Shattered Shell (45 page)

Nick stopped and then kicked me again in the ribs. I groaned and tried to roll up in a ball, but it still didn't do anything for the pain. He said, "That was very thoughtful of you, bringing along the handcuffs. Saved me the trouble of tying you up."

I tried to open my eyes, and it hurt to do so. All I could make out was his booted feet and the dirty concrete. Nick said, "Sorry, but I don't buy the story you're just sniffing around 'cuz of that dyke I had a date with. Don't believe somebody would go to so much trouble for a piece of pussy, even though I put down that landlord later, figuring he might have heard something. Hell, you put up a hell of a fight back there on the island and hurt a couple of my boys, after I set that little fake meet-up with a friend of mine who called you. So I think you're up to something, Mr. Cole. I think you're working for someone, trying to screw up my deal, and l don't like that."

Another swift kick to the ribs, and I cried out, even though it didn't hurt as much as my jaw. Either I was on the verge of passing out, or Nick was getting tired of the fun. "So this is what we're going to do," he continued. "I'm going upstairs to take a shower and then have dinner, and then I'm coming back, and we're gonna talk some more. This time, I'm going to get the answers I want, and I'm not going to stop until I'm happy. Got it?"

I mumbled something and he said, "Fine. Just so there's no misunderstanding, I expect some good answers, or I'm not going to be so considerate. I mean, I haven't even touched your balls yet, and that's usually the best way to get what you want."

He laughed at his own superb sense of humor, and then I could hear him on the stairs again, and the cellar light went off and an upstairs door slammed shut and then was locked with a loud click.

Everything was now dark.

I closed and opened my eyes a few times, trying to see something, anything, but there was just the black space about me. I slowed my breathing, tried to ease the terrible fears in the back of my brain that were threatening to break loose and paralyze me. Another breath, and another. Take stock, old boy, I thought. Just relax and start thinking, because when he's well-fed and well-washed, he's coming back. I closed my eyes, thankful I couldn't see his face anymore, those dull eyes that showed nothing, nothing at all, except a merry humor at being in control and being able to cause pain and terror. I moved my arms and groaned. It felt like my arms were slowly being pulled out of my shoulder blades. Relax, I thought,

try to relax. My ribs ached and my jaw made clicking sounds as I moved around, and my tongue was sore where I had bit it. Both knees were throbbing from my tumble down the stairs, and beside it all, I was exhausted. If Nick had told me he would be back tomorrow, I'm sure I would have fallen asleep.

A thrumming sound overhead, and it was water moving through the pipes. Old Nick was in his shower. No doubt washing off blood, blood that didn't belong to him.

I opened my eyes. Shapes, this time. Shapes just outside my view. I blinked and thought they were people, waiting for me. The fabled dead friends in another dimension, waiting to bring you across? Had I suffered a brain injury falling down the stairs, and was that Cissy and Carl Socha and Trent Baker from my old job at the Pentagon, waiting for me on the Other Side?

I blinked again. No. Just a washing machine and dryer, and what looked like a workbench.

I rolled over and sat up, breathing hard from the exertion.

My head felt like it was loosely attached to my shoulders, by tendons and muscles that were fraying apart. I looked around again. The cellar wasn't completely dark. There was a sliver of light coming from the upstairs door, and another coming from a bulkhead door that led outside. I coughed up a wad of blood and spit. Water still moved through the pipes. Think, old boy, think hard and think fast, because no one knows you're here. Diane, Felix, Paula, the Newburyport cops, no one that matters, except for Nick and that pitiful creature that claimed to be Kara's brother. I took a couple of breaths and then stood up, grinding my teeth to prevent me from groaning again. I was getting sick of hearing myself. I shuffled painfully over to the stairs and walked up slowly, hearing each step creak as I went up, my knees complaining loudly about their treatment. I got to the last step and looked around, and didn't see a light switch. Damn. Switch must be in the kitchen.

I moved down a couple steps and looked at the door. Well built and solid. Not one of those particleboard jobs that could be punched through by a twelve-year-old. Still... I wondered how much energy I could put together, if I was down at the bottom of the stairs and raced up and hit the door with my shoulder. I winced at what might happen to my shoulder if I did that, but once in the kitchen, I could make a quick 911 call if I was dexterous enough or, with better luck, could get outside.

Then I noticed I didn't hear the water running anymore. Then Nick walked by on the other side of the door, whistling.

Back standing on the floor, I shivered from the cold and the exertion of trying to ease my way downstairs without Nick knowing I was there. Think, think, think, a voice inside of me screamed. Not much time left. I walked over to the bulkhead door. Locked, and not by one lock, either. Two. From upstairs the sounds of dishes rattling, as a table was being set. Over at the workbench, I looked for a length of rope or wire, something to string across the stairs. Maybe catch the son of a bitch as he came down.

Sure. Trip him up and then we'll beat him to death with our head. I flexed my fingers. Damn cuffs, and sure, even in this horrible place, I could almost admire the desperate amusement of being secured in a pair of my own handcuffs.

I coughed and leaned against the workbench. My head was woozy and I fought against the urge to lie down, to give it all up, to look up in those dead eyes again and just surrender. A few moments of pain and terror, and, well, then it would be all over. Right?

I moved away from the bench. To hell with sitting down. As I shuffled across the concrete, I flexed my fingers. Cold and stiff. If we could get these damn shackles off, that would improve the situation.

Back on the floor. I remembered seeing a movie once in which the hero had been handcuffed. He had squatted down and had moved his legs through his arms, so that the cuffs were in front. Something like this...

"Jesus Christ," I whimpered, as I fell over on my side. My arms felt even worse, throbbing up and down with red-hot slivers of pain. No joy, none at all. No wonder they call movies make believe.

