J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

“How many people, Bud? How many children?”

“Sinners. All sinners. I helped them atone.”

His palsy became worse, his fists shaking like he was plugged into an electrical outlet.

“Tell me about Diane Kork, Bud. Did you kill her?”

“I’m a sinner too. Lord, I am a sinner!

Kork dropped to his knees, his eyes filling with tears.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins…”

He began to rock back and forth, bending down, touching his forehead to the floor.

“Did you kill your son’s wife? Or do you know who did?”

“… because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You…”

“Do you have a video camera, Mr. Kork?”

“… my God, who is all-good and deserving…”

“Who brought the jar of toes to Chicago?”

“… of all my love, I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more!”

His rocking was violent now, and he snapped his body back and drove his head hard into the wood floor.

“Mr. Kork!”

“Sin no more!”

He smashed his head down even harder. Blood erupted from his face and nose. I made it to him in two steps, reaching for his shoulders, trying to pull him back. He was much stronger than I would have guessed, and he had momentum on his side.

“SIN NO MORE!”

With his final blow I actually heard the sound of his skull cracking. He slumped over onto his side, one eye closed, the other open and fully dilated.

“Herb! We need an ambulance!”

I put two fingers against his grimy neck, feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but there.

Pulling back his collar, I noticed some scar tissue on his breastbone. A sense of uneasiness, of dread, came over me, and without thinking I lifted up his ratty undershirt.

It was one of the most horrible things I’ve ever seen.

ALEX WAITS FOR Dr. Morton outside the pizzeria, on the sidewalk. The doctor had gone in alone, eighty-five minutes ago. Long enough for a leisurely lunch. This place is known for its deep-dish pizza, baked in a pan with the sauce on top of the cheese. Alex has never tried it.

At the eighty-sixth minute after entering, Dr. Morton exits the restaurant. His face is the picture of shock and surprise when he bumps into Alex at the door. He recovers quickly, but Alex is secretly delighted to have flustered the shrink.

“Alex! Oh, hello. Just in the neighborhood?”

“There are more than three million people in Chicago, Doctor. What’s the likelihood we both just happened to pick the same restaurant for lunch?”

Alex watches him puzzle it out.

“So, you followed me. Was there any particular reason?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Dr. Morton looks at his watch. Very unprofessional. “I’m sort of pressed for time, Alex. Don’t we have an appointment tomorrow?”

“You spent eighty-six minutes eating pizza. You can’t spare ten minutes for me?”

“But I’m seeing another patient, Alex.”

“I have to talk to you now, Doctor.” Alex checks the street, which is clear, and casually pulls the gun out. “I’m having a crisis.”

Dr. Morton doesn’t look afraid. But that doesn’t matter.

He will. Soon.

“Can we talk in my car? Just five minutes. I can even give you a ride back to the office, save you some cab fare.”

The doctor lets out a slow breath. “Fine. But I want the gun.”

“Don’t you trust me, Doctor?”

“You said yourself that you’re having a crisis. I wouldn’t want you to do anything regrettable.”

Alex smiles, hands over the weapon.

Dr. Morton shoves it into his blazer pocket, and Alex leads him to the car. If the good doctor notices the missing side mirrors, he doesn’t say anything about it.

After the doctor puts on his seat belt, Alex jabs him with the needle in the upper arm.

“Alex? What are you doing…?”

“Just something to relax you, Doctor.”

Dr. Morton’s mouth opens. He’s shocked. He isn’t used to surprises. He’s used to being in control. Alex can read it in his face.

The doctor grabs for the door, but Alex has disabled the handle. He pulls four or five times, but it doesn’t open.

“Sorry, Doc.” Alex grins.

“Let me out of here, Alex.”

“I can’t do that, Doc. You’re a loose end. I told you too much, and now I have to take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” His words are beginning to slur.

“I’m going to cut a small slit in your belly, right under your navel. And then I’ll stick some tongs in there, and pull your intestines out through the hole. Then you’re going to eat them.”

Dr. Morton’s eyes get comically wide. He gropes for the gun and pulls it out.

“Do you know how to work a semiautomatic, Doctor? That one has a safety on it.”

The doctor obviously doesn’t know. His hands are shaking, and he’s trying to pull the trigger. Alex reaches over, flips off the safety for him.

Dr. Morton doesn’t hesitate. He points the gun at Alex’s head and fires. There’s a clicking sound, and the slide goes back.

No bullets.

“I’m disappointed, Doctor. Is that how you deal with the mentally ill? By trying to shoot them in the head? I’m surprised you have any patients left at all.”

The doctor raises the gun, tries to hit Alex with it.

Alex laughs, easily blocking the blow, then pops Dr. Morton in the nose, causing a minor explosion of blood.

“Don’t bother trying to fight, Doctor. I’m stronger than you are.”

Dr. Morton doesn’t listen. He again tries to club Alex with the gun. Alex slips the blow and takes the gun away.

“Enough. It’s nighty-night time.”

“Please.” Dr. Morton’s head lolls to the side. He’s almost out.

Alex pats him on the head.

“You’ll have plenty of time for begging tomorrow, Dr. Morton. I promise.”

WHEN THE DOCTOR came into the waiting room to talk to me, he looked ashen. I put him at about my age, five-ten, graying temples, nurturing a pot belly on an otherwise skinny body. His name tag read Murphy.

“How’s Kork doing?”

“The patient has a linear skull fracture, a third-degree concussion, and a broken nose. I also put six stitches in his scalp. You said this was self-induced?”

“He banged his head into the floor.”

He pursed his lips. “That makes sense, considering the overall shape he’s in.”

“You’ve obviously seen his chest.”

“The chest is child’s play compared to some of the other things I found. He has no relatives?”

“None.” I stood up, stretching my back, my vertebra popping like a cellophane bag. I’d been cramped in the little plastic chair for over three hours.

For the second time this week I sported the latest borrowed hospital fashion: baggy jeans, a Pacers shirt, and sandals. The clothes I’d put on this morning, including my Dior flats, were double-bagged in plastic. I doubted I’d ever get the stench out of them.

The hospital had been kind enough to let me use the residents’ shower, and I scrubbed myself pink with industrial strength antibacterial soap. It still hadn’t been enough to get the stink of rot out of my hair and skin. The stench lingered like a perfume I’d put on. Eau de Decay.

“I’d like to see him, Dr. Murphy.”

“He isn’t conscious yet. Might not be for a while.”

“I want you to show me the other things you just mentioned.”

The doctor hesitated. I had no authority there, but I pressed anyway.

“He’s a mass murderer. They’ve pulled eleven bodies out of his basement already, and more are on the way. Let me see him. It may help save some lives.”