The First 48

by Tim Green

  CHAPTER 18

  By the time Mike took his hands off his knees, he heard Tom’s truck bouncing up the lane. The truck stopped in a cloud of dust. Mike took a Battlestar Galactica T-shirt from his bag and tore it into strips. He bound Gleason’s hands and feet. Then he wadded another strip into a ball and crammed it between the senator’s teeth. After he finished tying a gag around Gleason’s face, Mike opened the barn doors of the camper top in the back and loaded the senator inside, bracing him against the wheel well with an old tire.

  Gleason was starting to come out of it, and his eyes bulged as Mike pulled a musty army blanket over the top of him.

  “Let me drive,” Mike said. “You just drove six hours straight and we need to get out of town.”

  Tom realized he was just standing there, watching, his hands hanging limp at his sides.

  “I can,” Tom said.

  “If you don’t mind,” Mike said, “I will.”

  Tom rounded the truck and climbed into the passenger seat. “Be easy on the gal, she has a temperamental soul.”

  Mike moved the seat back and wedged himself behind the wheel. He turned on the old silver AM radio, some Guns N’ Roses. “Sweet Child of Mine.” He turned it up, unwrapped a stick of Big Red, and began to chew. He tapped the wheel as he backed down the service road and out onto the street.

  Tom scanned the neighborhood.

  “Not too fast,” he said.

  Mike nodded and backed off on the gas.

  “Where are we going?” Tom asked.

  “Frederick, Maryland,” Mike said. “A place no one will go, where no one can hear him . . .”

  “When were you in Frederick?”

  Mike glanced over at him and turned down the radio. He offered over the red pack of gum.

  “No thanks,” Tom said. He could smell the cinnamon.

  “Drug deal,” Mike said. “I was riding shotgun for a guy named Hacksaw. He was buying a truckload of meth. We met at this old abandoned amusement park in Frederick.”

  “Maybe I will have a stick of that,” Tom said, picking up the pack of gum off the seat.

  He tucked the gum under his tongue, and his eyes began to flutter.

  “You should close your eyes for a few minutes,” Mike said.

  “What?” Tom asked, snapping up straight.

  “It’s okay,” Mike said. “It’s been a long night. I slept all day yesterday.”

  “He knows,” Tom said.

  “She’s okay,” Mike said. “She’s always okay.”

  Tom didn’t speak.

  Mike pulled the gun out of his waistband and pointed it at Tom.

  “By the way,” he said. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t just sit there and be quiet.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Mike smiled and put the gun down on the seat between them.

  “Now,” he said, the streetlights scattering across his face in the darkness. “If anything goes wrong . . . it was all me. I took him. I forced you at gunpoint, held you both hostage, and tortured the information out of him.”

  He looked over at Tom again. He was grinning hard.

  “You like that?” he asked.

  “Clever,” Tom said. “But I can’t let you. If things go bad, I’m the one who takes the fall. I’m not afraid of what we’re doing. Remember: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’”

  Mike snapped his gum. “Edmund Burke.”

  Tom reached down to his ankle and removed the .38, pointing it at Tubbs.

  “So I say to you: Just drive or I’ll kill you. Do what I say and . . . or . . . you get the idea.”

  “Imitation is the highest form of compliment.”

  “Who said that?” Tom asked.

  “Just me.”

  “Torture?” Tom said.

  “We have to make him talk.”

  Tom looked back through the cracked windshield of the truck and into the hard cover of his camper. Gleason had wormed his way out from under the blanket but didn’t appear to be going anywhere. His head was snaking around under its thatch of damp bleached hair.

  “This isn’t Friendly’s Ice Cream,” Tom said. “This is the real thing.”

  “I know,” Mike said. “I’m with you.”

  “What kind of an asshole wears an army coat into an ice cream store in the middle of July?” Tom said.

  Mike shrugged and said, “You’re right.”

  Tom flicked open the cylinder of his snub nose and spun the rounds. “I’ll do whatever I have to with this guy,” he said.

