Rusty Nail

There are about ten pints of blood in a human body. When more than four pints are lost, the situation becomes critical. Shock ensues, and then death.

Phin knows this, and wonders how to proceed.

Either I’ll make it, or I won’t, he thinks.

Not seeing any choice, Phin resumes twisting.

CHAPTER 46

MORE COPS WERE called, and a four-block search of the area conducted. There was no sign of Holly.

I went through the motions, but I knew she wouldn’t be found. Especially since she now knew we were after her.

What a disaster.

The Feebies were sympathetic. They promised to keep trying her cell phone to get a fix on her position. I didn’t hold out much hope for that either. Anyone who watched TV knew that cell phones could be traced, and Holly had more knowledge than most. She wouldn’t use her phone again.

I got back to my apartment a little after ten, and was surprised to see Latham sitting on my sofa.

My happiness was short-lived. Next to Latham, holding a semiautomatic to his head, was Bud Kork.

I reached for my holster and stopped cold when I felt the gun press against the side of my head.

“Hands up, pig.”

Lorna. She’d been hiding behind my door.

I lifted my hands above my head, watching as her pudgy fingers tugged out my Colt. Using one hand, she released the catch and opened the cylinder. After shaking the bullets onto the floor, she tossed the gun aside.

“We’ve been waiting all night for you. Your boyfriend was kind enough to let us in.”

I glanced at Latham, precious Latham, dressed in a suit and tie, a bouquet of roses on the floor at his feet. His red hair was shorter than I’d ever seen it, almost a buzz cut. His green eyes, so sparkly and full of life, looked tired and dull. One of them bulged, black and swollen, and a nasty gash on his forehead left a trail of dried blood along the side of his face.

“I let myself in with my key,” he said. “I wanted to surprise you.” Latham offered me a weak smile. “Surprise.”

Lorna reached behind her and slammed the door, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Sit on the sofa, pig. We’re go

I stole a glance at my burglar alarm. I hadn’t punched in the disengage code. If the alarm went off, the police would be here within three minutes.

But the panel was dark, no blinking light. Latham. He knew the code too. They must have made him deactivate it.

If I lived through this, I really had to get the hell out of this apartment.

I limped to the sofa, sitting down next to Latham. The warmth of his body next to mine should have felt good, but instead I only felt emptiness.

Lorna waddled up to me, keeping the gun on my head. She wore red sweatpants, so small her legs looked like cellulite sausages. Her top was equally tight, a T-shirt that had a faded INDIANA DUNES graphic on the front, distorted by her small breasts and belly rolls.

“So Bud and me, we spent a long time thinking ’bout what we wanted to do to you, while we drove up here. Bud, tell her how upset I was when I heard ’bout little Caleb on the radio.”

“We heard it on the radio,” Bud said. “Lorna was upset.”

Lorna’s face became the dictionary definition of hate. “You murdering pig.”

I watched her finger tremble on the trigger. She was holding an automatic, looked like a.45. A big gun. I winced.

“It wasn’t me. Alexandra killed him.”

“Horse pucky!” Spit flecked off Lorna’s liver-colored lips. “You did it, you liar! Tell her, Bud!”

“Alexandra is an angel. The helper and defender of mankind. It’s what her name means. She’s the one that helped Lorna.”

Bud’s gun hand was shaking, from the Parkinson’s. He sat on the other side of Latham, too far away from me to make a grab for it. He held a 9mm, looked like a Glock. The hammer was cocked back. One little muscle twitch and Latham was dead, and Bud was a twitcher.

Lorna came closer. I could see the blood caked under her fingernails.

“Any more lies, pig, and we’ll cut out your lying tongue.”

I snuck a quick glance at Latham. His hand brushed against mine. I wanted to grab on to it, hold it tight. But keeping both hands free was the smarter move.

Poor Latham. If I hadn’t ever called him, he wouldn’t be here facing this.

“Where was I?” Lorna stuck out her tongue and chewed on it, her face scrunched up in thought. “Bud, where was I?”

“We heard about little Caleb on the radio.”

“Right. Poor baby. He loved his mama so much, and you killed him. So I’m driving and thinking how to make you pay. And Bud’s in the kitchen, with the stove.”

“The kitchen?” Latham asked. I gave him a subtle elbow and a look that said, Don’t antagonize the dumb animals.

“We was driving one of those recreational camper vehicles,” Lorna said. “Got it on the highway.”

Bud added, “That’s where we got the clothes.”

I looked at Bud again. He had on a loose pair of jeans and a bulky red sweater with a big green Christmas tree stitched onto the front. I could guess what happened to the poor owners of the camper.

“So Bud’s doing what he does with the burner, yellin’ and cryin’ and punishing himself to cleanse his sin, and I realized that’s what we’re go

Bud touched his chest. “Burns hurt. Hurt real bad.”

I pictured Bud’s gnarled flesh under the sweater, and figured he knows of what he speaks.

“So let’s the four of us go on into the kitchen. We got something on the stove we think you’re go

That was my cue to get up. I did, followed by Latham and Bud, who kept the shaky gun pressed to Latham’s temple.

What a crummy end to my career. To be killed by the Ma and Pa Kettle of crime.

Our merry troupe walked into the kitchen, and I could smell something cooking. I followed my nose to a pot of vegetable oil, bubbling away on the stove top.

Lorna gri

“I done it before.” Bud nodded his head, his chicken neck wiggling. “Bad burn.”

Lorna cackled. “And we go

Bud also laughed, which quickly became a deep, chesty cough.

I decided that having boiling oil poured on my head wasn’t in my best interest. I’d take a few bullets before I let that happen.

“Fine.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I’ll do it myself.”

I limped over to the pot, reaching for the handle, but before I took two steps Lorna got in front of me.

“No need to rush this, pig. You go sit yourself down. Relax a bit.”

I took a step back, kitty litter crunching underfoot. Mr. Friskers had made yet another mess of my kitchen. Where was he, anyway?

I saw the slightest movement, in my peripheral vision. The cat. Perched atop the refrigerator, in pouncing position.

He was eyeing Lorna.

“I’ll be doing the pouring honors.”

Lorna stole a quick glance behind her, looking for the oil. Before she could grab it, ten pounds of screeching, clawing feline leaped from the fridge and launched itself at her face.

I dove to the side, skidding across the kitty-littered linoleum, Lorna screaming, Mr. Friskers screaming, Bud yelling, Lorna dropping the gun and trying to pull the cat off her face, Latham reaching down for me, his hand touching mine.

“Run!” I yelled at him. “Get help!”

Bud turned to us, aimed at Latham.

His shot was high, burying itself into the ceiling.

Latham held my eyes for just a second, a second that told me he’d be right back, promised me he’d be right back, and then he dashed out of the kitchen.

“GET THE CAT! GET IT OFF ME!”

Lorna’s screaming was so shrill, she sounded like a police siren.

I tried to get to my feet, gasping at the pain in my ankle. Bud fired again at Latham, who kept low as he ran out the front door.