He stepped off the sidewalk onto the gravel-covered refinery grounds. In a matter of minutes, the metal monster was all around him, surrounding him with its catwalks and ladders, bloated silos and petroleum tanks. All the tubes and pipes and conduits seemed to connect and intersect like some science-fiction monster. Particularly in the darkness, it looked more like a living entity than he could have imagined. The smell did not disappoint: it was putrid, just as he had anticipated. And there was the noise, the steady, rhythmic pumping sound that was always in the background. Like a heart beating to keep the beast alive.
“Up here,” Ben heard the voice shout again. There was a metallic ladder just before him leading to a raised platform above. Apparently that was where the killer wanted him.
So that’s where he went. He mounted the ladder and began to climb.
The ladder went a good deal higher than it appeared from the ground, at least twenty-five, thirty feet. Ben looked down, checking the distance.
Big mistake. He closed his eyes and brought his head back up. There was a time when he had been afraid of heights. He liked to think he was over that now—no, he was over that now. Even so, he kept his eyes focused upward.
One of the smokestacks nearby flared. Ben jumped, almost losing his footing on the narrow ladder. His feet slipped; he banged his chin against a rung while scrambling to get his feet back on something solid. It hurt, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t make a sound.
He continued climbing the ladder. There was a layer of thick smoke rising off the metal surfaces above him. He pushed through it, like a mountain climber rising through the clouds. He might not be quite that high at the moment, but it sure as hell seemed like it.
Finally Ben reached the top of the ladder. He climbed onto a narrow catwalk and followed it a short distance to a wider, more expansive platform, probably the roof of some office or storage tank.
“Took you long enough.”
Ben squinted. A figure was emerging from the smoke on the opposite side of the platform—a broad, strong figure, blocking out the stars.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” the dark figure said.
“You didn’t leave me much choice. Where’s Tyrone?” The acoustics up here were strange; his voice seemed to ripple out in waves, then dissolve. “Where is he?”
“Where’s the knife?” the man replied.
“I’m not giving you anything until I see Tyrone,” Ben said emphatically.
A soft titter came from the other end. “Do you really think you’re in a position to negotiate?”
“I’m not giving you anything until I see Tyrone.”
“Have it your way.” The husky shadow crossed the platform to an alcove jutting up from the surface. Door to the roof, Ben thought. Probably how he came up. And how he probably plans to return.
A few seconds later, the man emerged dragging something large and limp and heavy. “Here he is. For all the good it will do you.”
He threw his load forward as if it were nothing more than the sack of potatoes it seemed. It fell with a sickening thud.
“Tyrone?” Ben took a cautious step forward.
Tyrone did not respond with words, but Ben could detect a low moan, more like a motor left on idle than any sound you would expect from a living creature. It was a sound of hopelessness, a sound of constant pain.
“Tyrone. It’s Ben Kincaid. How are you?”
Ben moved even closer, then gasped.
Tyrone had been, for all intents and purposes, destroyed. His naked body was broken, folded, and crippled in more places than Ben could imagine. He was bruised, battered, and bleeding. His face had been pummeled to such an extent it was barely recognizable; his nose was almost entirely gone. His eyes were open but still, lifeless.
“Tyrone!” Ben ripped off his windbreaker and wrapped it around one of the worst gashes on Tyrone’s abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding. Even as he did it, he knew how futile it was; Tyrone bled from more places than Ben had clothes to cover. If he didn’t receive medical treatment, and soon, Ben knew he would die.
“I have to call an ambulance,” Ben said, rising to his feet.
“No.”
“Why not? Why does he have to die? Is that what you want? Is that what your brother would have wanted?”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” The man stepped forward, crossing the gap between them, emerging from the shadows. When they were perhaps ten feet apart, Ben had his first clear glimpse of the man’s face.
Grady Armstrong. Professor Hoodoo’s brother. And his fists were caked with blood.
“When did you first realize it was me?” he asked.
“When I heard the description from one of the witnesses at the club the night you delivered Lily Campbell’s body. She said the Rug Man she saw, the man wearing the wig, had fingers stained a blackish-yellow color. When I first met you, you showed me your fingers. You told me how they had been permanently stained from working as an oil field roughneck. That’s when I realized the B on the penknife didn’t stand for a person’s name. It stood for Buxley Oil.”
“It’s the company logo,” Armstrong explained. “They’re nice knives. All us vice presidents got one at the last annual meeting. Unfortunately, there are only forty or so of us, which is an uncomfortably small suspect pool.” The smile faded from his face. “I want the knife.”
“I have to call an ambulance,” Ben insisted.
“Not a chance.” Armstrong’s hand emerged from his pocket. The gun rose until it was pointed directly at Ben’s chest. “Give me the knife. Now.”
The thing that most amazed Ben, as his brain raced through a thousand thoughts, a thousand possibilities, was that he almost answered, almost did what the man said. As soon as he had the knife, however, Ben knew Armstrong would kill him and Tyrone both.
If he was to have any hope of surviving this mess, he would finally have to learn to bluff.
Ben forced himself to look the man straight in the eye. “I have the knife. But you don’t get it until I get Tyrone to a doctor.”
“You don’t seem to understand.” Armstrong made a great show of cocking the gun. “You will give me the knife now, or I will put a bullet in that punk’s heart, and the doctor will be irrelevant. And you’ll be next.”
“How do I know you won’t kill us as soon as I give it to you?”
“You don’t!” Armstrong cried. He rushed forward, shaking the gun like a madman. “Now give it to me. Now!”
“All right, all right.” Ben held up his hands. “Stay calm. Let’s not get excited here, all right?” He reached into his pocket and felt the penknife—and two dimes.
It was very dark up here. Was it possible …
He pulled out one of the dimes. “Here it is.”
“Give it to me!” Armstrong barked, still waving the gun about.
“It’s all yours,” Ben said, extending his arm. He tossed it out onto the ground between them, where it made a satisfying clinking noise.
“You goddamn son of a—” Armstrong pressed the gun forward. “I ought to plug you right now.”
“I thought you wanted the penknife,” Ben said, trying to stay cool.
“If I have to pick it up, I can at least have the pleasure of shooting you dead.”
“You’re assuming I really threw you the knife.” Ben’s brain was racing, synapses firing more quickly than he could track. “But what if I didn’t? What if I bluffed you? What if you kill me and you still don’t have the knife? What if I sent it to a friend? Like maybe a friend at the Tulsa World? Or the police department?”