Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

“That sounds about right. You’re used to having people clean up your messes, aren’t you, Nettle?”

“That’s pretty good coming from a guy like you.” The detective pulled out his gun. “If you’ve got two brain cells left, you’ll tell me what I want to know so we can end this bullshit right now. It’ll only get uglier once I lose my patience.”

“And here I thought we were getting along so well,” Dave said.

Taubin was standing beside Dave and kicked him in the ribs again. “Show some respect, dickhead.”

“Fuck you, Bobby Ray.”

He laughed out loud. “You just sealed your own fate, Creasy.”

“Shut up,” Nettle said. “Let me handle this. Go out to the porch and keep watch.”

“You’re the boss,” Taubin said. “But once you’re done with him, you give me a holler, hear? Me and Dave got some unfinished business to settle.”

Nettle squatted in front of him. “Let’s try this again. You’ve been a lush for years, everybody knows it. You didn’t just wake up from a stupor one morning and decide to start asking questions about a couple of homicides. Someone put you up to this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The butt of the gun slammed against the side of Dave’s skull. “Wrong answer, asshole. You didn’t print those police files I found in your desk off the Internet. Someone gave them to you. I want a name.”

Dave kept silent. He was a dead man, anyway. He’d seen Nettle’s face. No way he was getting out of this alive.

“Let’s up the ante, shall we? You got an uncle that lives just down the road. Maybe we ought to get him over here and see what he knows.”

Dave still said nothing.

“That the way you want to play it, fine.” Nettle stood and shoved the gun into the waistband of his trousers, then reached down and yanked Dave to his feet. His wrists were still tied behind him and his head throbbed sickeningly. He needed to vomit, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Nettle shoved him toward the door and Dave stumbled out to the porch.

“Help me get him down to the water,” Nettle told Taubin. “He’ll talk then.”

The two men dragged him off the porch, across the yard and down the steep, muddy bank to the water’s edge. Dave had no idea where the third man was, but he had a feeling he was somewhere behind them. As they neared the water, the fecund scent of the swamp mingled with the smell of blood, and Dave started to wretch.

“Shit, man, are you sure about this?” Taubin asked anxiously as they waded into knee-deep water. “I ain’t too crazy about the swamp. These waters gotta be full of gators.”

“Don’t worry,” Nettle told him. “This won’t take long.”

As they waded out a little farther, the lily pads on the surface undulated with the movement. Dave could feel the sinewy maze of cypress roots beneath his feet and had to struggle to keep his balance.

When the water was nearly waist high, Nettle pushed Dave to his knees. He tried to get up, but slipped on the muddy bottom. Nettle clamped his hand around the back of Dave’s neck and pressed his face underwater.

Dave went completely still, trying to reserve the air in his lungs, but after a few seconds, his instincts took over and he began to thrash around, slinging his head from side to side, trying to free himself from the viselike grip that held him under.

The last of his air rushed out of his lungs and Dave’s mouth opened instinctively. As water streamed into his nose and throat, he couldn’t contain his panic.

Nettle jerked him to the surface, and Dave came up gasping and sputtering, his head still pulsing from the pressure. When his captors released him, his feet slid out from under him and he went down again. Quickly he surfaced, shaking his head from side to side, and Taubin laughed out loud. “Look at that dumb pecker-wood.”

Dave saw Nettle smile in the moonlight. “I bet he’s ready to talk now. Let’s get him to the bank.”

They pulled him out of the water and plopped him facedown in the mud.

“Who gave you those files?” Nettle asked calmly.

“I don’t remember,” Dave gasped. His heart was pounding hard and fast, and his mouth was filled with the taste of swamp water, blood and fear.

“Someone brought you into this,” Nettle said. “I want a name.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like I said, we could get your uncle down here, see what he knows. Or maybe we could pay a visit to your old partner. He might know something. Titus has a kid still at home, right? A girl about fourteen or fifteen. You know better than anyone how far a guy would go to protect his daughter, don’t you, Dave?”

“You son of a bitch. You lay one finger on that girl, I’ll kill you. If there’s anything left once Titus gets through with you.”

Nettle just laughed.

“Next time, I say we leave him under longer,” Taubin said. “If he comes back up, we won’t be able to shut him up. If he don’t, we can just leave him for gator bait.”

They moved toward Dave again, but this time he was ready for them. He rolled to his back and slammed his foot into Taubin’s groin. The man’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground in a fetal curl. He lay groaning in pain and rage for the longest moment before slowly rising to his feet, one hand pressed between his spraddled legs while the other hand pulled out his knife.

“You’re a dead man,” he gasped as he started toward Dave. “I’ll gut you like a catfish—” A light caught him in the face and he blinked in shock. “What the hell…?”

A split second later, a bullet hit a cypress tree behind him and the bark exploded into the water. Taubin swore again as he dived for cover.

“This is private property!” Marsilius yelled from the darkness. “I already called the law so you’ve got about five seconds to get the hell out of here before I start blowing some head off!”

To punctuate his warning, he fired off several rounds, hitting targets so close to Taubin and Nettle that there was little doubt about his aim. If he’d wanted them dead, they already would be.

Taubin rose shakily to his feet, keeping his head low. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t want no trouble with the local boys. You ain’t paying me enough to get my head busted open by some redneck deputy with a billy club.”

Nettle glanced down at Dave in the dark. “Do yourself a favor. Stay out of New Orleans and stay out of my business. Next time it won’t turn out so good for you.”

And then they were gone. Pain twisted inside Dave’s gut and he rolled over to vomit in the mud. When he was finished, he lay weak and trembling on his side. It was all he could do to keep from blacking out.

A moment later, Marsilius knelt beside him in the mud. “How bad you hurt, son?”

“I’ll live,” Dave muttered. “Thanks to you.”

“That head’s gonna need some stitches.”

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks.” Dave struggled to sit up. “I’ll clean it up when I get home, see how it looks.”

“Don’t talk crazy, son, they laid you open good. I’m taking you to the hospital. Can you walk or do I need to back the truck down here?”

“I can walk.”

His uncle helped him to his feet. “You sure? You’re staggering around like you been on a three-day drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Dave said, a split second before he passed out cold.

By the time they left the hospital, the sky had already started to lighten in the east. They’d waited hours to see a doctor. It was Saturday night and the end of a three-week rotation for some of the workers on the offshore oil rigs, so the emergency room had been packed with guys fresh in from the platforms and ready to party.