Hell and Gone

by Duane Swierczynski

  But that old deal had been struck when Hardie was worried that the men who’d shot him (and killed Nate and his family) would come after Kendra and Charlie, Jr., just to be dicks. An FBI presence, even a light one, Hardie reasoned, would be enough to convince the Albanian mob that such a move would not be cost-effective.

  Now Hardie had new enemies, and his stomach felt like a bottomless pit because he didn’t know a damn thing about them.

  Clearly, he was not just duking it out with Mann and her killer boy toys. She had a boss, and that boss had enough juice to have a team of EMTs, surgeons, and this secret hospital facility. All put into play tonight to keep him alive…

  For what?

  If they were worried about him snitching, they could have given him a shot in the ambulance and been, like, Whoopsie, cardiac arrest, bummer, man.

  They were keeping him around for something. Which probably meant they wanted to ask him questions. And if they were going to ask him questions, they were going to need something to threaten him with.

  Kendra and Charlie, Jr.

  Their address was secret. Although it wasn’t anything near witness protection, it was fairly secure. But such a secret wouldn’t last forever. You try hard enough, you can find anything.

  They would find it.

  They would find his wife and son.

  They would let Hardie know that they’d found his wife and son.

  And they would say:

  So what do you want to do now, tough guy?

  Hardie stared at the ceiling above him, which was nothing more than a fuzzy white arrangement of tiles. The lights were off; there was no clock in the room. Not one that he could see, anyway. Kendra used to keep a fancy Bed, Bath & Beyond alarm clock on her bedside table that projected the time on the ceiling in ugly red digits. When Hardie would wake up in the middle of the night—without fail, go ahead and set your atomic clock by it, federal government—the bloodred digital display would read 3:13 a.m. His personal witching hour.

  When the night terrors would come.

  Was that something in his lizard brain, the lizard brains of all men, dating back to the dawn of time? Did prehistoric men wake up and realize how alone they were, how tenuously they clung to life, how everything they knew and loved could be snatched away from them by a smiling predator, teeth gleaming? Hardie kept a firm lock on his emotions during waking hours—especially when he was working. As if there were a fat steel pipe in his brain with EMOTIONS embossed along the side, Hardie would pull the heavy switch and, shhhhhhUNK, turn it off every morning. After a while, he didn’t even have to pull.

  And every night, at exactly 3:13 a.m., he’d pop awake and find that someone had turned the damn thing on again.

  And he’d push his legs and try to undo Kendra’s pouch, because, goddamn it, you could not suffer proper night terror if you were tucked in like a joey in a mama kangaroo’s front pocket.

  There was no clock in the room now, but Hardie would bet anything it was 3:13 a.m.

  7

  I genuinely feel these people are trying to kill us.

  —Evi Quaid

  IN HIS AIRPORT hotel room, Deke’s cell phone buzzed. It was his liaison at Wilshire, telling him to find a TV or laptop and check the news immediately.

  The Jonathan Hunter story had exploded everywhere—Web/​cable/​TV/​Facebook/​Twitter—quickly eclipsing the Lane Madden murder. There was only so much attention you could give to a dead celebrity, except maybe run some clips of old movies or snatch a sound bite from industry people the dearly departed worked with. People expected celebrities to die, usually in threes, and unless you were administrator of the Official Lane Madden Fan Club website (of which there were three), the news probably shot through your eyeballs, tumbled through your brain, and quickly turned into synaptic compost. The “killer on the loose” angle was interesting, because that meant there would be a sequel to the story, but in this case it wasn’t all that shocking. Not Manson-worthy. There would not be books written about the Lane Madden murder; she’d be a chapter in a celebrity death roundup book.

  The Hunters, though…

  Oh, man, people would be puzzling this shit out for ages.

  They turned up in Vancouver, at a small video studio. Hunter agreed to talk, but only to the news networks—which pissed off his own network, to be sure. If he was going to break some major news, why not throw his own people the bone?

