Rusty Nail

by J. A. Konrath

  More honking, along with several colorful suggestions that perhaps the Feds might move their car. I watched in the rearview as a motorist actually stepped out of his vehicle and walked up to the Feebies, in a manner that made the vintage newsreels of a ranting Hitler seem genteel.

  “Suspect is still holding at Kinzie, please advise.”

  Shit.

  “Approach with caution, 88. If suspect is still in the car, pass her without stopping.”

  “Roger that.”

  Now Dailey was out of the car, showing the angry motorist his ID. The motorist responded by showing Dailey one of his fingers.

  “We’re approaching Kinzie, and see a black Ford Mustang parked alongside the street. No driver. Over.”

  Double shit.

  I pulled out into traffic, made a U-turn, and headed back to La Salle. This time I floored it, wincing from the pain in my right ankle, which had swollen enough to break my shoe strap. I blew the light on La Salle, jerked the wheel hard to the left to avoid a collision, and raced toward Holly, nine blocks to go.

  “You’re looking for a white woman, mid-thirties, long black hair, a hundred and thirty pounds, very attractive. She might be wearing a white dress, but she’s probably in street clothes. She has ID in the name of Holly Frakes.”

  Eight blocks. A green light, and I sailed through, easing the car up to forty-five.

  “No one within sight matches that description. My partner will search on foot. Over.”

  Seven blocks. I chanced a quick look in my mirror and saw I’d lost the Feebies. Maybe they’d been torn apart by angry motorists.

  “Awaiting okay to approach the Mustang, over.”

  “Hold, 88. I’ll be right there.”

  I flew past Ohio street, then had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a bus that pulled in front of me. My ankle screamed at my decision, but the rest of my body was grateful not to have died. I swung into oncoming traffic, passed the CTA, and slowed down when I got to Hubbard, keeping my eyes open for Holly.

  I didn’t see her, but I saw Harry’s Mustang parked along Kinzie. I pulled in behind it and limped over. When I looked inside, I understood why Holly had fled.

  “Dammit, McGlade!”

  Harry, in all of his disposable income wisdom, liked gadgets so much he not only purchased a LoJack, he also had a police scanner, mounted under his dash.

  Holly had heard our entire radio conversation.

  Triple shit with pink sugar on top.

  I turned a full circle, my gaze drifting upward to the sky, cursing my failure. If I’d only maintained radio silence. Hell, if I’d only looked a little closer at Holly during the time I’d spent with her. Of course she was a killer. I should have known it from the start. Who else would have married McGlade?

  Stupid, annoying, obnoxious, repulsive Harry McGlade.

  God, I hoped he was okay.

  CHAPTER 45

  PHINEAS TROUTT WIPES his nose on his shoulder. The blood has slowed to a trickle.

  He’s not sure how long ago Holly left. An hour, maybe ninety minutes. She worked on McGlade for what seemed like an eternity, until the poor son of a bitch passed out.

  Phin lives in a seedy part of Chicago. He’s met pushers and bangers and hookers and pimps and johns and murderers, but he’s never seen anything as cold-blooded as Holly. She isn’t human.

  For his part, McGlade had been pretty stoic through the ordeal. He screamed, for sure, but there was no begging or pleading.

  There will be, though. Nobody can take that kind of agony for an extended period.

  Phin wonders if McGlade has gone into shock. Might not be a bad thing. At least he’d be beyond the pain.

  “How you doing, Harry?”

  McGlade moans. “Got any aspirin?”

  “Other pair of pants.”

  “Nuts.”

  Phin has to ask. His imagination has been running wild. “How’s the hand, Harry?”

  “Doesn’t hurt much, because there’s not much left to hurt. Hope my screaming didn’t disturb you.”

  “Actually, you interrupted my nap. Try to keep it down next time.”

  “I’ll try. Sorry about that.”

  He admires Harry’s guts. His respect for the private eye goes up a few notches.

  “The hand the worst of it?”

  “This damn rusty nail thing in my leg hurts worse. Dirty as hell. I can feel the tetanus, surging through my veins. Though I guess dying of tetanus might not be a bad thing right about now.”