  “Not yet,” Tubbs said. “There’s a method to this.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ah, there was this guy from the Pharaohs who tried to open up on a street corner over in Jamestown,” Mike said, “and we had to grab his younger brother and hang on to him for a while. I was working with an old-time biker. He’d grabbed dozens of people; he knew the deal. Man, that guy was good. He’d put a Super Ball in their mouths to keep them quiet. He was pretty smart, for what he did.”

  “That was to keep them quiet,” Tom said. “We need Gleason to talk.”

  Mike rolled down the window, spit out his gum, and said, “I know. That old-timer knew how to make ’em talk when he had to do that, too. I’m going to get a blowtorch at Home Depot, and if he needs it . . . I’ll do what the old-timer did. Put his feet to the fire.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Tom paid at the Home Depot with cash.

  “You have a sunshine day,” the woman behind the counter said to him, with a bright smile and an orange apron around her neck.

  “Thank you,” Tom said with a slight bow. “I will.”

  As he crossed the parking lot, the first rays of sunshine peeked up over the rooftops of the apartment complex to the east. Mike had parked on the far side of the lot by some trees and away from the early morning stream of pickups and vans. Tom looked down into his plastic bag, rattling off the things Mike had asked for.

  The blowtorch. A flint starter. Pliers. Twenty-five feet of rope. Two rolls of duct tape. Garbage bags. Lighter fluid. A fifty-page spiral notebook. A Sponge Bob pen. A rubber ball from the pet section.

  Trick or treat.

  Two exits down the road, Mike got onto a secondary highway and they drove for nearly ten minutes without seeing anything more than small scattered farmhouses in need of paint. Then a field opened up suddenly on the right-hand side. A tattered chain-link fence sagged along its border for a quarter mile before they came to the entrance. The enormous faded sign arched over the opening in the rusted fence announced SUBURBAN PARK, the letters spelled out in empty light sockets.

  “Welcome to 1955,” Mike said, unwrapping another piece of gum.

  “That’s when I was born.”

  “I know.”

  The parking lot beyond was scattered with broken glass and waist-high weeds. Off in the distance, decrepit midway rides rose up, faded and broken in the fields of scrub brush and refuse.

  Glass crunched and popped under their tires. Halfway across the overgrown parking lot, the truck bounced over the top of an old railroad tie with a jolt.

  “Sorry,” Mike said. He slowed down.

  They were headed toward the old midway, a wide strip of broken pavement between two long rows of broken attractions.

  There was an old Ferris wheel, partially disassembled. Only one of the cars remained, and it hung at an odd forlorn angle in the midst of the rusty skeleton. Brambles choked a row of concession stands, their roofs sagging under the weight of their years. The truck kicked up a gang of crows picking over the carcass of a small animal that thumped beneath their tire as they went. The crows screamed with rage.

  Halfway down the midway, just past a horseless merry-go-round, was the largest remaining structure in the park. The faded faces of two clowns wearing pointed hats and bow ties laughed on either side of a sign whose letters were made from the nubs of broken lightbulbs.

  FUN HOUSE.
r />   “There,” said Mike, pointing at the huge faces, frozen in mirth. The clown on the right had a board missing from his eye, which oozed with the disheveled remains of a bird’s nest. Mike stopped the truck and killed the engine. It rumbled, kicked twice, then sat still.

  Mike took out his gun and opened the barn door in the back of the truck. Gleason was wriggling in the blanket. Blood ran from his wrists where he’d struggled against his bonds, and its sweet smell floated up in the warm close air. Gleason squirmed up against the wheel well area like a frantic crab. He was shivering in the heat, naked except for his damp suit. Under the harsh white bulb in the ceiling of the camper, his pale scarred torso glimmered with sweat. Mike stuck the big black pistol right in the senator’s face.

  Gleason froze. His eyes grew large.

  “I’m going to take you out of there,” Mike said gently. “If you fuck with me, if you squirm or kick or fuss, I’ll beat the shit out of you. If you behave, I’ll be nice. You understand that?”

  Gleason nodded that he did.

  “Good,” Mike said. He grabbed Gleason by one ankle and slowly began to drag him out. When he had him at the edge, he stuffed the gun back in his pants and lifted Gleason up under the arms, setting him onto the warm broken pavement. Mike took a knife out of the side pocket of his pants and bent down, flicking the blade across the rag binding Gleason’s feet.

