“Still not ready to talk? Amazing. The systemic shock must be incredible.” He reached down toward Buddy’s face and laid his fingers over Buddy’s eyes.
Buddy twisted away from him, throwing his head to one side. It was no use—he was firmly tied down. He could not get away. He had no use of his arms whatsoever; both were shaking uncontrollably.
“Please stop. Please…”
“I will stop, Buddy. I will.” The man caressed the side of Buddy’s face. “I want to stop. Truly. Do you think I enjoy this? I don’t. It’s just that I need information, that’s all. And I need it quickly. Too many people are poking their noses into my affairs. If I don’t address the Trixie situation soon, there could be some serious complications. Do you understand?”
He leaned forward and kissed Buddy on the cheek. “Won’t you please tell me where she is?”
Buddy looked back at the man through blurry, clouded eyes. He couldn’t control his own hands, much less wipe the tears from his eyes. The pain was not subsiding. No, it was getting worse with every passing second. Blood drained out of his veins; his hands were swelling and felt as if they might explode.
“Please,” Buddy whispered. He was begging. “Don’t hurt my fingers….”
“Worried about the fingers, eh? ‘Doctor, if I survive, will I be able to play the piano? Oh yeah? I never could play the piano before!’ ” He laughed uproariously, then slapped Buddy on the back. “Funny, huh? I didn’t see you laugh, though. I like it when people laugh at my jokes.”
Buddy tried to smile, but found he hadn’t the strength.
The man’s grin faded. “I’m not going to hurt your fingers, Buddy, because I don’t think they can take any more pain without inducing unconsciousness, and I very much want you awake. So I’ll take a different approach.”
The man reached into his jacket, unsnapped a holster and withdrew a long, thick knife. “I’m in the mood for a little surgery, Buddy. Nothing too major. Just the removal of a few unimportant organs. Nothing you’re likely to miss.”
He pressed his nose against Buddy’s. “I’m not going to bother asking anymore. You know what I want to hear. When you’re ready for me to stop, just start talking.
He reached down and loosened the belt around Buddy’s pants. “Let’s see. Where shall I begin?”
Buddy sobbed and shrieked, venting his anger and desperation. His entire body was cold and trembling. He felt horrible. It wasn’t the pain, although the pain was agonizing.
He felt horrible because he knew he was going to tell.
44
BEN STARED AT HIS apartment in amazement and dismay. It was a shattered arena of destruction and debris. Everything that could be broken had been broken. Chipped pieces of Plexiglas from his stereo system littered the floor. Sofa cushions had been ripped open. The lid of the piano was up. He looked inside. Sure enough—the son of a bitch had gutted it.
His bedroom was just the same, and the kitchen was even worse. There were so many easily broken objects in the kitchen. And yet, through all the rubble, he saw precious few indications that his apartment had been searched. He knew the usual signs—rifled drawers, dumped files—and he didn’t see any of them.
This wasn’t a search. This was a warning.
Ben slapped himself on the side of the head. Giselle!
“Giselle? Sweetie?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “C’mere, kitty.”
No response.
“Kitty kitty kitty. C’mon. Daddy’s home.”
He watched for some stirring, some indication of life. Nothing.
Ben felt a deep hollow in his heart. That poor cat. He bent over and crawled through a stack of broken records, ripped books, and torn linens. Maybe she was buried under here somewhere. Maybe she was pinned and couldn’t get out.
Wait a minute. He shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. He knew how to test for cat life. He ran into the kitchen, burrowed through the cabinets—now a jumbled mess—and retrieved a can of Feline’s Fancy. Giselle’s favorite.
He opened the can and waited as the aroma filled the apartment. Not that it ever took more than a few seconds. She was normally prancing around beneath his feet before he had the lid off. He waved the can around the kitchen, trying to deny the obvious, trying to pretend it hadn’t been too long yet.
Until it was. Even he had to admit that she would’ve been here long ago. If she could.
He fell back against the refrigerator and brushed a tear from the corner of his eye. He just couldn’t believe—just couldn’t believe—
He heard something. Something barely perceptible, just outside the range of his hearing. What was it?
He stood, trying to trace the source of the sound. It seemed as if it had come from—where?
He whirled toward the kitchen sink. And the window just above the sink. The broken window he had seen from outside the house.
He crawled up on the sink and pressed his head through the broken window, careful not to cut himself on the jagged pieces of glass. The window overlooked a short ledge of the roof, a narrow shingled eave. And in the corner was a huge black cat huddled against the edge, as far as she could go without falling off the roof.
“Giselle!”
He wrapped his hand in a towel, knocked out the loose pieces of glass, then raised the window. “Giselle! It’s me!”
Giselle slowly moved her paws away from her eyes. She was terrified, but not so much that she couldn’t recognize the putative master of the house. Her head perked up. She slowly padded back to the window.
Ben scooped the cat up and brought her inside the kitchen. “You smart kitty. You must’ve crawled out there to get away.” He cradled her in his arms and hugged her close. “What a smart little kitty.”
Giselle purred and snuggled against the crook of Ben’s neck. She stayed there for at least ten seconds, until she noticed the open can of Feline’s Fancy on the floor. She leaped out of Ben’s arms and started munching.
Ben smiled, but the smile only lasted a moment. In the back of his mind, he was still thinking about what had been done, and why…
And when.
It must’ve been during the day. Otherwise it would’ve been impossible. Too many people would’ve been in the building in the evening or night. They would’ve heard and come to investigate. But if this destruction had occurred during the day…
Mrs. Marmelstein would’ve been home.
He shut Giselle in the bedroom so she couldn’t get out again, then ran downstairs and pounded on his landlady’s door.
“Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben!” he shouted. “Are you okay?” He continued to pound on the door.
No one answered.
He pounded some more. The door popped open a crack. It must not have been closed securely.
He shoved his way into her room. That son of a bitch. That miserable goddamn son of a bitch. If he hurt Mrs. Marmelstein—
From inside her bedroom, Ben heard the sound of…Paul Harvey?
“Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben Kincaid!”
The sound of the radio evaporated. Ben recalled that Mrs. Marmelstein left the radio on all night—not to help her sleep, but to keep her company. He heard some heavy footsteps on the carpet, and a few seconds later, Mrs. Marmelstein poked her head through her bedroom door. She had obviously just awakened. “You’re not a tenant here any more, Mr. Kincaid.”
“What?” Now he was thoroughly confused. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. I’m as all right as any woman could be who just had the worst day of her entire life.” She stepped into the parlor, tightly bundled up in a pink woolly robe. “It’s a wonder I could sleep at all last night.”