J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

Herb motored out of the parking lot and followed the signs to the expressway.

“We just took a very bad man off the streets, Jack. Should be happy about that.”

“He’s crazy. He’ll spend the rest of his life in some cushy institution, being scrutinized by ViCAT chuckleheads. He was doing a fine job punishing himself. We could have left him alone.”

“Punishing himself?”

I gave Herb the condensed version. He looked appropriately ill by the end of it.

“He cut off Little Willy?”

“Right at the root.”

“And the twins?”

“Lefty and Righty, both.”

Benedict shuddered. “Jesus. That’s who they belonged to. Cops found a set of genitals wrapped in foil, in the freezer.”

I made a mock-serious face. “Herb, you know what that is, don’t you?”

“No. What?”

“It’s a cocksicle.”

He didn’t laugh. Maybe my timing was off. Comedy is all about the timing.

“Guys don’t find castration funny, Jack.”

I nudged him with an elbow. “That’s because it’s like getting a lobotomy.”

“See? Not funny.”

But I still had more material.

“In a way, I kind of feel sorry for Bud. I mean, where does he put his hand when he’s watching TV?”

“Not all men grab themselves when they’re watching TV.”

“Or when they’re driving?”

Benedict looked down, noticed he was adjusting himself. He turned a shade of red normally seen on valentine cards.

“I wasn’t grabbing.”

“What were you doing? Frisking yourself?”

He went sheepish. “Just checking to make sure they were still there.”

Benedict merged onto the expressway. When his blush faded a bit, he changed the topic.

“We found some seriously awful things at Kork’s place. In the barn there was a locked wooden box, with tiny holes punched in it. When we opened it, the inside was covered in scratch marks. He kept people in there.”

I shuddered. “Jesus.”

“This guy’s a monster. Sort of makes sense why his son turned out the way he did. Can you imagine growing up in a house like that?”

“I don’t even want to try. It’s not my job to understand these kooks. It’s just my job to catch them.”

“Doesn’t understanding them make catching them easier?”

“Sure. Next time I see a guy who has sinner branded all over his chest, I’ll place him under arrest.”

“Want to hear the weirdest thing we found? In the bathroom. The bathtub. Filled to the top.”

I bit. “With what?”

“With urine. Kork must have been peeing in that tub for years.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Gets worse.” Herb made the Mr. Yuck face. “Next to the tub was a bar of soap and some piss-soaked towels. Apparently, he’s been taking baths.”

I massaged my temples. This had officially become too freaky for me to adequately process.

We spent the remainder of the ride trying to gross each other out, and by the time Herb dropped me off at home I’d decided to give up food forever.

Back in my apartment, Mr. Friskers ran away from me when I entered. Must have been the death smell. I checked for messages (none), and drew a bath into which I dumped every oil, salt, and soap I owned. I’d just climbed in, bubbles up to my ears, when the phone rang.

I let the machine get it.

“Jack, it’s Latham.”

I vaulted out of the tub, almost met my death slipping on the tile floor, and snatched up the phone, out of breath.

“Latham? Hi! I just got in.”

“Hi yourself. How are you doing?”

Stinky. Alone. Depressed. Freezing. “Great. I’m great. How about you?”

“Good. Job’s going well. I love the new condo. How’s your mom?”

“Still in a coma.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“Can we get together?” I bit my lower lip. I was so cold, my knees were knocking together.

“Sure. That would be nice. The thing is, though, I’m seeing someone.”

If he’d cut my heart out of my chest with a cleaver it would have hurt less. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to sound upbeat.

“That’s great. What’s her name?”

“Maria.”

“Maria. Great. Great name. Is it serious?”

“We’ve been dating for a few months, and I just asked her to move in with me.”

Latham had asked me that same thing, but I turned him down, because I am the Queen of All Who Are Stupid.

“Well… that’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“I’d still like to see you, though. To catch up. Touch base.”

Screw me until I can’t stand up? Instead I said, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“I’ll give you a call in a few days?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”

“Bye-bye, Jack. Great talking to you.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

He hung up.

I stood there a moment, teeth chattering, and then moped back into the bathtub.

It was my fault that he was with Maria. Just like it was my fault my mother was in a coma. She’d been living with me, and a criminal I’d been chasing broke into my apartment and took his wrath for me out on her.

I wondered if Bud Kork had a branding iron that said fuckup .

After a long soak, which still didn’t get all of the stink out, I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling, knowing I’d never be able to fall asleep.

So I didn’t even try.

DR. MORTON TRIES to scream, but he can’t – his mouth is full.

SLEEP NEVER CAME.

I crawled out of bed at six a.m., hacked up some black gunk from my lungs, forced myself through a hundred sit-ups, and showered. I’d spent all night watching the Weather Channel, and there was enough meteorological evidence to suggest that today would be partly cloudy, with a high of seventy-five.

I dressed in a gray Ralph Lauren pantsuit, a black short-sleeved blouse, and some two-inch heels I picked up at Payless. It would take me a while before I wore nice shoes to work again.

I also put on just a small spray of L’Air du Temps. I’m not a perfume kind of gal, but I wanted to cover up the smell of decay that still clung to me. I was supposed to meet up with Harry McGlade tonight. If I stank, he’d be vocal about it.

After feeding the cat, who still avoided me, I searched the pantry for foodstuffs and found some cranberry granola bars. Mom loved them. I hated them. But I was starving, so I forced one down.

I stuck another one in my pocket, disengaged the alarm, and opened my door to leave. As I did, a small package that had been leaning against the door fell inward.

Same brown envelope as the one delivered to me at work.

I tugged out my Colt, looked left, right, then hurried down the hallway to the stairwell.

There wasn’t anyone to chase.

I went back into my apartment, nudging the envelope in with my toe. Then I found some rubber gloves under the sink and carried the package over to the kitchen table. I slit it open with a bread knife and dumped out the obligatory unlabeled black VHS tape.

Such a small, harmless, everyday item. Yet it filled me with dread.

The first tape had been wiped clean of prints, but hope springs eternal, so I only held the video by the very edge in my gloved hand. I brought it into the bedroom, put it in the VCR, and let it play.

This one began with a close-up of a man’s bare chest. He was sitting on a chair with his hands behind him, probably tied or cuffed.

A black gloved hand, with a long black leather sleeve, used a box cutter to open him up from nipple to nipple. The screams were so loud they distorted the audio. Then the hand came back into frame with some pliers.

The granola bar jumped around in my stomach. I hit the Fast-forward button, watching this poor guy get his chest, then his back, peeled in triple time. When the atrocities finally ended with a deep slash across the carotid artery, the killer stepped behind the camera and zoomed out, revealing the man’s head.