  Phin understands pain. He understands it more than most people. When there’s nothing else to focus on, pain can become all-consuming. Crippling. The psychological aspects of it are just as bad as the neurological effects.

  If he keeps Harry talking, maybe the pain won’t be so bad.

  “So your full name is Harrison Harold McGlade?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your parents named you Harry Harry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s pretty funny, don’t you think?”

  “This from a guy named Phineas Troutt.”

  McGlade’s voice is getting weaker. Phin can hear the strain.

  “At least I don’t have to piss anymore,” McGlade says. “When she cut off my thumb, I wet my pants.”

  Phin has to grin at that.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry Harry.”

  “All you dry pants guys say that.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing. There’s ammonia in urine. Maybe you disinfected that rusty nail puncture.”

  “Didn’t reach. I was pointing in the other direction.”

  A minute passes.

  “I can see my fingers,” Harry says.

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re on the floor in front of me. Think a doctor can reattach them?”

  To burned flesh? Phin doubts it. But he says, “Sure.”

  “Assuming we get out of here.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Listening to a man having his fingers removed and the stumps cauterized with a blowtorch can galvanize a person into action. Damage to himself be damned, Phin begins to twist his wrists in their binding. The wire is thin, and bites into his flesh.

  “What are you doing?” Harry asks. “Using your psychic powers to call the other members of the Justice League?”

  “I’m going to break this wire.”

  “It’s too strong. You’ll cut your hands off first.”

  “Either way I’ll be free.”

  “Good plan. If it doesn’t work, I’ve got a plan too.”

  Phin winces. He can feel the blood start to leak down his palms.

  “What’s your plan?”

  “When she comes back, I’m going to swallow my own tongue and choke to death.”

  “Good plan.”

  “Yeah. That’ll show the bitch.”

  Phin continues to twist. Back and forth. Back and forth. The wire cuts like a blade, but it’s loosening just a little.

  That, or it’s in so deep, it just seems like it’s looser.

  “GODDAMMIT!” McGlade’s scream scares the hell out of Phin. “GET AWAY FROM THAT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

  “Harry? You okay?”

  “YOU BASTARD! I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND ROAST YOU!”

  It sounds like McGlade is losing it.

  “Harry, what’s up? Who are you screaming at?”

  “Goddamn rat. Ran off with one of my fingers.”

  Phin isn’t sure how to reply to that.

  “My middle finger, I think.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry.”

  “That was my favorite finger.”

  “Maybe we can get it back.”

  “Ah shit. I can see it, in the corner, holding it up.”

  Phin starts to laugh.

  “The rat is giving you the finger?”

  “Kiss my ass, Phin. It’s not funny.”

  Phin uses the laughter to twist even harder, his thick wrists bending the wire millimeter by millimeter.


  “What’s it doing now, Harry? Using your finger to pick its nose?”

  “It’s eating it. Corn on the cob style.”

  Back and forth. Back and forth. Flesh is stronger than steel, Phin thinks. Determination is stronger than steel. Pain is temporary. Don’t stop. Don’t stop . . .

  “Uh-oh.”

  Phin hears the dripping sound, feels the hot liquid pour down his fingertips.

  The wire has gone in too deep and severed something important. A vein. Or maybe an artery.

  There are about ten pints of blood in a human body. When more than four pints are lost, the situation becomes critical. Shock ensues, and then death.

  Phin knows this, and wonders how to proceed.

  Either I’ll make it, or I won’t, he thinks.

  Not seeing any choice, Phin resumes twisting.

  CHAPTER 46

  MORE COPS WERE called, and a four-block search of the area conducted. There was no sign of Holly.

  I went through the motions, but I knew she wouldn’t be found. Especially since she now knew we were after her.

  What a disaster.

  The Feebies were sympathetic. They promised to keep trying her cell phone to get a fix on her position. I didn’t hold out much hope for that either. Anyone who watched TV knew that cell phones could be traced, and Holly had more knowledge than most. She wouldn’t use her phone again.

  I got back to my apartment a little after ten, and was surprised to see Latham sitting on my sofa.

