14th Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 81

JOE FROZE.

He considered kicking back at the man’s knees, but since that action could get his throat cut, he held up his hands and said, “Nothing to be concerned about, Clement. You certainly don’t need the knife, man. Your mom asked me to come down and check on you, that’s all. She was worried. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

Joe had kept his voice steady, but he couldn’t control either his heart’s sudden drumbeat or the sweat beading his upper lip.

The arm around his chest loosened slightly, but the knife tightened. Joe felt it cut into his skin; at the same time, he felt the man’s hand lift the gun from his shoulder holster.

“Nice piece,” said the man’s voice. “Government grade. What are you? FBI?”

“I worked for the Feds,” Joe said. “I’m a civilian now. Retired.”

“So what are you doing here?”

Joe said, “I drive this road sometimes, and when I see your mom in the garden, I talk to her. She gave me some chives one time.” Joe was making it up as he went along, but he sounded convincing to his own ears. At the same time, adrenaline was coursing through his veins like a river over its banks in the rainy season.

He forced himself to slow his breathing and focused on his surroundings.

The room was about twelve by eight feet, the dimensions of a roomy two-person jail cell. There was a metal-framed bunk bed against one of the long sides of the room. On the short side to his right was that desk, made of a couple of ten-inch boards resting on two cinder-block pedestals.

To his left, on the other short wall, were a toilet, a washstand with no mirror, and a four-cubic-foot refrigerator. Joe had no sense of what was behind him on the opposite long wall.

“Have a seat, G-man,” said the ex-con who lived in the hole. He moved the knife away and shoved Joe against the lower berth of the bunk bed, which moved a couple of inches back toward the wall when he struck it.

Joe righted himself and got his first good look at Clement Hubbell. Hubbell was lanky, leaner than when his mug shot had been taken. His hair was close-shaven. He wore a wife-beater and a pair of cotton pants; he was barefoot. His arms were tattooed from fingers to collarbones in prison art: skulls, snakes, naked women, the word MOM inside a heart on his right biceps. The heart pulsed when Hubbell flexed his arm.

Joe watched as Hubbell set the knife down within reach on the desk and checked to see if Joe’s gun was loaded. It was. He pointed it at Joe and at the same time lifted the ladder, which was weighted so that it easily rose up to rest parallel to the ceiling. As the ladder rose, the ceiling hatch closed.

Joe’s hammering heart picked up its tempo. He was twenty years older than Hubbell. With the ladder up and the hatch closed, there was no way out.

Hubbell pointed to a pair of handcuffs beside Joe’s feet, and Joe saw that the cuffs were linked to a length of chain that ran under the bed. The other end of the chain was likely looped around the bed leg closest to the wall.

“Cuff yourself,” Hubbell said. “Then we can talk.”

“This is unnecessary,” Joe said. “I have nothing against you, Clem.”

Hubbell pointed the gun at the wall next to where Joe sat and fired it. The sound was loud, and it reverberated for long seconds.

Hubbell said, “Next shot’s for you.”

Joe picked up the cuffs and clasped one, then the other around his wrists. He moved the chain to get a sense of how long it was. About five feet. He could get to the toilet, but it was too short for him to reach Hubbell, who sat facing him in a swivel chair.

“What’s your name?” a relaxed Clement Hubbell asked Joe.

“Joe.”

“Joe what?”

“Hogan.”

“OK, Joe Hogan. Get comfortable. I feel like I’ve been waiting to meet you for a very long time.”