Rusty Nail

CHAPTER 45

PHINEAS TROUTT WIPES his nose on his shoulder. The blood has slowed to a trickle.

He’s not sure how long ago Holly left. An hour, maybe ninety minutes. She worked on McGlade for what seemed like an eternity, until the poor son of a bitch passed out.

Phin lives in a seedy part of Chicago. He’s met pushers and bangers and hookers and pimps and johns and murderers, but he’s never seen anything as cold-blooded as Holly. She isn’t human.

For his part, McGlade had been pretty stoic through the ordeal. He screamed, for sure, but there was no begging or pleading.

There will be, though. Nobody can take that kind of agony for an extended period.

Phin wonders if McGlade has gone into shock. Might not be a bad thing. At least he’d be beyond the pain.

“How you doing, Harry?”

McGlade moans. “Got any aspirin?”

“Other pair of pants.”

“Nuts.”

Phin has to ask. His imagination has been running wild. “How’s the hand, Harry?”

“Doesn’t hurt much, because there’s not much left to hurt. Hope my screaming didn’t disturb you.”

“Actually, you interrupted my nap. Try to keep it down next time.”

“I’ll try. Sorry about that.”

He admires Harry’s guts. His respect for the private eye goes up a few notches.

“The hand the worst of it?”

“This damn rusty nail thing in my leg hurts worse. Dirty as hell. I can feel the tetanus, surging through my veins. Though I guess dying of tetanus might not be a bad thing right about now.”

Phin understands pain. He understands it more than most people. When there’s nothing else to focus on, pain can become all-consuming. Crippling. The psychological aspects of it are just as bad as the neurological effects.

If he keeps Harry talking, maybe the pain won’t be so bad.

“So your full name is Harrison Harold McGlade?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents named you Harry Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s pretty funny, don’t you think?”

“This from a guy named Phineas Troutt.”

McGlade’s voice is getting weaker. Phin can hear the strain.

“At least I don’t have to piss anymore,” McGlade says. “When she cut off my thumb, I wet my pants.”

Phin has to grin at that.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry Harry.”

“All you dry pants guys say that.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing. There’s ammonia in urine. Maybe you disinfected that rusty nail puncture.”

“Didn’t reach. I was pointing in the other direction.”

A minute passes.

“I can see my fingers,” Harry says.

“How’s that?”

“They’re on the floor in front of me. Think a doctor can reattach them?”

To burned flesh? Phin doubts it. But he says, “Sure.”

“Assuming we get out of here.”

“I’m working on it.”

Listening to a man having his fingers removed and the stumps cauterized with a blowtorch can galvanize a person into action. Damage to himself be damned, Phin begins to twist his wrists in their binding. The wire is thin, and bites into his flesh.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks. “Using your psychic powers to call the other members of the Justice League?”

“I’m going to break this wire.”

“It’s too strong. You’ll cut your hands off first.”

“Either way I’ll be free.”

“Good plan. If it doesn’t work, I’ve got a plan too.”

Phin winces. He can feel the blood start to leak down his palms.

“What’s your plan?”

“When she comes back, I’m going to swallow my own tongue and choke to death.”

“Good plan.”

“Yeah. That’ll show the bitch.”

Phin continues to twist. Back and forth. Back and forth. The wire cuts like a blade, but it’s loosening just a little.

That, or it’s in so deep, it just seems like it’s looser.

“GODDAMMIT!” McGlade’s scream scares the hell out of Phin. “GET AWAY FROM THAT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“Harry? You okay?”

“YOU BASTARD! I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND ROAST YOU!”

It sounds like McGlade is losing it.

“Harry, what’s up? Who are you screaming at?”

“Goddamn rat. Ran off with one of my fingers.”

Phin isn’t sure how to reply to that.

“My middle finger, I think.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“That was my favorite finger.”

“Maybe we can get it back.”

“Ah shit. I can see it, in the corner, holding it up.”

Phin starts to laugh.

“The rat is giving you the finger?”

“Kiss my ass, Phin. It’s not funny.”

Phin uses the laughter to twist even harder, his thick wrists bending the wire millimeter by millimeter.

“What’s it doing now, Harry? Using your finger to pick its nose?”

“It’s eating it. Corn on the cob style.”

Back and forth. Back and forth. Flesh is stronger than steel, Phin thinks. Determination is stronger than steel. Pain is temporary. Don’t stop. Don’t stop...

“Uh-oh.”

Phin hears the dripping sound, feels the hot liquid pour down his fingertips.

The wire has gone in too deep and severed something important. A vein. Or maybe an artery.

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.