Harding said, “That sounds like a good idea, Jack. Go ahead.”
Overhead, Longarm heard the news with some alarm. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hear or not. He was not listening at the open end of the stack but at the side. He didn’t know what soot and smoke coming up the pipe would do.
A voice said, “Judge, I think this son of a bitch has passed out. He’s just laying there.”
Longarm heard a thud as if someone had been kicked. “Naw, he was just playing possum. A little nudge in the ribs got his attention.”
Harding said, “Get his shoes off and his socks.”
The voice that Longarm had learned to recognize as Jack’s said, “There, I’ve got that kitchen stove fired up plenty good. It shouldn’t be but a few minutes.”
Harding said, “Jack, while we’re waiting, it might not be a bad idea to try some splinters under his toenails. I’m a great believer in fire as a pain giver. Look around the cabin here and see if you can find some splinters. Just running one underneath his big toenails might get us some response.”
On the roof, Longarm heard laughter. He doubted any of it was coming from Earl Combs. It was strange to hear this and to feel sorry for the man whom he had been so sick of only a week back. There were no sounds from the cabin for a few minutes and then Longarm heard Jack say, “Here, Judge. What about this? I’ve made some shavings off this pine board. Don’t you reckon they’d slip up under there and do a pretty good job?”
Harding said, “Yeah, that’s good thinking, Jack. Give it a try-“
Longarm heard some scuffling and struggling and then a scream, though it was more a scream of fear than anguish or pain. Then there was a silence that lasted about thirty seconds. It ended with a cry of such desperation that Longarm didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. By now, smoke was pouring out of the chimney along with blinking sparks and pieces of wood ash. He supposed the top of the cast iron stove was already beginning to heat up. He dreaded to think of what they were going to do.
The screaming finally subsided into a whimper and then the whimper into quiet sobs and moans.
Harding said, “Well, Earl. It’s up to you. It’s not going to get better. I know You hid that money somewhere.”
Between sobs, Combs said, “Richard, I ain’t got it. I don’t know where it is, you’ve got to believe me.”
The familiar way that Combs addressed Judge Richard Harding made Longarm wonder if perhaps the judge himself had not been involved somehow in the transaction. Perhaps it had been his idea. Perhaps he had lent his authority in some way to the embezzlement. It didn’t matter. Longarm’s job was to bring them all in and recover the money. That was one of the things he liked about being a deputy marshal, his duty was clear-cut. It wasn’t always easy, but at least it was clear-cut.
There were more screams and more sobbing and moaning.
Longarm was listening carefully. He surprised himself by being able to judge that Earl Combs, even though he was being hurt, was not being tortured to the extent that would cause him to reveal where he had hidden the $200,000. They had not yet reached that point of pain that was worth $200,000 to make it stop. He thought, however, the stove just might be the answer.
Richard Harding said, “Well, this is not working. Jack, go test that stove. Spit on it and see how hot it’s getting, then get his pants off.”
Someone cackled, “Judge, you don’t mean you’re going to set him on that stove, do you?”
Richard Harding said, “Well, it’s a little experiment. Benjamin Franklin said that time was relative. Five minutes with a beautiful woman was different from five minutes sitting on top of a hot stove. I think I’ll test that theory out.”
Longarm could hear Earl Combs instantly begin to protest, sobbing and begging and whining and moaning. The judge said, “Earl, you can stop it anytime you want to. Just tell us where the gold is or lead us to it.”
“You’d just kill me.”
Harding laughed. He said, “Why would I want to do that? All I want is the money. You’re nothing to me. I have no reason to kill you or keep you alive.”
Longarm smiled thinly to himself. The judge was very good at making it sound plausible that he wasn’t going to kill you. He knew. The judge had said the same thing to him.
Longarm glanced at the smoke that was coming out of the stovepipe. He could see little flames in it. He reckoned that Jack had filled the firebox full and that it was going like sixty, He didn’t doubt that it would begin to glow before very long, and it made him shudder inside to think that they were going to put a man’s bare skin onto such a surface.
Harding said, “We’re just about there, Earl, and there you are with your bare ass hanging out, about to have it applied to the stove. I’ll tell you what. We’ll put your hand on it first, and then if you feel like telling us, we won’t roast the ass off you. How’s that?”
Combs began to scream and yell and curse and moan and cry. Longarm could hear the two men swearing at him. He could hear scuffling. They were apparently trying to take him over to the stove. Jack said, “Damn it, you son of a bitch. Quit fighting it. Quit fighting or I’ll break your nose with the barrel of my revolver. Come on, get his arm up behind his back, Morris. Hurry up.”
Harding said, “One of you hold him and the other take hold of his left hand by the wrist with both hands. He’s going to struggle.”
Longarm could hear a sudden sizzle. At first he thought it was the sound of Earl Combs’s hand frying but then he heard Jack say, “There, Judge, I poured some whiskey on it. Listen to it sizzle.” Almost instantly, Longarm got a strong whiff of vaporized liquor. He wondered what it would do to Combs’s hand.
Harding said, “Touch one finger to it first, boys.”
“Judge, it ain’t gonna be easy,” Jack said. “He’s hard to hold. I can’t guarantee just one finger.”
“Get his hand on it then.”
There was a pause and then there was a scream that seemed to almost pierce right through the ceiling and rise high into the sky. In that second, Longarm knew that Earl Combs had reached his point of pain. He began screaming, “I’ll tell ya! I’ll tell ya! Don’t! Stop, please! Oh, my God, I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it! Help me!”
Richard Harding said, “Where’s the money, Earl?”
“The pain! I can’t stand it!”
Harding said coldly, “You get a drink of whiskey and you get to ram your hand into a bucket of water the minute you say where the money is. It’s up to you.”
“It’s in the Laredo National Bank.” Combs was screaming and crying. He said, between sobs, “It’s in a safety deposit box.”
“What’s the number of the safety-deposit box?”
“Five-zero-nine.”
“All right, boys. Give him a rest. Stick his hands in that bucket of water and give him a shot of whiskey.”
Longarm shook his head slowly. The money had been within reach the whole time. Safety-deposit box number 509. That was all he needed to know. Now he could take them in.
He looked around for some way to get them out in the open. The obvious course was to stop up the smoke stack. He took off his hat, looked at it, and then looked at the smoke stack, which was throwing forth dark smoke filled with sparks. It was a forty-dollar hat. He sighed and then thought of something else. Hell, his shirt was only a five-dollar shirt. Better a five-dollar shirt than a forty-dollar hat. As he was taking the shirt off, he could hear Combs still moaning and then he heard Richard Harding say, “Now where is the key to that safety-deposit box, Earl?”
There was a moan and then Combs said, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t think, I’m hurting so bad.”
Harding said, “I’m going to ask you one more time, Earl, before your hand goes back on the stove. Where is the key?”
“Let me think. Let me think, please.”