Castle Danger--The Mental States

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Eyes back on Thorn. He was crouching just outside the closet, hands up.

  “There you go. Can we talk now?”

  Joel didn’t know what to do. Froze up again, like he had in Iraq, goddamn it.

  “Get over here so I can see you, Thorn.”

  The man stood, hands still up, fingers curled. Joel wondered why. Why not just stick ‘em up the old-fashioned way? Reach for the sky, fingers ramrod straight? Thorn took uneasy steps towards Joel, who eased off his knees and stood. As a gesture of good will, he lowered his gun, looked behind him and tossed the piece onto my bed.

  That was all Thorn needed.

  Before Joel could turn again, Thorn charged, fist-first, punched Joel in the face. His head snapped back, but he was ready for the next one. Took Thorn’s wrist, twisted it around and behind his back. But in Thorn’s other hand, a switchblade, poised above the artery in his left thigh.

  Thorn, struggling: “I got you.”

  Joel tightened his grip, looked down. If Thorn had wanted him dead, his life would be over already. The knife tip only a millimeter away from a puncture that would kill him, no doubt about it.

  Joel actually grinned. “Gonna do it?”

  “You first.”

  Joel could do it. Could snap the motherfucker’s arm like a twig, of course he could. He would also wager that snapping the arm and spinning out of the way could avoid the blade. One of those moments when it was a real toss-up, though, and the wager was his life. Thorn could slice the artery any second …

  He must’ve read Joel’s mind. “I don’t know which of us is faster, but think about this — if you win, I’m still alive. If I win, you die.”

  “You won’t live long.”

  “Talk like that doesn’t make me feel too generous,” Thorn said through gritted teeth, the veins starting to show on his forehead. “Come on, man.”

  The freeze. The freeze. The freeze.

  Like that old war cry, Remember the Alamo.

  Remember the freeze.

  Joel let go, gave Thorn a hard shove and jumped clear of the blade, lunged for his gun, then sat on the edge of the bed, Thorn in his sights.

  “Talk. Fast.”

  Thorn rubbed his arm, leaned against the wall and slid down. “You lost Manny?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I think he’s in danger. Same as Dylan.”

  “Dylan’s dead.”

  Thorn squinted. “What?”

  “The people who had him — they killed him. I know where he is now.” No need to say any more for now. Thorn was shocked anyway.

  “Jesus.”

  “What do you want with Manny?”

  Thorn shook his head. “I swear I didn’t know. It was too late. They told me he’d gone rogue, working for the other side. Claimed he’d stolen a bunch of data. Something didn’t sound right, though. But the more I tried to probe Tennyson, the more he stonewalled.”

  “Did you ask him where Manny was?”

  “Didn’t think he knew. He told me to find him. Told me to bring him in. But … I don’t know. What going on, Joel?”

  “I asked Tennyson where he was, and he said not to worry about it. Wanted me to come in and talk to Marquette. But won’t do it.”

  “Do you have any idea who we’re really working for? What Andrew Marquette’s end game is?”

  Joel nodded. “I have my suspicions. But what about you? You had to have known a lot longer than me or Manny that they guy’s a fake.”

  “Shit, I knew he was politician, yeah, filthy as all the rest of them, but this …”

  “What’s ‘this’? What do you actually know?”

  Thorn spilled it. He had reason to believe that Andrew knew more about his sibling’s death than he let on. That he had more to do with that rat fuck Raske than I thought.

  “And now, what, the Fancy Room shit? How deep is he in that?”

  “Neck deep.”

  Thorn shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn it!”

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve always known something more. That’s why Manny found you at Hannah’s cottage, rummaging through her stuff, looking for secrets. You had to have known about Dylan, or Phil Konzbruck …”

  Thorn held up a hand, scout’s honor. “I swear, not a shred.”

  “They fucking tortured those guys!” Joel came off the bed, stepped over to Thorn, and held the gun inches from his head. “God knows how many more.”

