Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

“Would you like to make another call?” Nathan asked.

“You son of a bitch. You broke my fuckin’ nose!”

“In about ninety seconds, the mucus membrane of that pointed beak you call a ‘nose’ is going to swell to twice its current volume. Breathing through it will become quite labored. If I have to tape your mouth again, you’ll start choking on your own blood.”

“Fuck you.”

Nathan sighed. “I am truly disappointed.” He peeled another six-inch length of tape from the roll.

Cursing like a madman, Knife began whipping his head back and forth.

Harv maneuvered behind Knife while Nathan retrieved a filthy washcloth from the kitchen counter. Harv grabbed Knife by the ears and held his head still while Nathan wiped the blood from Knife’s mouth before jamming the strip of tape into place. He held his wrist up in an exaggerated manner, looking at his watch.

Knife’s face turned a bright shade of crimson and his chest began heaving for air. Nathan raised an eyebrow, silently saying I told you so . Knife coughed behind the tape and was forced to inhale his own blood. His body wrenched in a violent spasm.

“It’s only going to get worse. Soon, you’ll be aspirating blood and vomit into your lungs. That’s a bad situation. You could get pneumonia, and after I’ve broken all your ribs, coughing is going to be a tad uncomfortable.”

Fork’s bladder quit. The liquid ran down the legs of his chair and soaked into the carpet. The pungent smell of urine drifted.

Knife’s desperate wrenching reached a peak and Nathan knew the guy was close to passing out. He yanked the tape free, reducing Knife’s mustache to 60 percent. Vomit spewed.

“That’s disgusting.” Nathan looked at Harv. “Garden hose, please.”

Harv walked out the front door and returned a few seconds later, dragging a green hose with him. He handed the business end to Nathan and stepped back out outside. “Say when.”

Nathan removed the glove from his right hand. “When,” he called.

There was a faint squeak from outside.

Knife wrenched in his seat. “What the fuck you doing?”

Nathan used his thumb to form a jet of water and summarily hosed the two men down like dogs. Water flew in every direction. As if washing off a driveway, he used the hose to spray the vomit in front of Knife’s chair aside, then soaked the carpet under Fork’s chair, diluting the urine. Knife shook his head back and forth, trying to clear his vision.

“Okay,” he yelled to Harv. Another squeak.

Harv returned from outside.

“Once again, here’s the deal,” Nathan said, keeping his tone even. “We have all night and there are all kinds of things in an everyday household that are perfectly suitable for inflicting pain. Almost anything works. Take your pick. Scissors, screwdrivers, pliers, lamp cords. I once beat a guy senseless with a twelve-inch salami and then made myself a sandwich. Ever had your fingers inserted into a toaster? A frying pan is effective too. You know, those heavy-duty cast-iron jobs? What we do is heat it up several hundred degrees and then lovingly place it in your lap for safekeeping. Let’s see, what else works?”

“A grinder,” Harv said.

“Go take a look in the garage. I’ll bet they’ve got one.”

Harv took a step toward the door.

“Okay. Okay. What the fuck do you want from me? I don’t know where they are. My cousins are crazy. I don’t have nothing to do with them. I swear.”

Without looking, Nathan reached over and yanked the tape from Fork’s mouth. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“Tell him about the cabin!”

Nathan squinted at Knife. “What cabin?”

Knife twisted toward his brother. “You dumb shit.”

Nathan asked again, slower. “What… cabin?”

“There’s no cabin,” Knife said.

Nathan picked up the phone and held it an inch from Fork’s nose. “Would you like to make a call?”

“I don’t know where it is. I swear I ain’t been there.”

There was fury in Knife’s voice. “Shut the fuck up, Billy.”

Nathan nodded to Knife. “He’s been there?”

“Lots of times. He goes hunting up there. It belongs to our dad’s sister, but she don’t want nobody knowin’ about it.”

Nathan tore another piece of tape from the roll and secured Fork’s mouth. Avoiding the empty soup cans and milk jugs on the floor, he strolled into the kitchen and started rummaging around. He opened cabinet doors, tossed pots and pans aside, and purposely made all kinds of noise. He found what he was looking for, set it on the front burner with an audible clang , and twisted the knob. The rapid clicking of the stove’s igniter was followed by the distinctive whoosh of the gas catching.

Harv said, “Uh-oh.”

He returned to the living room and winked at Knife.

“My cousins will kill me.”

“He’ll do it,” Harv said. “I’ve seen this before. It’s pretty bad. It fuses the denim to your skin.”

“They’ll kill me!”

“Your concern should be more immediate,” Harv said.

After a minute or so, the odor of burned cooking oil drifted into the room.

Knife jerked against the chair. “Son of a bitch. You motherfuckers.”

“Warming up nicely,” Nathan said.

“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch!”

“I’m going to tape your mouth. I just can’t stand the sound of a grown man screaming.” Harvey jammed the tape over Knife’s mouth and pulled his Predator from its ankle sheath.

Knife’s eyes grew.

“Hold still,” Harv said, and cut a slit in the tape.

The tape hissed with each breath Knife took.

Nathan returned into the kitchen. With the frying pan’s handle protected with a dish towel in one hand and a small cup of water in the other, he approached the bound men. Blue-gray smoke belched from the pan’s black surface.

Knife began whipping back and forth, nearly toppling his chair.

Nathan stood in front of Knife and held the pan six inches above his lap. He poured an ounce of water onto its flat surface. The liquid burst to life in a macabre dance of boiling rivulets that hissed and sizzled like tortured snakes.

Out in the van, Holly Simpson held her breath.

“Last chance,” Nathan said. “Are your cousins really worth it? Do you think they’d take this kind of pain for you?”

Knife shook his head.

“Are you ready to talk about the cabin?”

He closed his eyes and nodded.

Nathan tossed the pan aside. It simmered on the wet carpet, belching steam. He tore the tape from Knife’s mouth. “Well?”

“It’s three hours from here. Up Highway Seventy near Quincy.”

“What’s the address?”

“It don’t have an address.”

“You’re going to show us where it is. Is there anything else we should know about?”

“That’s it man, I swear. I don’t know nothing else.”

Nathan knew when someone was lying to him. It was hard to describe. Maybe it was in the eyes, or micro changes in body language, but whatever it was, it didn’t matter. This guy was holding something back, something he was willing to risk a great deal of pain over.

“Okay,” Nathan said. “This isn’t personal, you understand that, right? I’m just doing my job.” He walked behind Knife’s chair and began cutting the duct tape. He sensed the man relax a little. Good. Now take it away. He stopped cutting the tape and grunted as though something wasn’t quite right. “What about the cash?” he whispered in Knife’s ear.

Knife stiffened a little.

“The cash,” Nathan said, watching Knife’s reaction. A bull’s-eye. A direct hit. Knife gave it away as clearly as a kid who looks down after peeing his pants. Cash. Emergency money. Probably lots of it, and without a doubt, it was hands-off as far as these two mutts were concerned. It made perfect sense. The Bridgestones probably had stashes all over the place. The Bridgestones were many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. They hadn’t been able to come here because the FBI stakeout had started before the raid on the compound.