COLT (A Nicholas Colt Thriller)

by Jude Hardin

  “I need my shot,” he said.

  “I know you do, Trent. But you’re not going to get it until you tell me where Everett Harbaugh is.”

  “I can’t feel my fingers,” he said. “Please untie my hands.”

  “I’ll untie you and get you some clothes, and I’ll bring your smack in so you can shoot up. But first you have to tell me what I need to know.”

  Mr. Dirty walked to the workbench on the other side of the garage. He grabbed a propane torch and a metal striker to light it with.

  “This is bullshit,” he said.

  He opened the valve on the torch and squeezed the striker, and a blue flame appeared at the end of the nozzle.

  “What are you going to do?” I said.

  “I’m going to start with the pinky toe on his left foot. I’m going to roast it like a marshmallow, make it all bubbly and black. If he still won’t talk, I’ll move on to the next toe. And the next. Then, when I run out of toes, I’ll do the whole left foot. Then I’ll start on the right side.”

  Mr. Dirty knelt down at Trent Appleton’s feet. Appleton started bucking and thrashing and turning side to side and screaming.

  “Please,” he said. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Stuff that rag back in his mouth,” Mr. Dirty said. “And hold him down for me.”

  As much as I wanted to find Everett Harbaugh, I didn’t think burning Trent Appleton’s feet off was the answer. People being tortured will say all kinds of things, just to make the pain stop. Appleton might give up Everett’s location, or he might send me on a wild goose chase. If he gave me some bogus information about Everett’s whereabouts, it would only waste more time. Time that Everett didn’t have. I wanted to try withholding Appleton’s dope for a while. If that didn’t work, I doubted anything else would either.

  “Let’s just slow down for a minute,” I said. “We’ll leave him out here and let him sweat for a while. Once he starts jonesing bad enough, he’ll talk. I guarantee it.”

  “Candy is dandy,” Fatso said. “But propane is quicker.”

  Fatso sat on the floor and stuffed the bandana back into Appleton’s mouth. My heart skipped a beat, and then it started pounding against my chest wall like a mallet. I didn’t want this to happen.

  “Hold him down,” Mr. Dirty said.

  “Not a problem.”

  Fatso straddled Appleton and held his legs down with his hands. Fatso’s enormous rear end was resting on Appleton’s stomach, and Appleton looked like he might pass out before the torture session ever got started.

  But he didn’t.

  Mr. Dirty held the flame on the pinky toe of Appleton’s left foot. The bandana in Appleton’s mouth muffled his screams, but the sound coming from his gut seeped through horrifically, like some kind of large animal caught in the bone-crunching teeth of a steel trap. In a matter of seconds, the toe went from pink to red to blister-white.

  At that point, Mr. Dirty shut the flame off.

  “Don’t want to burn it too much,” he said. “It’ll kill all the nerve endings. If he won’t talk now, I’ll go ahead and blacken that toe and move on to the next one.”

  Fatso climbed off, turned around and pulled out the bandana. A series of high-pitched gurgling sounds escaped through Appleton’s clenched teeth. His neck muscles were strained and corded.

  “Where’s the Harbaugh kid?” Fatso said.

  Appleton shook his head frantically. His nose was running and his eyes were full of tears. “I don’t know. Please. I can’t stand this anymore.”

  “You think that hurt?” Mr. Dirty said. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  He fired up the torch again.

  Appleton couldn’t stand it anymore, and neither could I.

  “Turn it off,” I said.

  Mr. Dirty looked up at me. “What?”

  “You heard me. Turn it off.”

  He laughed “Who died and made you boss?”

  Fatso remained quiet during this exchange. He seemed to be taking a neutral stance on the matter.

  “It’s my case,” I said. “So I’ll conduct it as I see fit.”

  “Sorry, Charlie, but I don’t take orders from—”

  “Kill the torch,” I said, and this time I said it behind the cocked hammer of my .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver.

