Rusty Nail

Holly got out with me.

“I thought you were waiting in the car.”

“Let me see the guy. Please, Jack? I’ll stay quiet. I just want to look in his eyes.”

“This isn’t the zoo, Holly. We’re not visiting the monkey house.”

“I’m good with men. I really am. If you want him to talk, maybe I can help.”

As with Harry, arguing with Holly was an exercise in futility. We went back and forth for thirty seconds, and I realized the only way I’d get her to stay in the car would be if I handcuffed her. Which I considered, but physical restraints weren’t a good way to begin a friendship.

“Don’t say a word. You can observe, but not interfere.”

Holly mimed zipping her mouth closed.

There were cops in the lobby, including the uniform I’d met who’d previously stood guard over Kork. He gave me a passing nod, then glued his eyes to Holly. The other cops did the same, without giving me a passing nod. If this were a cartoon, their tongues would have unrolled out of their mouths and onto the floor, red-carpet style.

The Feebies, Mutt and Jeff, were thankfully nowhere to be found. Perhaps they were grilling Lorna Hunt Ellison. Or perhaps they were engaged in a sweaty ménage à trois with Vicky, the ViCAT computer. Wherever they were, I thanked the universe I didn’t have to deal with them along with everything else.

Kork’s room was being guarded by two more cops, who’d been expecting me. They weren’t expecting Holly, but when she smiled they all talked at once, introducing themselves and pledging their allegiance.

I left them to their flirting and went in to visit the monster.

Bud Kork eyed me when I entered, his eyes saggy and bloodshot, his complexion sallow. If he recognized me, he didn’t show it.

Then Holly walked in. Penis be damned, Bud caught a breath and stared wide-eyed.

Perhaps it was the Versace tee. I needed to get one of those.

“Mr. Kork? Do you remember me? I’m Lieutenant Daniels. I dropped by your house the other day, and you showed me your root cellar.”

He nodded, his gaze still fixed on Holly. She moved toward the bed, her hand extended, and Kork flinched hard enough to make the frame squeak.

“Holly Frakes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kork.”

Bud reached for her hand as if it were a rattlesnake. He managed a quick, limp handshake, which he retracted immediately.

“How are they treating you?” I asked.

“They… they won’t give me any lemon for my water. I keep asking, but I don’t get any lemon.”

He stuck a finger into his mouth and gnawed on a cuticle, his gaze flitting back and forth between me and Holly.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

As I spoke this, Holly went out into the hallway. I imagined the cops tripping over themselves searching for a lemon.

I pulled up a plastic chair and sat next to the bed.

“Do you know why you’re here, Bud?”

“To be punished. Because I’ve been bad.”

He seemed appropriately sad when he said it. Then his face creased in a wicked grin and he began to giggle.

“What’s fu

“ ‘Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you, and cast out your name as evil.’ Luke 6:22.”

His whole body shook, as if he were having a seizure. The Parkinson’s. It subsided before I could call the nurse, and Bud again burst into laughter.

“Indiana has the death penalty. They’ll kill me by lethal injection.”

“That amuses you?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You’ve killed a lot of people, Bud.”

He bit at his hangnail and pulled. Blood smeared across his lips, bringing color to their liverlike pallor.

“I should be tortured to death.” He giggled again. “Lethal injection is too good for me.”

He sucked on his finger, tongue lapping at the blood. I kept my expression neutral.

“I saw Lorna earlier today.”

Bud frowned around his finger. “She never visits me.”

“She’s in prison, Bud.”

“She helped me, with the si

He hummed a song, off tune, suckling his bleeding digit.

I had no doubts Bud Kork was insane. But there was more to it than that. Sitting this close to him, I felt a deep sense of revulsion – the same kind of feeling I had when I watched a nature program on TV that showed a spider catching a fly. Bud Kork radiated a very real feeling of harm, of fear and decay and death.

Talking to him made me want to take a hot shower and brush my teeth until my gums hurt.

“Would you like to see Lorna again, Bud?”

“Yes. My sweet love. So good with the repentant. So eager to make them confess their sins.”

I lowered my voice, so he had to strain to hear me.

“I can arrange it, Bud. For you to see her.” I figured it would happen anyway, once Lorna cut her deal. Bud didn’t have to know it didn’t come from me. “But I need you to tell me something first.”

He stared at me, slurping on his finger, a line of pink drool rolling down his chin.

“I need you to tell me where Caleb is.”

Bud began to cackle. “ ‘You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father’s desires.’ John 8:44.”

“You treated Caleb as your son?”

“Caleb was the devil, like Charles was the devil. But not the devil of my flesh. A devil conceived in light.”

I leaned closer, though I had to force myself to do so.

“Where is Caleb?”

Bud opened his mouth to speak, then his yellow eyes darted behind me, to Holly.

“I found a lemon for you, Bud.” She offered him a wedge of the fruit.

Bud snatched it in a gnarled fist, then squeezed it onto his bloody hangnail and rubbed it in, gasping and shuddering.

“Freaky,” Holly said, eyes wide.

I reached for the lemon, then thought better of it; Bud was grinding it into his open cut, and the pulp was turning orange with blood. Instead, I tapped his shoulder.

“Where’s Caleb, Bud?”

He ignored me, focusing on Holly.

“ ‘How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, my angel of the morning.’ Isaiah 14:12.”

Holly found another chair and pulled it over to Kork’s bed. She straddled it and leaned on the back, resting her chin on her forearms, her eyes bright and alive.

“I hear you like needles, Bud.”

He nodded at her, gasping.

“Look what I found in the gift shop.”

She held up an emergency sewing kit: three mini spools of thread, a thimble, and eight sewing needles.

“Holly.” I gave her a look. “Remember what we talked about in the car.”

She kept her eyes on Bud. “Lieutenant Daniels asked you a question, Bud. Where’s Caleb?”

He eyed the needles like a starving man staring at a menu. “I… I don’t know where Caleb is.”

Holly opened the pack, pulled out a needle. Examined it.

“Where does he live?”

“Different places.”

“Which places?”

“Indiana. Michigan. Illinois.”

Holly parted her lips and placed the needle between them. Bud was panting in a ma

I’d lost control of the interrogation. I shook Bud’s shoulder.

“Where is Caleb now?” I asked.

Bud remained transfixed on the needle in Holly’s mouth. “Illinois.”

“Where in Illinois?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“I don’t know.”

Holly pouted, and slowly pulled the needle out of her mouth, letting it linger on her tongue before she put it back in the kit.

“If you want this, Bud, you have to give us more than that.”

Bud swallowed, an audible gulp that the stretching silence amplified.

“Talk to Steve.”

“Steve who?”

“Caleb’s friend. Steve Jensen. He’d know.”

I’d heard that name recently, and couldn’t remember where. Steve Jensen. Steve Jensen. Steve…

And then I had it. I shook Bud again, harder.

“Do you know where Steve is, Bud?”

“No.”

“How does Caleb know Steve?”