Shattered Shell

by Brendan DuBois

  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.

  "Come on, Cole, what's your number?" he muttered, as we reached the top of the stairs.

  "Not for sale," I said, my joints and sides and tongue still aching with pain, one hand firm on a handcuffed wrist.

  "There's always a price."

  "No sale."

  "Let me go," he said, his head moving, eyes screwed up tight. "Leave the key and make a call to a friend of mine, and go into my bedroom. There's a wall safe, I'll give you the combination. There must be ten, twenty thousand in there. All yours."

  In the kitchen I paused, thinking, and then I half-dragged him to the front door and then turned off all the lights. I didn't want his neighbors seeing anything. I picked up my coat and took out the car keys.

  " 'Fraid not," I said. "There's a price on your greasy head, and you can't match it."

  "Of course I can!" he said. "Just tell me what it is."

  I opened the kitchen door. My Ford was there, right where I had left it. "Nick, shut up, will you?"

  "Cole, you bastard, you ---"

  "How's your eyes doing? Those corneas still burning? That bleach still eating its way through the pupils?"

  My questions did the trick, and he didn't do a thing as I guided him outside to the driveway. I opened the rear door and tumbled him inside, forcing him to lie on his back. Using the seat belts and shoulder harnesses, I managed to fasten him. I didn't want him to sit up and start chewing on my ear or something as I drove away. I went around the front, the cold night air feeling fine on my skin, and I looked up at the beautiful and distant stars, and took a deep breath, and thanked all the gods --- past, present, and future --- for letting me breathe out in the night air again.

  Inside, I cranked up the engine and drove out, and when we got on the road is when the shakes began. My legs were trembling and my hands were quaking on the steering wheel, and I had to go empty my bladder so bad I thought it would burst. A damn close thing, a real damn close thing, and I was sure that the Greater Powers were probably wondering when in hell I would learn anything.

  At a stop sign there was a plaintive voice from behind me, edged with pain: "You promised, Cole. You promised to wash out my eyes."

  "So I did."

  At my side were my overnight bags and bundles from my stay at the rooming house, and I unzipped a bag and pulled out a container of bottled water. After unscrewing the cap, I reached over the rear of the seat and poured the contents on his face. He blinked hard and moved his face back and forth, moaning some, and when the bottle was empty, I tossed it on the floor and kept on driving.

  When I got into Tyler I drove to the beach and headed up the nearly deserted Atlant
ic Avenue. By now the pains along my body were racing merrily along, and I wished I could just roll Nick out the rear door and head to a local emergency room for some serious painkillers. But there was a task to be done, and I was going to see it through. Even with the pain there was a sense of contentment, of having finally done it. Nick now belonged to Diane, and the sooner I handed him over, the quicker I could get to something that would dull the red-hot sensations throbbing in my joints and side and wrist.

  At Tyler Harbor Meadows I turned into the common parking area for Diane's condo unit, and I let the Ford Explorer slow to a halt.

  No one was home.

  Diane's Volkswagen was gone and all of the lights were off in the unit, both upstairs and downstairs. I drove around the lot, past the mounds of snow, and backed into an empty spot, which allowed me a view of the condominium. I switched off the lights and let the engine rumble on. Damn.

  A voice from the rear: "What the hell is going on out there?" "Pipe down, will you?" I said. "Or I might have the urge to do some laundry again, real soon."

  "You wouldn't dare."

  "You're not in a position to dare anybody."

  So he stayed quiet, and I turned on the radio, and I started thinking. Both of them were out, but where? Out for dinner or maybe a day trip to Boston or Northampton. I could call the Tyler dispatch, and they would politely tell me to mind my own business.

  Cars started coming into the condo parking lot, and my heart raced a bit each time I saw a set of headlights. But no Volkswagen, no green car with Diane and Kara.

  I chewed on a thumbnail for a bit. I didn't like this. People were getting out of their cars and were looking over at me, some with questioning faces. I'm sure I looked suspicious, and I didn't want some curious neighbor coming over to see what was up, and to also see Nick Seymour, trussed up in my back seat.

  Hard to explain that one. But where to?

  Not my house. No, sir. Nick Seymour wasn't going to soil my property, no matter what was going on.

  I thought for a few moments more and then a man climbed out of a Lincoln, looked at me, looked again, and started walking in my direction.

  Time to move.

  And as I eased the Explorer out of the parking lot, I knew where I would go.

  It was quite dark when I reached Rosemount Lane in North Tyler, and I took one of the two spaces in front of Felix's house. The other space was empty, of course. Damn Felix. He was probably still whoring it up down there in the Cayman Islands. With this snow and cold and lousy job that we were involved with, who could blame him?

  "Time for a rest stop," I announced, getting out of the front seat. I put the .357 into my coat pocket and went to the rear door of the Ford. Felix might not be home, but I knew where he kept a spare key, out back for the cellar door, and this was as good as place as any to drop Nick off, rest up, and decide what the hell to do next.

  I unlocked the rear door on the driver's side and undid tho seatbelt around his chest, and Nick moaned and said, "Damn it, my eyes are still burnin' awful. ... "

  "We'll get you washed up inside."

  I moved to the other side of the Ford and unlocked that door, and repeated the seatbelt work. "Come along, Nick, it's time to --"

  My jaw exploded, as his legs flew out and connected with my chin. I fell back against the snowbank and onto the snow-covered lawn as Nick squirmed his way out, getting his legs and then his torso out, trying to stand up, trying to make a run for it.