I sat up. No sound from upstairs. Probably eating. Or maybe he's piling the dishes in the sink. Either way, he's coming back down here soon enough. Damn it all to hell. Never again do something so stupid. Never again.

Another coughing fit, and I wiggled my fingers, and then I tugged.

Something moved.

I froze. Moved my right hand, and then the left. The left hand slipped through the cuff, just a bit.

Again, let's try it again.

A slight movement, and then my hand stopped. The left cuff wasn't closed quite as far as the right.

Don't try it again, I thought. Start tugging and moving and your hand will get swollen and you'll lose whatever advantage you've gained.

Okay. An advantage. Now what?

I looked across the cellar and saw the washer and dryer, and I knew.

There was a wooden shelf above the washer. Plastic bottles of some sort were up there. I boosted myself up and sat on the washer, and I grabbed the handle of one bottle with my teeth. I dragged it off the shelf and it fell in my lap, and I stopped, terrified I was making too much noise.

No sound.

I looked down. In the dim light I could make out the bright label of a liquid detergent.

"So glad you're not a powder man, Nick," I whispered. I kept the detergent bottle between my legs as I got off the washer and then knelt down, gently depositing the plastic container on the floor. I moved across the cellar, going to the far corner, moving the bottle with my feet. Using my teeth again and bracing the bottle against a cardboard box, I got the cap off. The smell of soap was strong and wonderful. I sat back and tipped the bottle back against my left wrist. It took some work because the bottle was half-empty, but in a few fumbled minutes, I had a stream of liquid soap running down my wrist.

Upstairs, the sound of water again, and the clinking noises of dishes being washed.

Stop listening!
I shouted silently at myself, as the soap go!' down to my left wrist. I took a series of deep breaths and willed my left hand to relax, thought of each individual muscle and tendon, willed each cell to relax and let loose. I curled my thumb against my hand, and with my right hand I started pulling.

The same movement, just farther.

Then the searing pain of the metal cuff meeting a bone in my hand.

So close, so goddamn close.

Again. I tipped the bottle and gooped up my wrist again, and started over. A slow, steady tug with my right hand, pulling at the cuff. There was a scraping sensation, and I could feel something begin to give way, and feel the abrasiveness of the metal, and then I clenched my teeth and tears came to my eyes and I had to stop.

I was panting now, and my left hand felt like it was being gnawed on.

A flash of light, illuminating half the cellar, as the door opened up.

"Ready for some more fun, Cole?" came the taunting voice. "Just as soon as I take a crap, I'll be right down."

The door shut again. I clenched my teeth, breathed frantically through my nose, and I tugged and felt the skin give way and blood and the pain of the soap in the open wound, and then the cuff slipped off.

Mother of God, it hurt so much…

I looked up at the washer and dryer. The sound of flushing water, and I knew he would be here in a minute or two, and I got to work.

I was against the wall, slumped and with my legs splayed out, when the light came on. My hands were behind my back, and I kept my head down to my chest as he stomped down the stairs. I looked up, drool running down my chin, eyes half-open. He pranced over at me, a merry grin on his face, the shotgun carried casually in his right hand.

"Well, I see you moved all of five feet," he said. "Congratulations. You did better than I expected. Shall we begin?"

As he reached me he bent over, and then I moved in a whiplash, shooting my right hand out from behind my back, the hand holding a large plastic cup, the cup containing a full load of chlorine bleach, which I tossed right into his smug, smiling face.

Nick shrieked and fell back and I got up in a snap, forgetting all of the pain and soreness, and I tore away the shotgun from his hands-easy enough, since he was clawing at his face-and I took the shotgun and swung it up, connecting the stock solidly with his crotch. Another shriek and he was on the floor, and I was taking no chances, no chances at all, and I rose the stock up twice as I reconnected the shotgun with his groin.

With the lights on, I made out some jump rope over in another corner, hanging on a rack near an exercise machine, and panting loudly and moving fast, I went over and got back, and though he put up a bit of a struggle, within another few minutes his hands and legs were trussed.

I stood up, weaving and feeling faint, looking down at the moaning and tied-up figure, and I brought back my foot for a kick, and then thought better of it. I leaned onto the shotgun and tapped my foot against the side of his head.

"Yes, Nick," I said, my voice tired and raspy. "Let us begin."

I went upstairs and drank some water, then found the handcuff key on the kitchen counter and undid the sole remaining cuff on my wrist. I went out into the living room and found my .357, which I tucked in the rear of my waistband. Back in the kitchen, I tried not to look too much at the mess around my left hand, and I wrapped some paper towels around the bleeding and went back down the cellar, dangling the cuffs in my right hand. Nick was curled up in a ball, moaning and crying, his face red and eyes swollen.

"Jesus," he moaned. "Please, please get me some water, man.... Wash out my eyes, you've got to wash out my eyes..."

On some other day, hell, on some other planet, I would have done just that, but instead I got down on my knees and handcuffed his wrists, being extra sure to put the cuffs on tight. I then loosened the rope around his legs and I said, "Here's the deal, Nick. We're going for a walk. You don't put up a struggle and then I'll wash out your eyes."

His eyes were screwed up in pain and his face was bright red. "Fuck you, asshole."

"Maybe so," I said, as I rolled him onto his side, "but this is one asshole who's going to keep his eyesight. If we don't wash your eyes pretty quick, you'll be blind. That's your choice. Help yourself and you keep your sight. Fight me and you go blind."

He cursed me again and said nasty things about my parentage and sexual habits, but I helped him up and he didn't put up a fight. We walked across the cement floor and going upstairs was a struggle, the two of us on the stairs, and as we went up, he tried to deal his way out.