. And your mouth.”

“Look, I know a guy on The Stroll who knows every hooker who’s been through here for the last twenty years. I’ll fix you up with him and—”

“Shut up.” The man leaned across the table. “Are you right-handed, or left?”

“Left. Why?”

The man took Buddy’s left hand and grasped his middle finger. “Where’s Trixie?”

“I told you, I don’t know any—”

The man pressed the finger back as far as it would go without breaking. “One last chance. Where’s Trixie?”

Buddy’s breathing quickened. He tried to block out the pain, the fear. He tried to wrest his hand free, but it was not possible. “I told you. You need to talk to—”

The man pressed the finger all the way back. The tiny bones shattered, and Buddy’s finger dangled limply in the middle of his hand.

Buddy screamed. The pain was excruciating. He had never felt such agony before in his life, never even imagined that anything could hurt so much. His entire left arm began to shake; he couldn’t steady it. Every nerve ending was on fire. He screamed again and again and again until he was breathless from screaming.

The man sat on the other side of the table and waited patiently. “Ready to talk yet?”

Buddy stared helplessly across the table. He couldn’t speak, even had he wanted to. His lips mouthed words, but no sounds emerged.

“No?” The man shrugged. “As you wish.” He took Buddy’s right hand and grabbed the middle finger. “You may wonder why I’ve switched hands. Truth is, I believe your left arm is already as convulsed with pain as it could possibly be. There are limits to the amount of pain the brain can process, the amount of shock the nervous system can endure. And we don’t want you passing out prematurely. So it’s time to start fresh.”

He leaned into Buddy’s face. “That way you can feel twice the pain you feel now.”

Buddy shook his head back and forth, his eyes pleading, mouthing the word
no
. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Losing your enthusiasm for secrecy? I don’t blame you. No cheap piece of teenage twat is worth this.” He pressed the middle finger all the way back. The bottom knuckle strained against his white flesh. “Where’s Trixie?”

Buddy began inhaling raspily, breathing in quick short gulps. “Please, no. Please—”

The man pressed even harder. Buddy could feel the tension on the bone, could feel it beginning to snap.

“Last chance. Where’s Trixie?”

Buddy cried out, a loud piercing wail. He was making short whimpering noises, like a pathetic oil-slicked seal. “Don’t…know….”

The man broke his finger. Buddy shrieked, a loud hideous endless cry. The pain was unimaginable, unendurable. He prayed for unconsciousness, for anything that would remove him from this living nightmare. But there was no release. Nothing except the man in the black boots, his malevolent smile, and the unbearable pain.

“Still not ready to talk? Amazing. The systemic shock must be incredible.” He reached down toward Buddy’s face and laid his fingers over Buddy’s eyes.

Buddy twisted away from him, throwing his head to one side. It was no use—he was firmly tied down. He could not get away. He had no use of his arms whatsoever; both were shaking uncontrollably.

“Please stop.
Please
…”

“I will stop, Buddy. I will.” The man caressed the side of Buddy’s face. “I want to stop. Truly. Do you think I enjoy this? I don’t. It’s just that I need information, that’s all. And I need it quickly. Too many people are poking their noses into my affairs. If I don’t address the Trixie situation soon, there could be some serious complications. Do you understand?”

He leaned forward and kissed Buddy on the cheek. “Won’t you please tell me where she is?”

Buddy looked back at the man through blurry, clouded eyes. He couldn’t control his own hands, much less wipe the tears from his eyes. The pain was not subsiding. No, it was getting worse with every passing second. Blood drained out of his veins; his hands were swelling and felt as if they might explode.

“Please,” Buddy whispered. He was begging. “Don’t hurt my fingers….”

“Worried about the fingers, eh? ‘Doctor, if I survive, will I be able to play the piano? Oh yeah? I never could play the piano before!’ ” He laughed uproariously, then slapped Buddy on the back. “Funny, huh? I didn’t see you laugh, though. I like it when people laugh at my jokes.”

Buddy tried to smile, but found he hadn’t the strength.

The man’s grin faded. “I’m not going to hurt your fingers, Buddy, because I don’t think they can take any more pain without inducing unconsciousness, and I very much want you awake. So I’ll take a different approach.”

The man reached into his jacket, unsnapped a holster and withdrew a long, thick knife. “I’m in the mood for a little surgery, Buddy. Nothing too major. Just the removal of a few unimportant organs. Nothing you’re likely to miss.”

He pressed his nose against Buddy’s. “I’m not going to bother asking anymore. You know what I want to hear. When you’re ready for me to stop, just start talking.

He reached down and loosened the belt around Buddy’s pants. “Let’s see. Where shall I begin?”

Buddy sobbed and shrieked, venting his anger and desperation. His entire body was cold and trembling. He felt horrible. It wasn’t the pain, although the pain was agonizing.

He felt horrible because he knew he was going to tell.

B
EN STARED AT HIS
apartment in amazement and dismay. It was a shattered arena of destruction and debris. Everything that could be broken had been broken. Chipped pieces of Plexiglas from his stereo system littered the floor. Sofa cushions had been ripped open. The lid of the piano was up. He looked inside. Sure enough—the son of a bitch had gutted it.

His bedroom was just the same, and the kitchen was even worse. There were so many easily broken objects in the kitchen. And yet, through all the rubble, he saw precious few indications that his apartment had been searched. He knew the usual signs—rifled drawers, dumped files—and he didn’t see any of them.

This wasn’t a search. This was a warning.

Ben slapped himself on the side of the head.
Giselle!

“Giselle? Sweetie?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “C’mere, kitty.”

No response.