  I rubbed my jaw, stood up, and kicked his legs out from underneath him. He fell with a whoomph! into the snow, and I rolled him over. He looked up at me, panting, and then spat in my direction.

  I took in a deep breath. "Nick, old boy, you are beginning to piss me off."

  With a free hand I picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it in his face, and I said, "Count that as the cleaning I promised you. Come along, or I swear I'll drag you through the snow, and you can be wet all night long."

  He came along, cursing and muttering as we went along a shoveled side path to the rear of the house, and then he looked up at the building and said, "What the hell ... you brought me to Tinios's place?"

  "That I did."

  "You know him?"

  "Sure do," I said, turning to him and trying my best and fiercest smile, which was hard to do considering the recent assault to my chin. "You could say he's a real good friend of mine."

  If I was trying to scare him, it failed. He just said, "Well, Christ, that's good. I know I can cut a deal with Felix."

  "I don't think so."

  We reached the back of the house, and there was the rear door, also shoveled free. "You might be surprised."

  "So might you. Sit down and be quiet."

  Another few curses, but I was hardly listening, and I pushed him down with a hand to the chest, and back he fell. The rear door was flanked on both sides by small windows, and I brushed the snow off the sill to the window on the left. I ran my fingers across the wood and pressed down, and a section slid free, leaving a gap of a few inches. I reached in and felt a long string and a key, and I was smiling quite broadly as I brought the key out.

  My smile lasted all of a second. Something cold and metallic was being pressed against my right ear.

  A voice: "Can I help you with something, pal?"

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I froze right up, conscious of the power and death all wrapped up in that little piece of metal pressing into my skin. Besides my own breathing and the sound of the distant waves, there was also the low and steady laughter of Nick.

  I cleared my throat. "Yeah, you can help me."

  "I can?"

  "Sure," I said, slowly turning. "Just tell me your hand isn't shaking, Felix."

  And there he was, dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt with a pistol in his hands. I felt a confusing rush of emotions: anger in wondering what was going on with him and Nick, and the anger tempered by the wonderful peace and joy of knowing Felix was here with his weapons and his ways, and I could relax, if only for a while.

  Felix lowered his weapon. "No, my hand isn't shaking." He looked at me and at Nick, who had stopped laughing. "Looks like you've been busy."

  "I have."

  "Shall we get inside before we freeze, and try to figure out what in hell's going on?"

  "No argument from me."

  Eventually we all got into the cellar and Nick started blabbering on and Felix looked at him, and this time a look got Nick's attention.

  "Nick, sit down and shut up," Felix said, going to a workbench and finding a length of chain and a combination lock. "You make any fuss, anything at all, then you're going to make me upset. Then I'll have to come back downstairs and you won't like it."

  "Felix, look, I can explain---"

  Felix bent down and threaded the chain through the handcuffs and fastened the chain and lock around one of the steel pillars holding up the flooring, "Nick, you've just started down the path of making me upset. You still have time to walk back."

  Nick shut up. Felix snapped the lock shut, looked at me, and said, "You look even worse than the time you ran back to the Lafayette House. Let's get you upstairs."

  I followed Felix slowly upstairs, my ribs and legs complaining, and a lot of things were barreling through my mind as we got into the kitchen. Felix still had his 9mm in his hand, and he placed the weapon in an open drawer. The whole house was dark, the only light coming from the oven range. He sat on a high stool at the counter and I sat across from him.

  "I've been back about a day, just keeping low and quiet," Felix said. "I'm staying up in Dover and I was coming back here to get some clothes and stuff when I saw you drive in. I knew you had rented something, but I didn't know it was a Ford."

  "The rental folks had run out of M-1 Abrams tanks."

  Felix nodded with a slight smile. "Then I saw the two of you get up and there was a struggle or something, and then you went behind the house. I didn't know what the hell was going on. I just knew I had to get back there.
"

  I looked up at him and slowly drew out my .357, and then I placed it on the counter. The kitchen drawer with Felix's own weapon was at my front. It was far out of reach. I looked again at Felix and his eyes narrowed, the dim light from the range making his eyes look heavy and hooded. There was a flicker of an expression on his face and a faint nod. He had gotten the point.

  "Seems like you're upset," Felix said carefully.

  "I am."

  "What do you want?"

  "For now, I want you to sit on your hands."

  Felix looked at me and I looked right back at him, doing quite' fine, thank you. As brooding a man as Felix is, I had gone stare-to-stare with the best of them.

  He said, "I'm afraid I can't do that."

  I slowly reached over and placed my hand on the revolver.

  "I'm afraid you're going to have to."

  He licked his lips and said, "What's the problem?"

  "The problem is that creature locked up in your cellar. You know him, know him pretty well. Hell, he's even on a first-name basis with you. So. What's the story? You involved in his deal? You protecting Nick? You trying to tell me you didn't know anything about his little hobbies, didn't know he had raped Kara?"

  My voice had been rising with every sentence, and I casually moved the .357 around so it was now pointing in Felix's general direction.

  He kept on staring at me, and then there was a quiet movement, as he lifted one buttock and then another, sitting firmly on his hands. "I know Nick, but I'm not involved in his business."

  "How do you know him?"

  "Some guys I know, back in Boston," Felix said. "They recommended my services to Nick a couple of months ago. He's been by a couple of times, trying to get me signed up for a major smuggling action that's going to start in Newburyport. Fishing boats coming into the harbor at night. Relatively safe and with lots of profit. He wanted to hire me on, doing security work."