  Beneath the arched sign was a third clown, bigger than the other two, less faded, but blemished with mold and bearded with scrub brush. Its gaping mouth was the entrance to the Fun House. Mike grabbed Gleason by the arm and shoved him up the steps and inside the dank building. Vandals had smashed most of the glass in the vast maze, and the mirror shards scattered across the floor created the impression of a vast gleaming pincushion. Gleason high-stepped through the glass, his feet bleeding now too.

  The light was dim, but as his eyes adjusted, Tom could make out the crushed and empty beer cans that lay scattered amid the refuse, remnants from teenage parties. Jane had done things like that.

  Tom felt a surge of hatred well up inside him. He reached past Mike, grabbed hold of Gleason, and rammed him face-first into the glinting wall. The senator spilled to the floor, and when he wormed himself into an upright sitting position, blood was streaming down his face.

  “Do you know me now?” Tom said. The blood only made him hotter. He tore at the gag, ripping it up over Gleason’s nose, drawing more blood, more heat.

  Gleason spit the rag out of his mouth, choking.

  “I’m a United States senator!” he screamed. White flecks of spittle stuck to Tom’s work pants. Gleason’s face turned scarlet. “I sit on two FBI committees, you fucking psychos.”

  “Yeah, but now you’re just some old creep in a wet Speedo with a shrunken willie.”

  Tom kicked him in the ribs with his steel-toed Wolverines. He bent down and put his thumb into the nerve in Gleason’s neck. The senator began to scream and thrash his feet. Glass tinkled.

  “Tom!” Mike yelled.

  Tom felt Mike’s arms wrap around his chest. His feet losing touch with the floor. Gleason huffed and made small animal noises, writhing in the glinting shards. Tom was breathing hard. Mike set him down.

  “‘If you attack destructively and take a nation by force, that is a lesser accomplishment,’” Mike said, catching his breath.

  “That’s all this bastard understands,” Tom said. He put his face up to Gleason’s. “Do you remember Sook Min, you son of a bitch? Now do you remember me?”

  “Easy,” Mike said. “Just hold him, will you?”

  Mike took the pliers from the bag and put a friendly hand on Gleason’s shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Gleason said, his screeching voice was almost unintelligible. He was struggling against Tom’s vice grip, shaking his head no, walking the tightrope of hysteria. Tom could feel the bones beneath his flesh. He wanted to snap them one at a time.

  “I am a United States senator.”

  Mike held up the pliers. “I know. I voted for you. But that was before I knew you were a piece of shit. Now here’s how this works. . . .”

  Mike grabbed the senator by the back of his hair, twining his fingers. Twisting them tight. He snatched up a patch of skin on Gleason’s saggy chest in the teeth of the pliers.

  “I want you to stop making so much noise,” Mike said quietly. “It makes my head hurt. Tom’s going to put a ball in your mouth. You can breathe with it okay, but you’ll be quiet. If you do good, I won’t play Mr. Fixit.

  “If you do good,” Mike said, “this will be easy.”

  Gleason nodded frantically. He was twitching, and his eyes were riveted on the pliers.

  “Good,” Mike said. He turned to Tom. “Okay?”

  Tom fished the rubber ball out of the bag. Beads of sweat broke out on Gleason’s forehead. Gleason parted his lips an eighth of an inch at a time. Tom got tired of waiting. He stuck his finger in Gleason’s larynx, gagging him, and jammed the ball in.

  He looked at Gleason’s empty face, his shaking body. Tom felt nothing for him. He remembered the young DA he’d been, the life of the woman Gleason had ruined, and the arrogance and pure evil of taking his daughter.

  “Now tape that in there,” Mike said.

  When Tom’s gray band of duct tape encircled his head, Mike said to Gleason, “Good, you did good. Now I’m going to give you the notebook here and this pen and you can write down for us where to find Jane. That’s the next thing . . .”