  My happiness was short-lived. Next to Latham, holding a semiautomatic to his head, was Bud Kork.

  I reached for my holster and stopped cold when I felt the gun press against the side of my head.

  “Hands up, pig.”

  Lorna. She’d been hiding behind my door.

  I lifted my hands above my head, watching as her pudgy fingers tugged out my Colt. Using one hand, she released the catch and opened the cylinder. After shaking the bullets onto the floor, she tossed the gun aside.

  “We’ve been waiting all night for you. Your boyfriend was kind enough to let us in.”

  I glanced at Latham, precious Latham, dressed in a suit and tie, a bouquet of roses on the floor at his feet. His red hair was shorter than I’d ever seen it, almost a buzz cut. His green eyes, so sparkly and full of life, looked tired and dull. One of them bulged, black and swollen, and a nasty gash on his forehead left a trail of dried blood along the side of his face.

  “I let myself in with my key,” he said. “I wanted to surprise you.” Latham offered me a weak smile. “Surprise.”

  Lorna reached behind her and slammed the door, her eyes never leaving mine.

  “Sit on the sofa, pig. We’re gonna have us some fun.”

  I stole a glance at my burglar alarm. I hadn’t punched in the disengage code. If the alarm went off, the police would be here within three minutes.

  But the panel was dark, no blinking light. Latham. He knew the code too. They must have made him deactivate it.

  If I lived through this, I really had to get the hell out of this apartment.

  I limped to the sofa, sitting down next to Latham. The warmth of his body next to mine should have felt good, but instead I only felt emptiness.

  Lorna waddled up to me, keeping the gun on my head. She wore red sweatpants, so small her legs looked like cellulite sausages. Her top was equally tight, a T-shirt that had a faded INDIANA DUNES graphic on the front, distorted by her small breasts and belly rolls.

  “So Bud and me, we spent a long time thinking ’bout what we wanted to do to you, while we drove up here. Bud, tell her how upset I was when I heard ’bout little Caleb on the radio.”

  “We heard it on the radio,” Bud said. “Lorna was upset.”

  Lorna’s face became the dictionary definition of hate. “You murdering pig.”

  I watched her finger tremble on the trigger. She was holding an automatic, looked like a .45. A big gun. I winced.

  “It wasn’t me. Alexandra killed him.”

  “Horse pucky!” Spit flecked off Lorna’s liver-colored lips. “You did it, you liar! Tell her, Bud!”

  “Alexandra is an angel. The helper and defender of mankind. It’s what her name means. She’s the one that helped Lorna.”

  Bud’s gun hand was shaking, from the Parkinson’s. He sat on the other side of Latham, too far away from me to make a grab for it. He held a 9mm, looked like a Glock. The hammer was cocked back. One little muscle twitch and Latham was dead, and Bud was a twitcher.

  Lorna came closer. I could see the blood caked under her fingernails.

  “Any more lies, pig, and we’ll cut out your lying tongue.”

  I snuck a quick glance at Latham. His hand brushed against mine. I wanted to grab on to it, hold it tight. But keeping both hands free was the smarter move.

  Poor Latham. If I hadn’t ever called him, he wouldn’t be here facing this.

  “Where was I?” Lorna stuck out her tongue and chewed on it, her face scrunched up in thought. “Bud, where was I?”

  “We heard about little Caleb on the radio.”

  “Right. Poor baby. He loved his mama so much, and you killed him. So I’m driving and thinking how to make you pay. And Bud’s in the kitchen, with the stove.”

  “The kitchen?” Latham asked. I gave him a subtle elbow and a look that said, Don’t antagonize the dumb animals.

  “We was driving one of those recreational camper vehicles,” Lorna said. “Got it on the highway.”

  Bud added, “That’s where we got the clothes.”

  I looked at Bud again. He had on a loose pair of jeans and a bulky red sweater with a big green Christmas tree stitched onto the front. I could guess what happened to the poor owners of the camper.

  “So Bud’s doing what he does with the burner, yellin’ and cryin’ and punishing himself to cleanse his sin, and I realized that’s what we’re gonna do to you.”