  Thorn flinched, veins popping out on his neck like power chords. “I swear! I promise! It wasn’t me!” He looked away, huffing hard. Then back at Joel. “I’m a cop first. Say what you want about me taking this job for money, for a taste of power, sure, of course. On the good days, it’s glamorous. It’s aviators and Armani suits. But don’t say I’m dirty, because from day one, I’ve done this job as a cop.”

  Joel stared him down. Sweating now. He felt the beads of it running down his scalp, down his face.

  One trigger pull would end it. One shot. He could even let him be the one to hold the gun. Let him think it was for the best. The only way out before Marquette’s men got him and stuck him in one of the Fancy Rooms …

  But not today. Not again.

  He stepped back and slipped the gun back into its holster. Reached his hand down to help Thorn stand. Then they walked into the living room, an odd couple if ever there was one. But fuck it, what was normal in this case anyway? Not. A. Thing.

  Thorn leaned back on my couch, one foot propped on his knee, tired eyes roaming the room.

  “I’ve been here once before, you know. This whole place is wired for sound.”

  “Like, Dolby surround? For movies?”

  Thorn grinned, shook his head. “For listening. The entire joint is bugged. Marquette wanted to spy on his own brother, and I didn’t blink an eye.”

  Joel felt like he was under the microscope. “Geez, so someone’s listening now?”

  “No, no, I turned it off when I got here. I’m not that stupid. I had no idea what I would find.”

  “But, everything else Hans and Manny said …”

  “Oh, I didn’t hear any of it. No, all I did was install the shit. I don’t know who actually listened to it all, or if anyone did at all. Andrew told me it was just politics, that no matter how shocked people were at Nixon, no one was surprised. Of course you tape people. Friends and family even more than your opponents, because they’re the ones that could really hurt you. Somehow he made even his Gestapo tactics sound reasonable.”

  Thorn pointed at Joel’s campaign-issued smartphone, on the arm of his chair. “Even that. They know where you are all the time. They know every text, every call. Especially what goes on between you two. Bringing you on was a risk, and I knew that before I even knew how big that risk was. You guys, you were so close to bringing him down. So, he brought you in.”

  Joel leaned forward, his mouth too dry to speak. He didn’t believe half of what Thorn was telling him. He just didn’t know which half.

  He licked his lips. “What do you want, Thorn? Lay it out.”

  “I want Manny to tell me what he’s got so we can shut down Marquette.”

  “Why? If you were willing to play politics with him all this time, why stop now?”

  “Politics is one thing. People’s lives? That’s … I mean, I feel sick just thinking about it. You think they just deceived you two? As soon as I saw what they were doing to Dylan, starting to make connections in my mind. No, I’m done. We just need to find a way out.”

  “How about blackmail?” Joel shrugged. “Take the money and run? Why cause a fuss?”

  “Are you serious? You want to blackmail Andrew Marquette? That’s funny. Real funny.”

  “Didn’t mean it to be.”

  “That’s because you’re stupid, Joel. An idiot. If not for Manny, you would probably be in jail, except, no, you wouldn’t, because your daddy wouldn’t let that happen. Let me think … You’d probably be sitting around in your soiled underpants, unemployed, moo
ching, and drunk on light beer most of the time. Oh, and fiddling an Xbox or some dysfunctional psycho girl.”

  Joel looked down at the floor. Sighed. “I met up with Manny at the cottage after I got Dylan and Konzbruck back from those fuckers. He was supposed to follow me up to the spot where we stashed the van. But Manny didn’t show.”

  “Wait, you’ve got their bodies? In a van?” “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking I was rescuing Dylan. Too late for Konzbruck. He finished himself off before we got to him. We didn’t realize Dylan was so far gone, too.”

  No use telling him about the bullet that finished Dylan off. Not yet, anyway.

  “Jesus, have you told anybody else?”

  “Nope.”

  Thorn couldn’t hide his twitchiness. Bouncy foot, blinking. “Did you check back at the cottage?”

  “Of course. I’m not that stupid. Couldn’t find a thing, though. That’s why I came here.”

  “And you said Tennyson called you?”

