Box

6

Four battery-powered camping lanterns have been strategically placed to provide more light than I would have expected them to yield. Two are on the floor, six feet on either side of us, and the other two are perched atop the stall doors.

My head hurts like hell. If my arms were free, I’d feel to see if the lump goes out or in. The answer to that question would help me calculate my odds of surviving the night.

Assuming Scooter Bing doesn’t plan to kill me.

“Nice watch,” he says.

“Thanks. What did you hit me with?”

“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” Scooter says.

He’s a massive man. Built like a pro guard or tackle, gone to seed. He’s almost certainly wearing the largest cop uniform that can be purchased, but it’s clear he’s outgrown it. His belly’s so big he can’t tuck his shirt in.

“How do you even wipe your ass?” I say.

“With doctors.”

“Funny.”

“You think?”

The old horse barn we’re in is empty, save for the chairs and some old boards and paint cans. There’s some trash scattered about, scraps of newspaper, a rag or two, and remnants of ancient hay. A moldy cardboard box near my feet appears to have held nails at one time. Not far beyond, a mouse carcass, like Beethoven, is decomposing.

“Nice office,” I say. “Or is this your police station?”

“Interrogation room.”

“What about an attorney?”

“You got one?”

“I do. And I’d like to call him.”

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then go ahead.”

“You’ve got my cell phone.”

“So, call loudly.”

I scream for help a few times at the top of my lungs. Then give up.

“Feel better?” Scooter says.

“Yeah. Thanks. What happens now?”

“Normally I’d hang you.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I want to hear your side of things.”

“And then?”

“And then I’ll hang you.”

“You got a rope?”

“Trunk of my car.”

“You know how to tie a noose?”

“Nope. You?”

“Nope,” I say, mocking him. Then add, “Since neither of us can tie a noose, whaddya say we skip the hanging part.”

He smiles. “Don’t need to know how to tie a proper noose.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a seasoned rope.”