Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  I had searched the parking lots for Nick's Trans Am and had found nothing at all, but I had also entered each place to make sure. I pretended to use the pay phone as I scanned the bars and stools and pool tables, and I was tired and my head ached from the cigarette smoke, the loud music, and the same flat stares that came my way every time I opened a swinging door. A stranger among us, was the feeling I received, and now with everything still ahead of me, I was scared. No backup tonight, not at all. Felix was probably sunning himself and chasing airline attendants across warm sands, and I couldn't bring Diane into what I planned to do. Not yet, anyway, and I looked out at the lights and finished my sandwich and recalled the story Doug had told me, and I remembered seeing that jaunty confidence of Nick's a few weeks before, back at Felix's.

  Nick and Felix. They knew each other, and as before, I was keeping my feelings toward Felix locked up and placed deep in a compartment inside me. I had to focus, and I couldn't waste time or energy wondering what Felix knew, and what he might be hiding.

  On my own again, I started up the Ford and left the parking lot.

  The last address on the list was Nick's home, out on the southern outskirts of Newburyport, and I drove there, trying to think of what I would do and how I would do it if I met him. And as I thought of those little strategies, I also knew if Nick wasn't home, I would start again at the list of pubs and roadhouses and resume my little journey along the back roads of Essex County.

  Nick's neighborhood was Branson Drive, a quiet residential area with ranch-type houses and well-plowed driveways, and the snow-covered lawns were littered with sleds, plastic toys, and half-melted snowmen. An odd place for a bad man to live, and it made an eerie sense. The man was smart. Live in a rough neighborhood and you get plenty of attention and plenty of cruisers stopping by. Live in a place like Branson Street and the neighbors can all eventually repeat the same refrain: A quiet fella, no trouble at all, usually kept to himself.

  Nick's house was a white ranch, set up a bit on a rise of land, and on a lot bigger than his neighbors Unlit Christmas lights were still in the shrubbery, and the shutters of the house were painted a dull black.

  A nice, quiet, and sober-looking house.

  With a Trans Am in the driveway.

  I drove slowly by, trying to see what I could through the well-Iii windows, but I saw no movement. Not a thing. Doug had told mo that Nick lived alone, and with no other vehicles in the driveway, well, it was possible that he was here tonight by himself.

  What to do?

  My hands slipped a bit on the steering wheel as I made a U-turn and came back up Branson Drive, and with a sudden impulse, I turned again and went up the driveway, my heart seeming to swell up right against my chest. Crazy, but it just might work. I checked on a few things before I got out of the Ford. My .357 Smith & Wesson went into a coat pocket, while a pair of police handcuffs went into another. A joke gift from Diane on my birthday last year, but they worked just fine, and I was sure they would work well tonight. Two more items --- a clipboard with some blank sheets of paper and that day's Boston Globe --- and I went out on the driveway of Nick's house. My heart seemed to want to burrow right out of my chest and through my heavy winter coat. I was in enemy territory, and for a quick moment, before I walked in, I looked up at the stars and they were so bright and beautiful I imagined they almost gave me solace,

  Might work. Could work. I doubt he had noticed me much, sitting in the Range Rover back at Felix's house, and besides, tonight I was driving the rented Ford.

  I walked up to the house, hand in the coat pocket and carrying the clipboard and newspaper, and up the steps I went, heart roaring along, my head almost shaking in the disbelief of what I was going to do, and I was seized with a brief triumph of joy, that in a very short few hours, I would be rid of this awful task.

  I rang the doorbell and looked into a near window, and there was Nick Seymour, standing in front of a stove, stirring something in a saucepan. He had on jeans and black sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up to his muscled forearms. His ponytail looked freshly washed, and as I watched him I reached over and rang the doorbell again.

  Nick looked over in my direction and I gave him a half-wave, and he returned the favor with a friendly nod. He put down the wooden spoon, wiped his hands on a towel, and ambled over. Then the door opened up and he said, "Yes?" in a quiet voice.

  I froze. His eyes. They reminded me of smiling concentration camp guards, of a merry Ted Bundy sitting in a courtroom, and the joy of a Ku Klux Klansman setting fire to a large wooden cross.

  "Yes?" he repeated, still friendly, and I said, "Hello, sir, my name is Aaron Shaw and I'm from The Boston Globe." I passed over the newspaper and he took it and looked up and shrugged.

  "Sorry, if you're here to sell me a subscription, I really don't have time to read."