  “Sure did. Said Manny was away on business.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “The call? Or the part about Manny?”

  Thorn shook his head. “Forget about me calling you stupid. I take it back.”

  “Good, because my guess is that they’ve got Manny to take the place of Dylan. That he found out too much and now these fucks know that he has a better way to get that info than either of us.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  Thorn pushed himself off the couch. “We go get Tennyson.”

  Joel got to his feet and pulled his boots back on. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  On the way to the door, though, Joel seemed to have a sudden change of heart: “Wait up.”

  Thorn turned and watched him drop his phone to the floor, then stomp it with the heel of his boot. The screen cracked. He stomped it a few more times, pieces flying all over.

  Thorn stared at him, arms crossed. “They’re going to take that out of your pay, you know?”

  Joel shrugged past him. “Send the bill to my dad.”

  4

  I walked into the 1 Stop, staring straight ahead. Didn’t want any attention, didn’t want a conversation. Look at me if you must, but don’t talk, please. Quietly as I could, I walked over to the cashier, a hard-lived thirtysomething woman in a Slayer t-shirt without sleeves, considering me like I was the freak show exhibit.

  “Please, can I use your phone?” So quiet, I wasn’t sure if she even heard me.

  “Oh, honey.” She turned to the older woman next to her, who’d been sitting on a stool behind the cigarettes where I couldn’t see her at first. “Sandra, would you like to give this chick a hand before anyone else gets a gander?”

  She motioned with her head towards the diner area, where, unfortunately, I was too conspicuous to have avoided said ganders. A few truckers, some old men, some of them with old women, and even a couple of families, all took me in, all wide-eyed, with expressions ranging from honest shock to righteous indignation.

  Sandra was a larger lady, somewhat reminiscent of my grandmother’s younger sister, but she got off the stool and rounded the counter in a flash, put her arm around me and said, “Dear God, child, what happened to you?”

  She pointed me towards the ladies’ room, then walked me there every tentative step of the way, past king-sized candy bars and bags of chips in all sorts of titillating flavors, just as I heard a trucker behind me tell the other cashier, “What was that? What sort of business have you got going on here?”

  “Would you be quiet? Whatever it is, it needs help, you old wank stain.”

  I didn’t necessarily enjoy being the subject of such a colorful gender debate, but as long as I didn’t have to participate, it was preferable to any direct contact with the charming patron. Sandra rubbed my arm in a motherly way and held the ladies’ door open for me. I walked in, found a couple of women chatting at the sinks. One look at me, instant mute button.

  Sandra thumbed over her shoulder. “Sorry, girls, but we need the room.”

  When they left, Sandra locked the door, then clapped her hands once as if to say, Let’s get to work. “You need some pants, first and foremost.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know where to get you some, I mean, unless I call my daughter, see if my grandson has a pair.” She stopped short, as if she made a mistake, but then, “You are a boy, right? Not to be insensitive to your condition, but this is all just … cosmetic, is that right? I mean, you need a shave.”

  For once, I didn’t mind. “Size twenty-eight waist, if you can. Thank you. I can pay as soon as I can call–”

  Who, exactly? Haupt and Engebretsen? Was that really such a good idea? Or my sister, Marcia? I didn’t have Joel’s numbers. Jesus, I’d stopped bothering to remember phone numbers years ago.

  I had to say something, though. “Some pants, and a phone, please, that’s all I ask. I’m sorry for all this.”

  Sandra shook her head with a benign smile, even chuckled as she gave me a reassuring look. “You think we don’t see all sorts, all hours of the day and night?”

  Then someone tried the door. Then a knock. The other cashier. Sandra unlocked it, peeked out.

  “One of them called the police. So, whatever you two are cooking up in here, better hurry.”

  Shit.

  Sandra led me to the back office, no more than an extra storage closet, and pointed across the messy room to the phone. “Be careful getting there. We didn’t stack this stuff with stability in mind.”

  The other cashier brought a pair of swim trunks. Said they’d been offered by some Christian newlyweds in the diner who knew a good checkmark for heaven when they saw one.

