“Man… you gonna kill me, just kill me,” Merry whined. “I got a condition. It’s glandular.”
“My heart bleeds for you.”
Merry turned his head. “Chained me to the dang island.”
“Yep. Now, you get to feel how much fun your game is. We’re going to play Operation, Merry, only this time I’m going to pick the organ for you.”
Merry’s expression transformed in an instant, from irritated to haughty. “Bleeding heart like you? You ain’t got the stones, son.”
“But what I do have,” Bob said, “is this very large buck knife that your friend Diego had in a sheath on this belt. It looks really, really sharp. I had to amputate a swabbie’s arm at the elbow in Afghanistan; he had it trapped under a burning Humvee and we had heat coming down, necessitating a rapid evac. Made a hell of a mess, too.”
Merry turned whiter than white. “Now… you just take it easy, okay?” He was trying to maintain his authoritarian tone, but the look in his eye was sheer panic.
Bob reached down to the board game propped between Merry’s legs on the marble counter. “Okay, let’s see. Suppose I go for the testicles first, huh? I mean, I figure, of the items you’ve got here, it’s the one least likely to make a sale later. But this isn’t really about the financial opportunity, is it? I doubt Terry’s corneas were going to make you a whole lot richer.”
“I got money. I got lots of money,” Merry said. “You let me go, it’s yours. All of it. This don’t have to get ugly.”
“Oh… I think we crossed that threshold quite some time ago.” He took the knife and leaned down, tracing its tip up the inside of Merry’s leg from the ankle, past his calf, up to just short of his groin. “I’m thinking at this point, I do this just on principle. I had to kill someone tonight, Merry, and I haven’t had to do that for a while.”
“Then don’t!” Merry spat. “You don’t have to—”
“If you think your death is going to bother me nearly as much as poor old Diego over there,” Bob interrupted, “you’ve got a real weak grasp of your situation. You’re an animal. Most people would see putting you down for good as a favor to society.”
He placed the flat of the blade under Michelsen’s groin, then used it to lift the man’s testicles slightly. “Or…”
“Or? Or what? The money? I ain’t lying. I’ve got—”
“Or you confess to every shitty thing you’ve done and take your punishment like a normal human being, which clearly you aren’t. The jacket that I had on when I met with Dyche. Where is it?”
“The… what?”
“Someone took off my jacket. Where is it? I need the recorder that was in my pocket. Come on, fess up.” Bob juggled Merry’s testes with the blade, lifting them up, then letting them drop. “Unless you feel like becoming a eunuch, I’d tell me real quick.”
“The office!” Merry blurted. “The office on the other side of the cook room.”
Bob withdrew the blade. “Good boy. I’ll be right back. Now, don’t you go nowhere, you hear?”
He followed the dealer’s instructions. As advertised, the jacket was draped over the arm of a leather sofa in the small, sparsely furnished room. Against its far wall, he noticed the stairs up to the ground floor.
Bob put his jacket on and retrieved the recorder. How long did that take? A minute? He paused and waited. His first reaction on me leaving would be relief. But the longer I wait to go back, the more he’ll think I’ve left him chained there. Give him another two minutes and he’ll be near panic.
Bob sat down on the sofa’s edge. He checked for missed calls, finding three from Sharmila and another from an unknown number. He watched the clock on his phone until three minutes had passed.
He walked back to Merry’s torture room. The dealer was kicking at his bonds, unable to get loose.
“You can’t leave me here,” he croaked. “Not with my boys all gone.”
“Oh… I’m sure someone would find you eventually,” Bob said. “You must have a real friend somewhere… right, Merry? Of course, that could be weeks from now, long after you’ve died from dehydration and cardiac arrest. Or worse, starvation.”
“There’s… there’s got to be some dang thing you want,” Merry pleaded. “I got three million dollars. Million.”
Bob set the digital recorder down on the slab, next to Merry’s head. “If I’d been thinking in the moment, I’d have used this to record your crooked cop friend, Dyche,” Bob said. “But I was suckered from behind before it occurred to me. So now what’s going to happen is you’re going to talk, Merry. You’re going to tell me shit you never told anybody, as well as the entirety of your business with Parker Baird and Greg Thomas.”
“They ain’t going to buy it,” Merry said. “It’s coerced.”
“Yeah… but they’re not going to know that,” Bob said. “Because every time you even hint on the recording that you’re being forced to talk, I’m going to turn it off and start over. But first… I’m going to take a payment for your dishonesty, in the form of something I remove from your body. Maybe we’ll start with the big toe on each foot. You know it's basically impossible to walk without one, right?”
Merry closed his eyes tight, the stress obvious.
He’s beaten, and he knows it.
“Good,” Bob said. “When we’re done, you’ll get a chance to live, a chance nobody gave Hap Singh. I’ll leave you here.”
Merry’s brow furrowed, a sadness setting in. “Won’t be nobody back here, not after this. Won’t come for days, if ever. You can’t leave me here.”
“Ah, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to let the police know where they can find you. Eventually.” Bob glanced around. “Between whatever I give them and the lab next door, the methylamine production at your cheese factory… I imagine they’ll be along before you starve. Maybe. Now… let’s get started.”
48
Sharmila Singh threw the wheel left, taking the corner quickly and at the last second, without a turn signal. She looked up at the rearview mirror.
The truck was still on her tail. It had been following her since a block from outside the clinic, and they were now fully across the city.
Is he even following me? He must be, right? The truck had stayed back, as if it could be a coincidence that it had taken four identical turns to hers. It didn’t appear to be trying to catch her, or force her off the road.
She’d tried Bob’s number twice already. She’d called him the evening prior, late, expecting a report on his meeting with Dyche. But he hadn’t picked up any of the three calls.
Maybe he’s hurt. She shook the thought off. There was nothing to be gained from assuming the worst.