  He closed the valve on the propane tank. The flame went out.

  Then, just as I was thinking I had control of the situation, Mr. Dirty rose and started walking toward me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I aimed the gun a foot or so wide of Mr. Dirty’s left shoulder and pulled the trigger. A deafening boom rang out, and the water heater in the back corner of the garage suddenly sprung a leak.

  “The next one’s going in your heart,” I said.

  Mr. Dirty raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “All right,” he said. “You win. You don’t want our help anymore, we’ll be glad to step aside. Isn’t that right, boss?”

  “You owe me a water heater,” Fatso said. “Now get out of my garage, and take your junkie with you.”

  That’s what I intended to do. I was starting to get the feeling I’d made a huge mistake. If Appleton knew Everett’s location, he would have given it up by now. Appleton wasn’t a spy or a government agent. He hadn’t been trained in guarding information. He was just a regular guy. A street punk. A junkie. I’d pegged him as a cold, calculating killer, but I was having second thoughts about all of that now. Mr. Dirty had inflicted a lot of pain on him. If he had known anything, he would have talked.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I appreciate your help, but—”

  “You still here?” Fatso said.

  I held the gun on Mr. Dirty. “Untie him,” I said.

  Mr. Dirty reached into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade. He knelt down and turned Appleton on his side and cut the dental floss binding his wrists and ankles.

  “There,” he said. “You happy now?”

  Appleton was free, but I didn’t want to drive him home naked. He and Mr. Dirty looked to be about the same size.

  I told Mr. Dirty to take his clothes off.

  “What?” he said.

  “Just do it.”

  Mr. Dirty emptied his pockets. He handed his wallet and his keys and his bag of weed and the knife to Fatso. He almost forgot the little glass pipe. The carburetor. He pulled that out last and then took his boots and jeans and the black denim vest off and tossed them on the floor.

  Appleton put the pants on first, gingerly guiding his burnt toe through on the left side, and then the vest.

  “I need to put something on this,” Appleton said, referring to the toe. It looked like a large white grape. A glimmering thread of pus oozed from a split in the skin on top.

  I turned to Fatso. “Got a first-aid kit around here?” I said.

  “Nope.”

  I figured he was lying, but I didn’t want to push it. There was a stack of clean shop towels and some duct tape on the work bench where Mr. Dirty had gotten the propane torch. I instructed Fatso to wrap Appleton’s foot, and he did. He actually did a nice job.

  “Me and Mr. Appleton are going to walk out of here now,” I said. “I won’t bother you guys anymore.”

  “What about my water heater?” Fatso said.

  “Send me a bill.”

  Mr. Dirty hit the switch to open the garage door. As it rose, the morning sun beamed in brightly. I helped Appleton to his feet. It was painful for him to ambulate, but he managed by keeping his knee stiff and stepping on his heel. It made him look like Frankenstein when he walked. We climbed into the Caprice and I started the engine and backed out of the driveway.

  I figured it would be a good idea to stay away from Five Points and Ginger Tea Trail and Chico’s Bar and Grill for a while. Maybe forever.

  I navigated through the subdivision, made it out to 21 and took a right. As I drove, I started wondering where I was going to go from here with my investigation. I was back to square
one. At first, I supposed I would resume where I’d left off, with the list Shelby Spelling had put together of the places Everett had been over the past few weeks. Then I started thinking about Stephanie Vowels and Philip Davenport, how they shared Appleton’s biology and how they both died on their twentieth birthday. I still couldn’t believe that was a coincidence. Someone must have set Appleton up. Someone must have tried to frame him. One of the other siblings, maybe. There were thirty all together. So, if I took Everett and Stephanie and Philip out of the equation, it left me with twenty-seven suspects. And it was going on eight o’clock, which meant there were only sixteen more hours until my deadline of midnight. There was no way to narrow it down in that amount of time. There had to be another answer, but my mind was fuzzy with fatigue and marijuana and I couldn’t think of what it could possibly be. I needed to get some sleep, at least an hour or two.