  The press conference was teased a full hour in advance—and speculation had run wild for hours before that. There had been Hunter family sightings up and down the California coast, out in the Southwest, as far south as Mexico, and as far east as Times Square in Manhattan.

  Last America heard, there had been a hit attempt at the Hunter home in Studio City, California. On family movie night, no less! Many shots were fired, many pints of blood spilled. None of it matched that of the Hunter family, which was good. But the Hunters? Totally missing. Along with their beloved family minivan. Where had they gone? Why hadn’t they called anybody—not even their attorneys? Nobody knew! It was a proper mystery, and America loved its mysteries.

  When Jonathan Hunter finally appeared on camera, the on-screen titles claimed he was broadcasting live from Vancouver, but he quickly shot that down. He announced that the press conference had been previously taped, and that he was no longer anywhere near the Vancouver area…and all America was, like, Ah, I see what you did there! and they loved it.

  But they really went crazy for the next part.

  “My family and I are being hunted by a group of elite assassins who specialize in murdering celebrities and their families. These individuals broke into my home and attempted to slaughter my wife and children. I will not be speaking about particulars at this time, because I believe that doing so will further endanger my family.”

  No. No way—he did not just say that…

  “But I will say that a man named Charles Hardie, who I understand is a security guard, helped us out. Again, I cannot go into details, but the same people who tried to murder my family also killed Lane Madden. It was these celebrity whackers, not Mr. Hardie. He is innocent and he is a hero.”

  An hour later, Deke was in Barney’s Beanery in West Hollywood, eating a loaded western omelet and sipping a Shiner Bock—his body clock was hopelessly off, so what the hell. Clever son of a bitch, that Jonathan Hunter.

  Hunter had more or less confirmed what Hardie had told Deke over the phone…more or less. Sure, the man had added a little smidge of crazy to his speech, which was appropriate. Because Jonathan Hunter, creator of Truth Hunters, did not want to be believed. He wanted to be ridiculed.

  Which was brilliant, because he had just created his own life-​insurance policy.

  If there were real “celebrity whackers” out there, then they wouldn’t dare kill Hunter and his family now. Because that would publicly prove their existence.

  Brilliant, daring, insane fucking move.

  And a boon to Hardie. Deke hoped, prayed, please, God, please, let him see this broadcast. Because if Hardie had any brains in his head, he’d realize that now he could come in from the cold, show his face, and everything would work itself out.

  Come on, Hardie.

  Walk in through that door.

  Sit down and have a Shiner Bock with me.

  We’ll have a beer, then we’ll all go home to Philadelphia and clear up the mess that is your life.

  8

  I hope you ain’t going to be a hard case.

  —Clifton James, Cool Hand Luke

  WHEN HARDIE WOKE up the fourth—and, as it turned out, the next-to-last time—he was on a gurney and being wheeled down to a cold, bright garage.

  Still no idea where he was.

  There were lots of people around him. Sodium-vapor lights. Hurting his eyes. The smell of gasoline, stale air. Somebody said, “Right this way.” “Pull it up.” “The black one.” Hardie rolled his eyes around and saw angry red taillights. He blinked and the image became a bit clearer. They we
re wheeling him toward a Lincoln Town Car. Big, black, and gleaming. Hands opened up a trunk. Other hands under his arms, lifting him up to his feet. “Come on.” Hardie looked down at himself and was mildly surprised to discover he wasn’t wearing any clothes. His body was naked, pale, weak, withered. They made him walk anyway. Hardie jolted involuntarily. “He’s a fighter, this one. Be careful.” The same hands carried him closer to the car. Close enough so that he could see what was in the trunk: tubes and pads and plastic bags, none of it making sense. Not at first, anyway. Then when Hardie’s brain finally made sense of it, the things in the trunk ceased to worry him. What worried him was the thing that was not in the trunk.

  Namely, his own body.

