J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

“My husband…” she whispered.

I reached down and squeezed her shoulder.

“We’ll find them, Holly. I promise.”

“But will they still be alive when we do?”

PHINEAS TROUTT OPENS his eyes. His vision feels lopsided, off center, and his shoulders hurt. He’s in a chair, but when he tries to move his arms and legs, they don’t respond.

He takes in the scene. It’s a warehouse of some sort, concrete floors and thirty-foot ceilings, row after row of empty aluminum racks. The windows are boarded up, but there’s a light on somewhere behind him, illuminating a decade’s worth of dust in swirling motes.

Phin does a body inventory checklist, flexing his toes, legs, fingers, arms, neck, and jaw. Nothing seems damaged. But his legs are bound to the chair legs, and his hands are bound behind his back.

He jerks himself to the side, trying to get the chair to tilt or move. It’s secured to the ground somehow. He pulls on his arms, hard, and feels wire bite into his wrists.

This isn’t a good situation.

Phin closes his eyes, which helps him push away the panic. How did he get here?

The last thing he remembers is the forest preserve, toasting to the newly married couple.

Someone had drugged them.

Okay, but why?

Phin has enemies, probably more than his share. But no one knew he was going to that wedding. And during the cab ride to Busse Woods, Phin kept a careful eye on the rearview mirror, a subconscious paranoia that served him well in the past. He hadn’t been followed…

That left Jack, Harry, and Holly. Jack was a cop, Harry and Holly private investigators. They undoubtedly had enemies too. Phin might have gotten caught up in someone else’s revenge scheme.

A sound, a low rumble, comes from behind him. Phin can’t turn far enough to see. It comes again, louder.

Snoring.

“Hey! Wake up!”

“I’m awake. I’m awake.”

More snoring.

“Goddammit, McGlade, wake up!”

“Huh? What’s happening?”

“We were drugged at your wedding.”

“I got drunk at my wedding? There’s a shocker.”

“Drugged, McGlade. We were drugged.”

“Is that you, Jim?”

“It’s Phin. Wake up and tell me what you see.”

A long pause. Phin wonders if the moron fell asleep again.

“I’m in a chair, tied up. Looks like some kind of factory or warehouse. There’s a cargo docking bay off to my right, but the door is closed.”

“What else?”

“We gotta get out of here, Phin. If I don’t get this tuxedo returned by tonight, they’re charging me for another full day.”

“Concentrate, Harry. What else is around you?”

“There’s some kind of office in the corner. Door closed, no lights. On my left… holy shit!”

“What is it?”

“This has got to be some kind of bad dream.”

McGlade yelled in pain.

“Harry? You okay?”

“I bit my tongue to see if I’m dreaming. I don’t think I am. Or maybe I bit my tongue in my sleep…”

“You’re not asleep, Harry. Tell me what you see.”

“I think my tongue’s bleeding.”

“Harry!”

“Okay. I see a long steel table. Got a bunch of equipment on it. And some stuff, new in boxes.”

Phin doesn’t like the sound of that.

“What kind of stuff?”

“A blowtorch. A power drill. A set of vise-grip pliers. And a chain saw.”

This has gone from bad to worse.

“Maybe they’re building a birdhouse,” McGlade said.

“I doubt that.”

“There’s also a big bottle of ammonia, and some paper towels. Spring cleaning?”

“The ammonia is to wake us up when we pass out from pain.”

“Oh. That makes sense. CAN ANYONE FUCKING HELP ME! HEY! HELP! GET ME OUT OF HERE !”

McGlade screams for several minutes.

“You’re wasting your breath, Harry. No one’s going to hear us.”

McGlade continues to scream anyway.

Phin tunes him out. He wonders where Jack and Holly are. Were they taken as well? Are they at another location?

Are they already dead?

He has no idea how long he’s been out. A few hours? A day? He rubs his chin against his shoulder, feels some facial stubble, but not much. Less than twelve hours.

Harry stops yelling. Phin listens to him grunt and struggle for a while. The sounds eventually stop.

“Man, I’m thirsty.” This from McGlade. “You thirsty, Phin?”

“Don’t think about it.”

“I am thinking about it. How can I not think about it? If I try not to think about something, I think about it even more because I have to think about it to try not to.”

Time ticks away. A plane passes overhead, low and loud. Either taking off or landing. Phin guesses they’re in the northwest suburbs, someplace near O’Hare. Elk Grove has a large industrial section, not far from Busse Woods.

“I gotta pee.”

Phin squeezes his eyes shut. Being tortured to death is going to be bad enough. Being tortured to death alongside this idiot is even worse.

“It’s like someone’s turning a vise on my kidneys.”

“Let’s not talk for a while, okay?”

McGlade is blessedly silent for a few minutes. Phin concentrates on relaxing his shoulders; they’re beginning to cramp up. The wire is tight enough on his wrists to make his fingers tingle. It’s a heavy gauge, about the width of a coat hanger but more pliable. He pumps his fists several times to get blood into his hands.

“If I die in a rented tuxedo, how long to you think they’ll keep charging my credit card?”

Phin rolls his eyes. “Christ, McGlade. Does it matter? You won’t have to pay it.”

“Yeah, but my wife will. If they don’t find my body, she’ll keep getting charged every month. It could run into millions of dollars.” McGlade doesn’t speak for a moment, then says, “I hope she’s okay. Jack too. You think they’re okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they got away. Maybe they’re on their way to rescue us.”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe they’re bringing cool, refreshing beverages. And a toilet.”

This guy used to be Jack’s partner? Phin can’t understand how she let him live for this long.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, McGlade, but I can’t understand what the hell Holly sees in you.”

“I dunno. Love is blind.”

“Apparently it’s also deaf. And learning disabled.”

“Maybe Holly loves me because I’ve got so many layers. Like a big, sexy onion. I’m an enigma, wrapped in a mystery.”

“You’re an enigma, wrapped in an idiot. Layers? Harry, I’ve only met you twice, and you’re about as deep as a spilled beer.”

“You’re just jealous. Holly and I have something special. We have trust, and loyalty, and commitment.”

“Commitment? What commitment? You cheated on her four times last night.”

“They were midgets. If you add them together it only counts as twice.”

Phin doesn’t answer. This conversation is pointless. They need to think of some way to get out of here. He didn’t undergo months of chemotherapy to suffer and die in this abandoned warehouse.

But much as Phin pulls and stretches and strains, he can’t free himself.

There’s nothing they can do but wait.

MY STOMACH HURT. I didn’t know if it was an effect of the tranquilizers, or the fact that I was burning up to do something but didn’t have anything I could do.

The Elk Grove police were called, but they really didn’t have much to do either. Our statements were taken. A few pictures were snapped. I explained to a nearly catatonic Holly what I suspected was going on with Bud and Lorna.

“So what now?” she asked. “We just wait around for them to contact us?”