  “My foot is killing me,” Appleton said.

  “Sorry. I didn’t want that to happen. I tried to stop it.”

  “You didn’t try hard enough. Where’s my dope?”

  “In the glove compartment,” I said.

  He reached in and grabbed his bag of supplies.

  “Pull over somewhere,” he said. “I can’t do this while the car’s moving.”

  Pulling over was not a great idea. It was broad daylight, and we were on a busy street, and the Caprice didn’t have tinted windows. I thought about making him wait for his fix until we got back to his apartment, but I decided I’d put him through enough torment for one day. Especially since I was almost certain now that he was innocent.

  I pulled into the parking lot of an all-you-can-eat buffet that had gone out of business. I steered around to the back of the building and parked in the little alcove where the dumpster used to be.

  “How’s this?” I said.

  “Peachy. Let me see your lighter.”

  I handed him my Zippo. He opened the plastic bag and pulled out one of the squares of aluminum foil and the hypodermic and the spoon. He set the needle on the dashboard. It was an insulin syringe with an orange plunger and an orange cap, and I could see that it had been used before. He opened the foil and dropped the heroin onto the spoon, a little glob about the size of a Tic-Tac. It was black and gooey, like roofing tar. He grabbed the bottle of Aqua-Fina I’d brought from Laurie’s and poured a few drops over the dope. He sparked the lighter, set it on the center console, and held the spoon over the flame until the heroin melted and the water started to bubble. He pulled the cap from the syringe with his teeth, dipped the needle into the hot solution, and drew back on the plunger with his thumb. The brown liquid filled the barrel about halfway. He set the needle back on the dash, took the cap out of his mouth and dropped it into the zip-lock bag. Not exactly sterile technique, but close enough for rock and roll.

  There was a length of rubber tubing in the bag. He pulled that out and tied it tightly around his left arm and squeezed his fist until the veins bulged out. He picked up the syringe and guided it to the bend of his arm, over one of the largest veins, and pierced the skin. He got a blood return on the first stick. He knew what he was doing. He was an expert. He untied the tourniquet with his teeth and pushed the plunger and slowly administered the injection. In a matter of seconds, his expression went from one of extreme distress to one of extreme relief.

  I’ve never tried heroin myself, but some of my musician friends back in the day were addicts. I recognized the immediate effect. I’d seen it many times before.

  Appleton recapped the needle and put everything back inside the zip-lock bag. He rolled the bag up and folded it over and stuffed it into the inside pocket of Mr. Dirty’s vest.

  “Can I drive now?” I said.

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of here. You got a cigarette?”

  I handed him a Marlboro, and he used my Zippo to fire it up. He snapped the lighter shut and started to put it in his pocket.

  “That’s mine,” I said.

  “Sorry. Force of habit.”

  He smiled and handed the lighter back. He seemed to be in a better mood now. I put the car in reverse and turned my head toward the rear window to back out of the alcove.

  Unfortunately, there was a police car blocking my way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I put the car back in PARK and switched off the ignition.

  “What are you doing?” Appleton said.

  “There’s a cop behind us.”

  “Damn.”

  I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror. The officer climbed out of his car and walked toward the Caprice. It was a sheriff’s deputy. Along with the green polyester uniform, which had always looked uncomfortable to me, he wore a pair of aviator glasses and a try-me scowl. His right hand rested on the butt of his 9mm semi-automatic service pistol.

  I rolled down the window as he approached.

  “This is private property,” he said. “You didn’t see the signs? All unattended vehicles will be towed at owner’s expense. You want me to call for a truck?”

  My car hadn’t been left unattended, but I didn’t think it would be in my best interest to argue the point.

  “I was just leaving, officer,” I said.

  He was about five-six and thin as a politician’s promises. He probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds, gun included. His nametag said Turrow.

