William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

He approached the house and stood directly under the window. That’s when it became clear: the window wasn’t opened; it was smashed.

Ben raced through the screen door and bolted up the stairs. He hesitated for a moment in the hallway—what if the intruder was still there? Never mind. He would just have to take his chances.

He turned the doorknob and flung the door open. And gasped.

His apartment had not been ransacked. He had seen places that had been ransacked before, and this was not what they looked like.

His apartment had been destroyed.

43

BUDDY AWOKE TO FIND himself strapped to a chair. His hands were tied down on something—a table, perhaps? It was dark and he couldn’t tell for sure what it was. Or where he was. Or what, the hell had happened to him on his way home from The Stroll.

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

Buddy heard the steady clickety-clack of heels crossing the floor, drawing closer to him. “What’s going on here? What happened to me? Why am I tied up?”

There was a click, and then the room was flooded with light. Buddy still couldn’t tell where he was. A cheap motel room? He couldn’t be certain. A man Buddy had never seen before in his life hovered over him. The man was dressed entirely in black, down to the tips of his cowboy boots.

“Taking your questions in reverse order,” the man said, “you’re tied up so that you can’t get away; I clubbed you over the head when I saw you on Eighth Street; and you’re about to tell me where Trixie is.”

“Trixie? Who is this Trixie? People have been asking about her all week, and I don’t know the slightest thing about her.”

The man smiled handsomely. “My sources say otherwise.”

“Well, your sources are screwed in the head. I don’t run with women. Especially hookers.”

“Really. And how did you know she was a hooker, since you don’t know the slightest thing about her?”

Buddy hesitated for just a second. “Well, it stood to figure—”

“Don’t bother. Your face betrays you. And your mouth.”

“Look, I know a guy on The Stroll who knows every hooker who’s been through here for the last twenty years. I’ll fix you up with him and—”

“Shut up.” The man leaned across the table. “Are you right-handed, or left?”

“Left. Why?”

The man took Buddy’s left hand and grasped his middle finger. “Where’s Trixie?”

“I told you, I don’t know any—”

The man pressed the finger back as far as it would go without breaking. “One last chance. Where’s Trixie?”

Buddy’s breathing quickened. He tried to block out the pain, the fear. He tried to wrest his hand free, but it was not possible. “I told you. You need to talk to—”

The man pressed the finger all the way back. The tiny bones shattered, and Buddy’s finger dangled limply in the middle of his hand.

Buddy screamed. The pain was excruciating. He had never felt such agony before in his life, never even imagined that anything could hurt so much. His entire left arm began to shake; he couldn’t steady it. Every nerve ending was on fire. He screamed again and again and again until he was breathless from screaming.

The man sat on the other side of the table and waited patiently. “Ready to talk yet?”

Buddy stared helplessly across the table. He couldn’t speak, even had he wanted to. His lips mouthed words, but no sounds emerged.

“No?” The man shrugged. “As you wish.” He took Buddy’s right hand and grabbed the middle finger. “You may wonder why I’ve switched hands. Truth is, I believe your left arm is already as convulsed with pain as it could possibly be. There are limits to the amount of pain the brain can process, the amount of shock the nervous system can endure. And we don’t want you passing out prematurely. So it’s time to start fresh.”

He leaned into Buddy’s face. “That way you can feel twice the pain you feel now.”

Buddy shook his head back and forth, his eyes pleading, mouthing the word no . Tears were streaming down his face.

“Losing your enthusiasm for secrecy? I don’t blame you. No cheap piece of teenage twat is worth this.” He pressed the middle finger all the way back. The bottom knuckle strained against his white flesh. “Where’s Trixie?”

Buddy began inhaling raspily, breathing in quick short gulps. “Please, no. Please—”

The man pressed even harder. Buddy could feel the tension on the bone, could feel it beginning to snap.

“Last chance. Where’s Trixie?”

Buddy cried out, a loud piercing wail. He was making short whimpering noises, like a pathetic oil-slicked seal. “Don’t…know….”

The man broke his finger. Buddy shrieked, a loud hideous endless cry. The pain was unimaginable, unendurable. He prayed for unconsciousness, for anything that would remove him from this living nightmare. But there was no release. Nothing except the man in the black boots, his malevolent smile, and the unbearable pain.

“Still not ready to talk? Amazing. The systemic shock must be incredible.” He reached down toward Buddy’s face and laid his fingers over Buddy’s eyes.

Buddy twisted away from him, throwing his head to one side. It was no use—he was firmly tied down. He could not get away. He had no use of his arms whatsoever; both were shaking uncontrollably.

“Please stop. Please …”

“I will stop, Buddy. I will.” The man caressed the side of Buddy’s face. “I want to stop. Truly. Do you think I enjoy this? I don’t. It’s just that I need information, that’s all. And I need it quickly. Too many people are poking their noses into my affairs. If I don’t address the Trixie situation soon, there could be some serious complications. Do you understand?”

He leaned forward and kissed Buddy on the cheek. “Won’t you please tell me where she is?”

Buddy looked back at the man through blurry, clouded eyes. He couldn’t control his own hands, much less wipe the tears from his eyes. The pain was not subsiding. No, it was getting worse with every passing second. Blood drained out of his veins; his hands were swelling and felt as if they might explode.

“Please,” Buddy whispered. He was begging. “Don’t hurt my fingers….”

“Worried about the fingers, eh? ‘Doctor, if I survive, will I be able to play the piano? Oh yeah? I never could play the piano before!’ ” He laughed uproariously, then slapped Buddy on the back. “Funny, huh? I didn’t see you laugh, though. I like it when people laugh at my jokes.”

Buddy tried to smile, but found he hadn’t the strength.

The man’s grin faded. “I’m not going to hurt your fingers, Buddy, because I don’t think they can take any more pain without inducing unconsciousness, and I very much want you awake. So I’ll take a different approach.”

The man reached into his jacket, unsnapped a holster and withdrew a long, thick knife. “I’m in the mood for a little surgery, Buddy. Nothing too major. Just the removal of a few unimportant organs. Nothing you’re likely to miss.”

He pressed his nose against Buddy’s. “I’m not going to bother asking anymore. You know what I want to hear. When you’re ready for me to stop, just start talking.

He reached down and loosened the belt around Buddy’s pants. “Let’s see. Where shall I begin?”

Buddy sobbed and shrieked, venting his anger and desperation. His entire body was cold and trembling. He felt horrible. It wasn’t the pain, although the pain was agonizing.

He felt horrible because he knew he was going to tell.

44

BEN STARED AT HIS apartment in amazement and dismay. It was a shattered arena of destruction and debris. Everything that could be broken had been broken. Chipped pieces of Plexiglas from his stereo system littered the floor. Sofa cushions had been ripped open. The lid of the piano was up. He looked inside. Sure enough—the son of a bitch had gutted it.