“Kitty kitty kitty. C’mon. Daddy’s home.”

He watched for some stirring, some indication of life. Nothing.

Ben felt a deep hollow in his heart. That poor cat. He bent over and crawled through a stack of broken records, ripped books, and torn linens. Maybe she was buried under here somewhere. Maybe she was pinned and couldn’t get out.

Wait a minute. He shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. He knew how to test for cat life. He ran into the kitchen, burrowed through the cabinets—now a jumbled mess—and retrieved a can of Feline’s Fancy. Giselle’s favorite.

He opened the can and waited as the aroma filled the apartment. Not that it ever took more than a few seconds. She was normally prancing around beneath his feet before he had the lid off. He waved the can around the kitchen, trying to deny the obvious, trying to pretend it hadn’t been too long yet.

Until it was. Even he had to admit that she would’ve been here long ago. If she could.

He fell back against the refrigerator and brushed a tear from the corner of his eye. He just couldn’t believe—just couldn’t believe—

He heard something. Something barely perceptible, just outside the range of his hearing. What was it?

He stood, trying to trace the source of the sound. It seemed as if it had come from—where?

He whirled toward the kitchen sink. And the window just above the sink. The broken window he had seen from outside the house.

He crawled up on the sink and pressed his head through the broken window, careful not to cut himself on the jagged pieces of glass. The window overlooked a short ledge of the roof, a narrow shingled eave. And in the corner was a huge black cat huddled against the edge, as far as she could go without falling off the roof.

“Giselle!”

He wrapped his hand in a towel, knocked out the loose pieces of glass, then raised the window. “Giselle! It’s me!”

Giselle slowly moved her paws away from her eyes. She was terrified, but not so much that she couldn’t recognize the putative master of the house. Her head perked up. She slowly padded back to the window.

Ben scooped the cat up and brought her inside the kitchen. “You smart kitty. You must’ve crawled out there to get away.” He cradled her in his arms and hugged her close. “What a smart little kitty.”

Giselle purred and snuggled against the crook of Ben’s neck. She stayed there for at least ten seconds, until she noticed the open can of Feline’s Fancy on the floor. She leaped out of Ben’s arms and started munching.

Ben smiled, but the smile only lasted a moment. In the back of his mind, he was still thinking about what had been done, and why…

And when.

It must’ve been during the day. Otherwise it would’ve been impossible. Too many people would’ve been in the building in the evening or night. They would’ve heard and come to investigate. But if this destruction had occurred during the day…

Mrs. Marmelstein would’ve been home.

He shut Giselle in the bedroom so she couldn’t get out again, then ran downstairs and pounded on his landlady’s door.

“Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben!” he shouted. “Are you okay?” He continued to pound on the door.

No one answered.

He pounded some more. The door popped open a crack. It must not have been closed securely.

He shoved his way into her room. That son of a bitch. That miserable goddamn son of a bitch. If he hurt Mrs. Marmelstein—

From inside her bedroom, Ben heard the sound of…Paul Harvey?

“Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben Kincaid!”

The sound of the radio evaporated. Ben recalled that Mrs. Marmelstein left the radio on all night—not to help her sleep, but to keep her company. He heard some heavy footsteps on the carpet, and a few seconds later, Mrs. Marmelstein poked her head through her bedroom door. She had obviously just awakened. “You’re not a tenant here any more, Mr. Kincaid.”

“What?” Now he was thoroughly confused. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. I’m as all right as any woman could be who just had the worst day of her entire life.” She stepped into the parlor, tightly bundled up in a pink woolly robe. “It’s a wonder I could sleep at all last night.”

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

“Don’t act innocent with me, Ben Kincaid. I heard all that noise you were making up there yesterday.”

“You did? And you didn’t call the police?”

“Hmmph. For all I knew you were with the police. Partying with those hooligan police friends of yours. Making all kinds of noise. Breaking furniture. Don’t think I don’t know you did. My hearing’s not as bad as you think.”

“Mrs. Marmelstein, it wasn’t like that at all. Someone—” He cut himself off. On second thought, maybe it was better to leave her with the illusion of drunken revelry than to let her know her home had been invaded.

“I heard some squealing and shrieking, too. Harlots, no doubt.” She sniffed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Squealing? Must’ve been Giselle, poor thing. She wasn’t friendly with strangers under the best of circumstances, which these weren’t.

“I told you a long time ago I wouldn’t put up with that sort of immoral behavior. I’m sorry to do this, Ben. I’ll miss you, and I don’t know how I’ll manage without you looking after my estate. But I’m evicting you.”

“Mrs. Marmelstein—”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it. My mind’s made up.”

“Mrs. Marmelstein—” He stepped closer and took her hand. “I don’t know what came over me. You know how men are sometimes.”

“Hmmph. Indeed I do. And I—”

“Then you can surely find it in your heart to forgive me. Just this once. If I promise never to do it again. Never ever ever.” He plastered his most contrite expression on his face. “Pretty please?”

“Well…I don’t know….”

“I promise I’ll pay for all the breakage.”

“Still…I don’t—”

“And I’ll handle your financial affairs for the next year for no charge.” What a sacrifice—he’d never charged her in his entire life.

“Well…I suppose I could give you one more chance.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Marmelstein. You’re a doll.” He kissed her on the cheek and hurried toward the door. “Sorry, but I have to run. Immediately.”

Ben bolted back up the stairs and into his apartment. Hell with the shower and shave—he had to call Mike, and he had to get back to Trixie, pronto. If this maniac was on the rampage—and Ben was ankle-deep in proof that he was—Ben couldn’t afford to leave Trixie and Christina alone.