  CHAPTER 20

  Mike tugged a fresh piece of Big Red from his pack and stuffed it into his mouth. He offered Tom a piece. Tom shook his head. Chewing, Mike dug into the bag. A sheen of sweat was on his brow and it glimmered in the low light. His ginger hair curled softly around his brow like smoke. His eyes had grown larger in the darkness.

  Mike handed the paper and pen to Gleason. He snapped his gum and said to him, “I want you to please write down for us where Jane is . . .”

  Gleason sucked air through his nose and made a wicked little snarling noise. He scribbled something on the paper. Mike leaned over. He squinted. The letters were wavy, broken, and uneven in the murky light.

  I DON’T KNOW

  “Bullshit!” Tom said, crashing his fist into Gleason’s face, ripping the tape free from his mouth.

  “I’ll crush your nuts!” Gleason screamed, his eyes bugging.

  “Tell us!” Tom yelled. He punched his thumb into the neck nerve again and ground it down with all his might. Gleason’s eyes rolled back in his head. A low squealing noise whistled through his nose, filling the dank space with the sound of a dying animal. He lurched up and butted his head under Tom’s chin.

  Tom threw a short punch, and Gleason’s nose popped. Then he dug right in again on the nerve.

  “Tom,” Mike said, trying to pull him off. “Tom, let him write it. Tom! You must think large. You must think larger than this!”

  Mike tugged harder and harder. The sound of agony pierced the stillness of the warm damp space.

  “Think of what Master Musashi would do,” Mike said.

  Finally, he locked both hands on Tom’s shoulders and threw his weight straight back. Tom caught his balance just before he fell. He was off.

  “I see. I see it’s larger,” Tom said. “I must be. I must be a larger warrior. I must connect.”

  “Please,” Mike said.

  Tom was breathing hard, but he nodded and looked away. Mike gave Gleason’s face a gentle series of slaps. He propped him up and put the paper and pen back into his hands. Gleason looked up at Tom out of blood red half-lidded eyes.

  “You . . . ,” Gleason said in a barely audible mutter, “want me . . . tell . . .”

  His hand shook, but he was writing. Mike leaned over to read.

  “Shit,” Mike said, shaking his head slowly.

  “What?” Tom asked, craning for a glimpse of the paper.

  FUCK YOU

  Mike said nothing. He picked up the roll of tape off the floor where To
m had set it and began wrapping Gleason from the ankles up. Gleason cackled softly, but soon he was ensconced in his sitting position in a shiny gray cocoon. Mike took out the rope and secured him to a beam.

  He put the ball in front of Gleason’s face. Gleason snarled and turned his head from side to side, avoiding the ball. Mike picked up the pliers off the floor and locked them onto a hunk of Gleason’s flesh. The senator’s eyes popped. His mouth flew open in a scream. Mike jammed the ball in and then taped it shut.

  Mike took the starter and the propane torch from the bag, holding them up for Gleason to see as he knelt down on one knee. Mike was concentrating. Only the raspy scratch of the starter interrupted his heavy breathing. Its sparks flickered, then spilled down onto the floor. Fireworks in the broken shards of mirror that littered the ground and the walls.

  “During the Middle Ages,” Tom said in a whisper, “kingdoms used vats of scalding hot oil to dump down upon their enemies during battle. Cauldronsful.”

  Gleason began to blubber.

  “His soul is frail,” Mike said without looking up. He braced the propane bottle against his leg and opened the valve. The steady hollow hiss of gas was added to the scratching of the starter. When he brought the two of them together, a triangular blue flame popped to life.

  “He’s not a warrior,” Tom said, now pacing, his hands tucked behind his back like a general. “He’s a politician who uses others to beat us.”

  Mike fidgeted with the knob on the torch, expanding and contracting the flame until he had it just right. Tom stopped and stared. He felt his mouth fall open. All around him he saw a thousand reflected flames. He touched Mike’s shoulder.

  Mike put his hand behind his head for a moment, then eased the torch toward Gleason’s bare feet. The senator’s eyes rolled, and he flailed futilely against his bonds. Mike let the tip of the flame lick the arch of his foot. He put his other hand on Gleason’s heel and moved the flame closer.

  A whistling noise escaped Gleason’s nose.

  Tom winced.