  The entire trunk of the Lincoln Town Car was a kind of mobile life-support system, with tubes and wires and pumps and IV bags, as well as enough space for a man to curl up into a fetal position.

  A man about the size of Charlie Hardie.

  Hardie’s weakened body bucked, jolted, kicked, punched. The men around him yelled, “Whoa whoa whoa.” But Hardie refused to go into that trunk. They pulled him closer. He was not going into that trunk. A hand pushed the top of Hardie’s head down; shoes kicked the backs of Hardie’s knees so that his legs buckled. I am not going into that trunk. More hands pushed him over the hard steel edge and into the space—many, many hands holding him down. I am not going into that trunk. A hand came near his mouth. Hardie tried to bite off a finger. A fist struck the side of his head. Something was forced into his mouth, chipping teeth. A gloved finger dug out the shards. Then the thing was forced down his throat, gagging him. A needle jabbed his bare arm. “Give him more—we don’t want him waking up halfway through.” Cool yet white-hot water cascaded over his brain. I AM NOT GOING INTO THAT TRUNK…

  Hardie had no choice; he was too weak to fight and too fuzzy-headed to do anything at all…

  …except go into that trunk.

  They weren’t taking any chances. They checked on the acceptable amount of sedatives for a human being the size and weight of Charlie Hardie…and then they tripled it.

  The driver saw this and started to freak out a little.

  “Whoa whoa whoa—how much you giving him?”

  “Trust me. This guy needs a heavier dose than usual. He woke up on the table. And the EMT told us he also popped awake on the gurney like they’d given him nothing stronger than an Ambien. Dude here has a high tolerance for knockout drugs.”

  “That still looks like a lot. I don’t get paid if I deliver a slightly chilled corpse.”

  “He’ll be fine. And if he’s DOA, that’s on me. But you’re going to thank me. You don’t want to be cruising out on the highway with this guy waking up in the back, banging on the trunk, trying to figure a way out.”

  The three of them stared down at Hardie’s naked body curled up into the fetal position. The breathing tubes were humming along fine, and his pulse was being carefully monitored and regulated. IV tubes fed him nutrients; another set of tubes took away waste products. He could exist for days, in near-suspended animation, and not require any additional care. Even when the car was parked—so long as the backup battery was still working.

  “Poor fucker.”

  The trunk lid slammed over his head and locked shut. Hardie thought that if he could somehow will himself to stay conscious, everything would be okay. If he could stay awake, then he could figure a way out of this. Hardie once read a Batman comic when he was a kid in which Batman is all tied up in some freezing basement, and Robin is freaking, but Batman is totally calm, and he tells Robin: “Every prison provides its own escape.”

  Of course, you had to be awake to be Batman.

  This was Hardie’s last conscious thought for a long, long time.

  9

  The bastard you hate, but don’t dare kill. The bitch you detest, who deserves a fate worse than death. We are at your service.

  —Oldboy

  DEKE CLARK SAT in the Chinese restaurant waiting for his date.

  Her name was Alisa Z. Quinnell—a reporter for a New York news aggregator that specialized in what passes for investigative reporting these days. He nursed an Amstel Light, picked at a bowl of cold sesame noodles, and stared out the window. Across Second Street was the old City Tavern, the legendary Philadelphia watering hole where George Washington and John Adams first met. A revolution that would change the world had been launched in that building over pewter mugs of porter and plates of roast pheasant.

  Here, Deke was having some revolutionary thoughts of his own.

  He’d gotten nowhere interdepartmentally; he thought it was time to bring some outside heat to the situation. Charlie Hardie had been missing for two months now, and Deke had nothing to show for it except half a phantom license-plate number and a lot of phone calls. So Deke decided on a course of action he thought he’d never pursue in a billion years: bringing the media into this. Maybe with some pressure, the department would be forced to get off their asses and look for Hardie.

  Quinnell was right on time. She sat down, ordered a salad (which seemed suspect to Deke—who orders a salad in a Chinese noodle joint?), asked if he minded a tape recorder. Deke shook his head. No, he didn’t mind.