  That was it.

  I had hit rock bottom.

  Reached for the phone — one of those wireless chunks of plastic I hadn’t seen since the nineties, with a long retractable antenna — and pressed the on button, held it to my ear, and was reminded of how painful the dial tone was on landlines. Then I froze.

  Should I really call Haupt and Engebretsen? What would I say?

  What would I say to anyone?

  What could I say to the cops when they got here?

  I’d come all this way looking for help only to realize there was none to be had. I would’ve been better off driving the Torture-mobile back to the Cities.

  Well, couldn’t I still do that?

  It was the shittiest of shitty ideas, but at least it was an idea that got me a few miles farther down the road, and the longer I waited for the cops to come calling, the more of a Number One Priority that became.

  The RV was parked on the shoulder of the highway, all the bodies inside — unless the Fancy Rooms Clean-up Squad had already gotten to it. If not, it should still be parked right where I left it.

  So …

  I set the phone down and readied myself for a quick escape from the 1 Stop.

  But, goddamn it. I was all out of lucky breaks.

  As soon as I opened the door of the office, I faced a wide-eyed audience — some truckers, angry as usual, and the two tough cashiers standing in for Joel, my usual and suddenly sorely missed bodyguard.

  I couldn’t make out more than hissed insults:

  “Faggot!”

  “Abomination!”

  “Freak!”

  Then the cashiers chimed in:

  “He’s got rights, too! He needs some help is all!”

  That’s when I got walloped by a pint carton of milk. The corner hit me square on the cheek, felt like I’d been stabbed. The physical pain was as sharp as the verbal abuse, and then I was wet. Soaking wet. Took me a moment to figure out what had happened. The milk carton had been opened before it was recycled as a missile. I was sloshed. But no time to cry over spilled milk. Next came the pop bottles, the nuclear bombs of mob throws. Packets of beef jerky. I ducked, slipped in the milk. Then they were on me. Sandra, bless her heart, tried to
cover me while her partner started shoving truckers back as more snacks and drinks flew. Cans, bottles, half-eaten burgers and handfuls of fries.

  When I felt Sandra being pulled off me, and my own arms grabbed by unseen hands, I thought that’s it, here it comes, another beating.

  But when none came, I eventually open my eyes to discover that the hands belonged to Minnesota State Troopers. Hard stares, wide-brim hats, epaulets and everything. They commanded respect from the angry, snack-chucking truckers, who parted like the Red Sea before my two Moses.

  Once outside, though, I didn’t even get a chance to thank them. I’d barely taken a breath when they dropped me to the hard dirt parking lot and slapped a pair of hand-cuffs on me.

  “For your safety and ours,” one of them said. “Until we know what’s going on.”

  I felt a slight tug on my arms, got up on my knees, and they slipped me into the back of the squad car.

  That was that. I wouldn’t be heading back to the RV … unless I told them the truth, and in my renewed state of imprisonment, I wasn’t feeling so optimistic anymore, at least not with regard to my chances of convincing them that my account of the bloody events in that RV indeed was the truth. If they were on Marquette’s payroll, I was dead already. So my shot in the dark was to confess. Yes, I was a killer, but it was self-defense. Something like this couldn’t be covered up unless, well … I didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  So when the trooper named ‘White’ came back, opened the back door and leaned in with his, “Now, what’s your side of this?” — I was ready. Came clean in a heartbeat, your honor. All the truth and nothing but the truth. And off they went to verify my testimony.

  The RV wasn’t there.

  At first I thought I was mistaken about how far I’d walked, maybe got all mixed up about the exact location, but the troopers humored me, kept looking, and still no RV.

  Eventually we headed back, back being another dull, cold police interview room. Fortunately, they offered me a scratchy army surplus blanket for my legs this time, and I held it as tight as my right of silence.

  Time to think. I’d picked up a few clues on the drive. Some truckers had reported that there had been an RV in that spot earlier, but a Mitsubishi had pulled up and let out a passenger, who got into the RV and drove it away.