Hunter had more or less confirmed what Hardie had told Deke over the phone…more or less. Sure, the man had added a little smidge of crazy to his speech, which was appropriate. Because Jonathan Hunter, creator of Truth Hunters, did not want to be believed. He wanted to be ridiculed.
Which was brilliant, because he had just created his own life-insurance policy.
If there were real “celebrity whackers” out there, then they wouldn’t dare kill Hunter and his family now. Because that would publicly prove their existence.
Brilliant, daring, insane fucking move.
And a boon to Hardie. Deke hoped, prayed, please, God, please, let him see this broadcast. Because if Hardie had any brains in his head, he’d realize that now he could come in from the cold, show his face, and everything would work itself out.
Come on, Hardie.
Walk in through that door.
Sit down and have a Shiner Bock with me.
We’ll have a beer, then we’ll all go home to Philadelphia and clear up the mess that is your life.
8
I hope you ain’t going to be a hard case.
—Clifton James, Cool Hand Luke
WHEN HARDIE WOKE up the fourth—and, as it turned out, the next-to-last time—he was on a gurney and being wheeled down to a cold, bright garage.
Still no idea where he was.
There were lots of people around him. Sodium-vapor lights. Hurting his eyes. The smell of gasoline, stale air. Somebody said, “Right this way.” “Pull it up.” “The black one.” Hardie rolled his eyes around and saw angry red taillights. He blinked and the image became a bit clearer. They were wheeling him toward a Lincoln Town Car. Big, black, and gleaming. Hands opened up a trunk. Other hands under his arms, lifting him up to his feet. “Come on.” Hardie looked down at himself and was mildly surprised to discover he wasn’t wearing any clothes. His body was naked, pale, weak, withered. They made him walk anyway. Hardie jolted involuntarily. “He’s a fighter, this one. Be careful.” The same hands carried him closer to the car. Close enough so that he could see what was in the trunk: tubes and pads and plastic bags, none of it making sense. Not at first, anyway. Then when Hardie’s brain finally made sense of it, the things in the trunk ceased to worry him. What worried him was the thing that was not in the trunk.
Namely, his own body.
The entire trunk of the Lincoln Town Car was a kind of mobile life-support system, with tubes and wires and pumps and IV bags, as well as enough space for a man to curl up into a fetal position.
A man about the size of Charlie Hardie.
Hardie’s weakened body bucked, jolted, kicked, punched. The men around him yelled, “Whoa whoa whoa.” But Hardie refused to go into that trunk. They pulled him closer. He was not going into that trunk. A hand pushed the top of Hardie’s head down; shoes kicked the backs of Hardie’s knees so that his legs buckled. I am not going into that trunk. More hands pushed him over the hard steel edge and into the space—many, many hands holding him down. I am not going into that trunk. A hand came near his mouth. Hardie tried to bite off a finger. A fist struck the side of his head. Something was forced into his mouth, chipping teeth. A gloved finger dug out the shards. Then the thing was forced down his throat, gagging him. A needle jabbed his bare arm. “Give him more—we don’t want him waking up halfway through.” Cool yet white-hot water cascaded over his brain. I AM NOT GOING INTO THAT TRUNK…
Hardie had no choice; he was too weak to fight and too fuzzy-headed to do anything at all…
…except go into that trunk.
They weren’t taking any chances. They checked on the acceptable amount of sedatives for a human being the size and weight of Charlie Hardie…and then they tripled it.
The driver saw this and started to freak out a little.
“Whoa whoa whoa—how much you giving him?”
“Trust me. This guy needs a heavier dose than usual. He woke up on the table. And the EMT told us he also popped awake on the gurney like they’d given him nothing stronger than an Ambien. Dude here has a high tolerance for knockout drugs.”
“That still looks like a lot. I don’t get paid if I deliver a slightly chilled corpse.”
“He’ll be fine. And if he’s DOA, that’s on me. But you’re going to thank me. You don’t want to be cruising out on the highway with this guy waking up in the back, banging on the trunk, trying to figure a way out.”
The three of them stared down at Hardie’s naked body curled up into the fetal position. The breathing tubes were humming along fine, and his pulse was being carefully monitored and regulated. IV tubes fed him nutrients; another set of tubes took away waste products. He could exist for days, in near-suspended animation, and not require any additional care. Even when the car was parked—so long as the backup battery was still working.
“Poor fucker.”
The trunk lid slammed over his head and locked shut. Hardie thought that if he could somehow will himself to stay conscious, everything would be okay. If he could stay awake, then he could figure a way out of this. Hardie once read a Batman comic when he was a kid in which Batman is all tied up in some freezing basement, and Robin is freaking, but Batman is totally calm, and he tells Robin: “Every prison provides its own escape.”
Of course, you had to be awake to be Batman.
This was Hardie’s last conscious thought for a long, long time.
9
The bastard you hate, but don’t dare kill. The bitch you detest, who deserves a fate worse than death. We are at your service.
—Oldboy
DEKE CLARK SAT in the Chinese restaurant waiting for his date.
Her name was Alisa Z. Quinnell—a reporter for a New York news aggregator that specialized in what passes for investigative reporting these days. He nursed an Amstel Light, picked at a bowl of cold sesame noodles, and stared out the window. Across Second Street was the old City Tavern, the legendary Philadelphia watering hole where George Washington and John Adams first met. A revolution that would change the world had been launched in that building over pewter mugs of porter and plates of roast pheasant.
Here, Deke was having some revolutionary thoughts of his own.
He’d gotten nowhere interdepartmentally; he thought it was time to bring some outside heat to the situation. Charlie Hardie had been missing for two months now, and Deke had nothing to show for it except half a phantom license-plate number and a lot of phone calls. So Deke decided on a course of action he thought he’d never pursue in a billion years: bringing the media into this. Maybe with some pressure, the department would be forced to get off their asses and look for Hardie.
Quinnell was right on time. She sat down, ordered a salad (which seemed suspect to Deke—who orders a salad in a Chinese noodle joint?), asked if he minded a tape recorder. Deke shook his head. No, he didn’t mind.
“So you’re talking to me now?”
Quinnell had been dogging Deke for years, wanting to write a book about the slaughter of Nate Parish and his family. Deke had ignored her. She’d tried doing end runs around him, but Deke had spread the word: nobody talks to Quinnell. Then she dug up a lot of interviews with felons who’d been busted by Nate and Hardie. She kept digging and poking; Deke kept shutting her down. So her surprise made sense.
Sometimes, though, you have to enlist the enemy’s aid to win the war.