The Wrong Man

82

“Jason, you have to stop this.” Tori came bounding down the stairs, holding a blue canvas gym bag. “You’re going to kill him.”

“You don’t die from a separated shoulder,” I noted, my knees pinning down Stanley’s arms. “Or broken fingers. Or a broken wrist. Does that wrist seem broken to you, Stan?”

I figured a fractured right wrist worked nicely with broken left fingers, making either hand unusable for a weapon, now or later. Stanley’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was moaning with pain. He was probably approaching shock. Tori was probably right.

“You’re going to give him a heart attack,” she said.

“Stanley. Stanley.” I smacked at his cheek lightly. “The bombs, Stan. What are you planning to bomb and when?”

Stanley Keane was fading in and out now. He was probably in excruciating pain. I’d gone overboard. I’d let my anger take over. But I didn’t care.

“Stop this, Jason. I may have found some things. Let’s go,” Tori said. “Please.”

“Go to the car,” I said. “You don’t need to be around for this.”

“No. I’m not leaving without you. Let’s go.”

“Not yet.” I got off Stanley and dragged him into the living room and propped him up in a chair. I went into his kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it with water. When I returned to the living room, he was slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest, his breathing shallow.

I took a drink of the water, because I was thirsty. Then I threw the rest in his face.

It helped a little. He shook his head and managed to raise his eyes to mine.

“You decide when this ends,” I said. I removed the slippers from his feet. “Next up, I’m going to smash your toes into ground beef,” I said, showing him my boots.

“No, Jason. Stop this!” Tori shouted.

“You have… no idea,” Stanley mumbled.

“I know your company sold the nitromethane and Randy’s company sold the fertilizer. I know you’re building a bomb. And so do the feds. You know how the G is, Stan. You’ve probably given this a lot of thought. They’re a step or two behind, because they’re building a case for a search warrant and all that, but they’ll get there. You’re done. They’re on to you. There’s no way you and Randy and whatever nutjob group you’re a part of is going to get away with this. So tell me what you’re planning to do, and when, or walk with a limp the rest of your pathetic life.”

“I… don’t… need to know.”

I paused. So he was saying there was operational security, and only the game-day players would know the details. Always a good strategy to maintain confidentiality.

“You know plenty, you piece of shit.” I gripped his shirt. “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

I didn’t really want to smash his toes. But this was my chance to learn some things. Maybe my only chance. So I threw him another shiver, reminding him of how much his shoulder hurt.

He let out a low cry, something primitive, a wounded animal, then he fell against the arm of the chair seething through his teeth. Now, I thought, I was hitting the limit. He wasn’t even crying out anymore, just panting and moaning. Too many things hurt all at once.

“You’re going to tell me. Since it looks like you’re about to pass out, I’m going to cut to the finale. The finale is I go to the kitchen, grab a butcher knife, and cut off your balls. You’ll bleed out on this chair while I watch.”

I looked at Tori, who stared at me with her mouth hanging open. She wasn’t sure what she was witnessing, or whom she was witnessing. I wasn’t either, not at that moment.

I gave her a faint shake of the head, indicating I was bluffing. It didn’t change the expression on her face.

Stanley swallowed hard, then his eyes grew vacant. For a brief, panicked moment, I thought he had died. But he hadn’t died. He’d simply grown calm.

“I’m… sorry,” he mumbled. “So… sorry I wasn’t… there for you.”

“Sorry about what?” I asked, shaking his arm.

His face contorted. Tears came from nowhere and rolled sideways down his face, as his head lay on the arm of the chair.

“I miss you so… much,” he said. “I’m coming… to you… I’m coming…”

“He’s going into shock,” Tori said. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

I looked back at Stanley, who was looking in my eyes. “Kill me,” he said, with a surprisingly strong voice. “It doesn’t mat… matter any… anymore.”

“Tell me, Stanley. Whatever you’re doing, it has to stop.”

My tone had instantly changed from punitive and taunting to a plea. This man, I now realized, wasn’t going to talk. I could waterboard him and he wouldn’t crack. Whatever he was doing, he was committed to it.

What was he talking about? Some tragedy in his life? I didn’t know. But I did know that I wasn’t going to get him to talk, and I couldn’t just leave him here.

I scooped him up in my arms and headed for the door.