  “Step out of the vehicle,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “Step out of the vehicle,” he said again, only louder this time.

  “OK,” I said. “No need to shout.”

  I opened the door and climbed out of the car. When I did, he must have seen the makeshift bandage on Appleton’s foot.

  “Is you passenger injured?” he said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  He glanced inside the car, and then turned back to me. “I need to see your driver’s license and proof of insurance,” he said.

  I pulled out my wallet and handed him my credentials, including my PI license and my concealed weapons permit. I didn’t want him to get anxious if he happened to see the impression of the .38 through my shirt.

  He stood there grinning and shaking his head, as if I’d given him something inappropriate. A five dollar bribe or something.

  “Is there a problem, officer?”

  “Turn around and put your hands on the top of the car.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “You going to argue with me? Turn around and put your hands on the top of the car. Now!”

  I turned around and put my hands on the top of the car. He grabbed my left wrist and slapped a cuff on it, and then he did the same with my right. He reached under my shirt and pulled my revolver out of its holster.

  “Am I being arrested?” I said.

  “Right now you’re being held for questioning. One of our detectives has been looking for you.”

  “Which one?” I said, although I had a pretty good idea.

  “Just hang tight, Colt. I’m going to call him and see what he wants me to do.”

  He turned back toward his police car, but then he decided to walk around to the passenger’s side of the Caprice. Appleton was still working on the Marlboro I’d given him. His window was already halfway down.

  “Good afternoon, officer,” he said.

  Not only did Appleton get the time of day wrong. His speech was slurred, and his pupils were about the size of kiwi seeds. I hadn’t seen them myself, but I knew that they were. It’s one of the side effects of a drug like heroin, and one that law enforcement officers are trained to look for.

  At that moment, I could have strangled Trent Appleton, because at that moment I knew for a fact that the two of us would be spending the weekend in jail.

  “I need you to step out of the vehicle,” Officer Turrow said.

  “I got a bum foot, sir. I can’t stand very well.”

  “What happened to your foot?”

  “I was kind of drunk last night, messing around with the barbecue grill. Dropped a red ho
t chunk of charcoal on my toe. My friend Nicholas was taking me over to Orange Park Medical Center to have it looked at.”

  “Sure,” Turrow said. “And just how did you and your friend Nicholas end up here in this parking lot?”

  “Well, it’s kind of embarrassing,” Appleton said. “I had to take a pee. Just couldn’t hold it anymore.”

  I had to hand it to him. He was a pretty good liar. But then most addicts are.

  “I still need you to step out of the vehicle,” Turrow said. “I won’t make you stand up very long. I promise.”

  Appleton opened the door and grunted his way to a standing position. He almost fell sideways.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m still a little drunk.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Trent Appleton.”

  “Got some ID?”

  “No, sir. I must have left it at home.”

  Officer Turrow extended his index finger and poked at the left side of Mr. Dirty’s black denim vest. The bulge there was as obvious as a pink flamingo. Appleton might as well have been wearing a sign that said I HAVE DRUGS!

  “What’s this?” Turrow said.

  “Just some personal items,” Appleton said.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Actually, yes. I do mind.”

  Ashwally. Appleton was stoned out of his gourd.

  Turrow folded his arms over his chest. “I need you to turn around and put your hands on top of the car,” he said.

  “No, sir. I’m refusing to be searched. This ain’t Russia. You can’t just—”

  “Shut up. You ever heard of a little thing called probable cause? Your speech is slurred and you can’t maintain your balance and your eyes have fucked up written all over them. I have reason to believe that you are in possession of an illegal substance. Now, you can either cooperate and do as I say, or I can put your ass on the ground. You have about two seconds to make up your mind.”

  “Well, shit,” Appleton said.

  He turned around and put his hands on the top of the car. Turrow patted him down, and then he reached inside the vest and pulled out the plastic zip-lock bag full of goodies.

  “Well, well, well. Look what we have here,” the officer said.