  “So you’re talking to me now?”

  Quinnell had been dogging Deke for years, wanting to write a book about the slaughter of Nate Parish and his family. Deke had ignored her. She’d tried doing end runs around him, but Deke had spread the word: nobody talks to Quinnell. Then she dug up a lot of interviews with felons who’d been busted by Nate and Hardie. She kept digging and poking; Deke kept shutting her down. So her surprise made sense.

  Sometimes, though, you have to enlist the enemy’s aid to win the war.

  “I need your help,” Deke said.

  “Finding your friend Charlie Hardie.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you know?”

  Deke ran down what he saw in L.A., and that since then he’d run into brick walls everywhere—including within his own department. A cold feeling washed over Deke. Cold raw shame. He’d never talked to reporters before, and it felt as bad as cheating on his wife. Quinnell tried not to gloat too much, but Deke could see she was struggling to fight back the smiles. Every now and again she’d pause to clarify a fact, but otherwise she kept Deke talking. His cashew chicken cooled as the Amstel in his bottle grew warm. When they were finished, Deke realized he wasn’t hungry. Quinnell offered to take care of the tab; Deke let her, just like a good date.

  After they said their polite good-byes, Deke stood up, straightened his jacket, and turned…to see Jack Sarkissian, the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Philadelphia field office, sitting two tables away, stabbing at noodles with wooden chopsticks.

  Sitting there, staring at right at Deke.

  Deke walked by his boss without a word. He almost lost his footing on the cobblestone path outside the restaurant. The world swam around him. Instead of turning left, which would take him to Market Street and eventually to his office on Sixth Street, Deke hung a right, toward the Society Hill Towers. Around South Street he turned right and kept walking until he found a quiet bar. Then he went inside and ordered a beer and wondered how long it would be until he was fired.

  Two Yuenglings later Deke walked back to the office, ashamed at being such a coward. What the hell was that about? Deke had never hidden from anything in his life. He took the elevator up and walked right into Sarkissian’s office, sat down without being invited. His boss was staring at his laptop screen, mouth openly slightly, mind on vacation somewhere.

  “Hey, Jack.”

  Sarkissian looked up at him. The disappointment just oozed from the man’s face.

  Deke reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his badge, then unclipped his gun and put both on the desk. “I’m guessing you’re going to want these.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah, I kind of think I do. I don’t want to embarrass myself and pretend you weren’t there. So, the
re we go.”

  “What’s Ellie going to think?”

  “I’ll explain it to her, like I always do. There are no secrets between us.”

  Sarkissian considered this. “Okay. Fine. So what are you going to do next?”

  “You and I both know what I’m going to do. What this department doesn’t seem to want me to do.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Come on, Jack. You were there in that noodle bar, you heard me. I can’t believe we’re not going to do a thing about the Charlie Hardie situation. Especially after the long and tortured history we all share.”

  Sarkissian turned his laptop so that it faced Deke. The screen showed a breaking-news website.

  “What’s this?” Deke asked, but he was already leaning in and reading. First thing he saw was the photo, the mangled car. Oh, God, no. Had to be a mistake…but then he saw the headline, and the one-paragraph story. It had all happened so quickly—about twenty minutes ago, based on the dateline—there hadn’t been time for the website to put together a proper piece.

  A. Z. Quinnell, auto accident on the New Jersey Turnpike, found dead at the scene. Just two hours ago she’d left the noodle bar with her tape recorder and hopped in her car and headed back up to New York City and then…they’d gotten to her. That fast.

  Charlie Hardie had a name for them:

  The Accident People.

  “What you need to do,” Sarkissian said, “is pick up your stuff and get out of my office and go back to work and forget Charlie Hardie. It’s not our fight. I’ll let you keep the detail on his family, but beyond that, leave it behind. This is not your mess to clean up. Nor is it the department’s mess.”