  Don't stare, I thought. "No, that's not it," I said. "I'm conducting a readership survey, that's all, and I'd like to ask a few questions."

  Nick shook his head. "I don't want to be rude, but I'm kinda busy with dinner."

  Inside, I've got to get inside. Too many people could be watching from the other houses, and I don't want them to see me pulling out my .357 on their neighbor.

  "I know you are, but for answering the survey, you'll get a free subscription for a month and a fifty-dollar gift certificate to the area restaurant of your choice."

  He looked at the newspaper again. "Really? That's not a bad deal." Nick's smile got wider as he opened the door. "I sure as hell hate to cook. Tonight is spaghetti, and I had that twice last week, and I'm getting sick of that crap. C'mon in."

  I walked into the warm and clean kitchen and self-consciously wiped my feet on a mat that said WELCOME FRIENDS, and Nick went over to the stove and turned off the burner and said, "If you'll excuse me for just a sec, Mr. Shaw. I've gotta make sure my VCR is set to record something tonight. I'll be right back."

  "Sure."

  I looked around for a second. The kitchen was small but well scrubbed, and before me was an entryway into the living room. Nick walked into the living room, heading over to the television, and I looked over at the stove and put my hand into my coat pocket, and when I looked up again, Nick wasn't smiling anymore.

  He also had a shotgun in his hands.

  "This is the way it's going to be, Lewis Cole," he said. “I’m going to start asking a few questions. You say something I don't like, you argue with me or you lie, and then I'm going to shoot you in the left knee. Then we'll keep going --- right knee, right elbow, and left elbow --- and we'll keep going until I'm done or you can't go on anymore. Do we have an understanding?"

  Dear God. The kitchen was suddenly sweltering, and HI heart seemed to deflate and start to settle toward my backbone.

  "Yes," I finally said. "We have an understanding."

  "Good." He stepped closer, shotgun at his shoulder, pointing down at my left leg. "Are you armed?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Revolver, in my right-hand pocket."

  "Take your hand out of that pocket, real slow. I see anything else but fingers, you lose your left knee. Understand?"

  "Yes," I said, hating what I was doing as I took out my hand. When my hand was out, Nick said, "Good. Now unbutton your coat and let it fall to the floor. That clipboard, too."

  In another minute or two, my coat was around my ankles, Nick moved closer, shotgun unwavering. "Tell me, what kind of stupid fuck do you think I am?"

  "You're a lot of things, but I've never thought you were stupid."

  "Well, ain't you the bright one, Try this one on for size. Doug called me almost five hours ago, telling me that you were coming," I couldn't speak, couldn't move, could not believe what was happening. Nick was grinning. "You nitwit, you should know better than to trust a junkie, especially one who's so hard up. Hell, I tried to kill the little shit earlier today, and he dimed you right after you left, just for a few grams of magic powder. That make you feel good, author-man, knowing that little
sniveling Doug thinks your life is only worth a few toots?"

  Another step closer. "I asked you question!" he said, voice rising. "And you know what I said I'd do if I didn't get an answer. So tell me, you fool. You feel pretty good?"

  I was honest. "No, I don't."

  A quick nod. "Well, I'm glad to hear that, and I'm glad you finally showed up."

  He moved rattlesnake fast, slicing up the shotgun stock to my jaw. The sudden bone-shock of being hit made me snap my teeth up and I fell backward and to the floor, the hard tile no comfort at all, my eyes bugging out with the pain, my hands moving up to my face and feeling the slickness, and I was almost throwing up as I curled up on the floor, everything dim and rolling, and Nick came over and said, "And I had to wait, and I hate waiting!"

  Then he stomped on my head.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Months of long and dark hours later, I was weaving on my feet in the kitchen, my clothes a mess, my eyes nearly swollen shut, my ribs on both sides throbbing with a burning pain. My hands were cuffed behind me and Nick had a hand on my elbow as he opened up a door.

  "Time for a break, before I decide what to do with you next," he said.

  He then shoved me down a flight of stairs into the cellar. I fell down, everything a rolling motion of pain and impact, tumbling and sharp digs into my elbows and knees, and then I crumpled up on the concrete floor. Far off I heard the sound of Nick coming downstairs, and he grabbed my handcuffed arms and dragged me across the floor. I was breathing through my mouth, blood and saliva dribbling down my chin. My wrists ached where the handcuffs dug in and there didn't seem to be a joint or bone that didn't hurt.

  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.