“Ben, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Of course I do. It’s almost four A.M.”
“It was a rhetorical question, Ben.” She nodded toward the girl eyeing her carefully from the sofa. “Is that—?”
“Yes. The long-sought Trixie.”
“I figured as much. I’m impressed. Regular Dick Tracy you’re turning into.”
Ben introduced them, then let them chat a few minutes until Trixie appeared reasonably at ease with Christina. Christina soon had Trixie thoroughly engaged in an animated discussion of rock groups and music videos. Ben wrote out his name and his home and office phone numbers and addresses.
“I’m going to my apartment,” he explained to Trixie. “I need to call my office and tell them I won’t be in today, and then call…a friend of mine and tell him what I’ve been doing. And I need to feed my cat. As soon as I’ve taken care of all that, I’ll be right back here.”
“Great.” Ben was pleased to see Trixie smile a bit. She was beginning to trust him.
On his way out, Ben motioned for Christina. “She’s scared to death of the police,” Ben whispered. “That’s why I haven’t called Mike yet. But I will as soon as I get to my place. If you see anything suspicious, or anyone other than Buddy tries to come through that door, I want you to call the police immediately, whether Trixie likes it or not.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t take any risks.”
“The biggest risk here, Ben, is that I’ll return to the slumber my body so keenly craves.”
Ben pointed at Trixie. “If Christina’s eyelids begin to droop, poke her with that mixing blade.” Ben grinned at Christina. “Take my word for it. You won’t fall asleep.”
Night still blanketed the streets of Tulsa. As Ben headed home, the lights surrounding the TU campus cast a blue glow across his windshield. What a night it had been! Ben couldn’t believe he’d been up so long. It was worth it, though—the pieces were finally starting to come together. Hamel, the Kindergarten Club, the accident at Camp Sequoyah—it was all beginning to make a twisted sort of sense. He still didn’t know who the killer was, but the choices were definitely narrowing.
He turned onto Lewis. A few minutes later, he pulled up to the curb just outside his boardinghouse. Not a legal parking place, but who could be particular at this hour of the morning? He got out of his car and stretched; he was stiff from stem to stern. Maybe he would indulge in a shower and shave before he called Mike, just to clear the cobwebs out of his brain.
He froze halfway across the front yard. That was odd—the window to his upstairs room was open. He didn’t remember doing that. In fact, he never opened it; among other reasons, he didn’t want Giselle to get out. Would Mrs. Marmelstein have opened the window? As far as he knew, Mrs. Marmelstein never even went in unless he was home.
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.