  Bud touched his chest. “Burns hurt. Hurt real bad.”

  I pictured Bud’s gnarled flesh under the sweater, and figured he knows of what he speaks.

  “So let’s the four of us go on into the kitchen. We got something on the stove we think you’re gonna like, pig.”

  That was my cue to get up. I did, followed by Latham and Bud, who kept the shaky gun pressed to Latham’s temple.

  What a crummy end to my career. To be killed by the Ma and Pa Kettle of crime.

  Our merry troupe walked into the kitchen, and I could smell something cooking. I followed my nose to a pot of vegetable oil, bubbling away on the stove top.

  Lorna grinned at me, showing her discolored baby-sized teeth. “Hot oil’s a bad burn, cuz it sticks to you.”

  “I done it before.” Bud nodded his head, his chicken neck wiggling. “Bad burn.”

  Lorna cackled. “And we gonna pour it on your little piggy head. Make us some bacon.”

  Bud also laughed, which quickly became a deep, chesty cough.

  I decided that having boiling oil poured on my head wasn’t in my best interest. I’d take a few bullets before I let that happen.

  “Fine.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I’ll do it myself.”

  I limped over to the pot, reaching for the handle, but before I took two steps Lorna got in front of me.

  “No need to rush this, pig. You go sit yourself down. Relax a bit.”

  I took a step back, kitty litter crunching underfoot. Mr. Friskers had made yet another mess of my kitchen. Where was he, anyway?

  I saw the slightest movement, in my peripheral vision. The cat. Perched atop the refrigerator, in pouncing position.

  He was eyeing Lorna.

  “I’ll be doing the pouring honors.”

  Lorna stole a quick glance behind her, looking for the oil. Before she could grab it, ten pounds of screeching, clawing feline leaped from the fridge and launched itself at her face.

  I dove to the side, skidding across the kitty-littered linoleum, Lorna screaming, Mr. Friskers screaming, Bud yelling, Lo
rna dropping the gun and trying to pull the cat off her face, Latham reaching down for me, his hand touching mine.

  “Run!” I yelled at him. “Get help!”

  Bud turned to us, aimed at Latham.

  His shot was high, burying itself into the ceiling.

  Latham held my eyes for just a second, a second that told me he’d be right back, promised me he’d be right back, and then he dashed out of the kitchen.

  “GET THE CAT! GET IT OFF ME!”

  Lorna’s screaming was so shrill, she sounded like a police siren.

  I tried to get to my feet, gasping at the pain in my ankle. Bud fired again at Latham, who kept low as he ran out the front door.

  Safe. He was safe.

  But I wasn’t.

  Bud peered down at me and wrapped his fingers in my hair, pressing the gun against my left eye.

  “BUD! HELP ME! GET THE CAT!”

  Bud looked at Lorna, then at me, then at Lorna, then at me. He eventually removed the gun from my face and aimed at Lorna. His hand jittered and shook, and Lorna spun like a dervish, Mr. Friskers sticking to her face like Velcro.

  “HELP ME, BUD!”

  Bud fired the gun at Mr. Friskers.

  The bullet caught Lorna in the exact center of the N in DUNES on her stolen T-shirt.

  Her wailing stopped mid-yelp, and she pitched forward onto the floor.

  Mr. Friskers, the ride over, hopped off her head and trotted out of the kitchen.

  Something between a sob and a scream escaped Bud’s mouth. He swung the gun at me, his fist shaking so badly, I was sure it would go off.

  “Save her! Save her!”

  I crawled to Lorna. The exit wound in her back left an indentation the size of a cereal bowl under her shirt, which quickly filled with blood. Blood also spread out under her in a rapidly widening pool.

  I grabbed a towel hanging from the refrigerator handle and pressed it against her wound. With my free hand, I searched the flab of her neck for a pulse.

  I found it for three erratic beats, and then it stopped.

  “Save her!”

  I stared up at Bud.

  “She’s dead.”

  Bud opened and closed his mouth, like a fish trying to breathe air. The gun remained pointed, more or less, at me.