Devlin drove.
“What you guys want?”
“We found the kid,” said Bunch.
“What kid? What’s that mean?”
“The kid you people tortured and killed.”
“Killed? Man, I never killed nobody! I never even heard about nobody being killed!”
“Right,” said Kirk.
“I mean that, man! I don’t know what you people are talking about. I was shooting pool all goddamn night. A lot of people seen me, man—I can prove it!”
Bunch clicked the hammer back on the revolver. It made an oily, efficient sound. “We’re not cops, Visser. We don’t have to worry about due process. Your alibi don’t mean shit to us, so shut the fuck up.”
The streets seemed a bit grayer with the thinning of night, and the widely spaced streetlights were growing feeble. Devlin turned onto Brighton Road and then off again at a dirt track. It followed a chain-link fence around sprawling and ill-lit acres that held piles of heavy equipment, rusty oil rigging, stacks of wire cables and wooden spools. Then it bounced toward the fringe of weeds and scrub that marked the banks of the South Platte. Here the forgotten river was a shallow expanse oily with waste and clots of yellowing chemical spume that floated on the almost stagnant water.
“You guys listen—whatever happened, I didn’t have nothing to do with it!”
“With what, Eddie?”
“You know. What you told me about. The kid.”
Kirk halted the truck beside the fence. A tall stack of steel construction frames hid them from the view of distant I-270. An early jet whistled in from the north as it glided toward Stapleton Airport. In the south against the lightening sky, a tall plume of dark steam and smoke rose from the Public Service generating plant. The nearby Conoco refinery made the cold air smell thick and heavy with its flaring burn-off.
“You hear me? I don’t know nothing about it!”
Bunch gestured for the man to get out.
“No! I don’t want to!”
Devlin grabbed him by the nape and hauled him writhing from the Bronco. Shaking too hard to support him, his legs collapsed against the vehicle. He slid down until his bony knees pressed against his chest, and his hands splayed outward to hold off the two men who leaned over him.
Bunch took the wooden blocks from his truck and ran the loop of piano wire through the holes. It made a high-pitched, sizzling noise.
“Uh hunh—no … .”
Bunch yanked Visser’s head back. Dropping the wire around his neck, he cinched the blocks, and the wire bit into flesh. Visser made strangling sounds and dug his fingernails at the wire as his face turned blue. Then Bunch slacked the blocks. He drove a fist into the gagging man’s stomach. Visser doubled over to vomit and scrabble in the dirt in a mindless effort to crawl under the truck’s high running board. Bunch again yanked the wire taut, and planted a shoe on Visser’s back. “You keep wiggling, you sorry son of a bitch, I’ll slice your head off just like that fucking dog.”
Kirk dragged him from beneath the aluminum running board, with its little piles of gravel and dust collected in the corners. “Maybe I should break his knees so he’ll stay put.”
“No… . Don’t… .”
They leaned against the vehicle and watched Visser slowly stop retching and shuddering.
“I’m puking blood… . You busted something inside—I’m puking blood!”
“Enjoy it while you can, Eddie,” said Kirk. “You’re going to hurt a lot more.”
“No!”
“Oh, yeah.” Bunch smiled.
“But I tell you what. We won’t start until you finish talking. How’s that for Christian charity?”
“What you want to know? Goddamn—what you want to know?”
“Who did it.”
Eddie named Scotty Martin and someone called Tony. Martin had told them that Tony was from out of town—back east somewhere. “I never saw him before the other night when I met with you guys. He come in just for that meeting. I swear I don’t know nothing about him. That was the first time I ever saw him,
“What you guys want?”
“We found the kid,” said Bunch.
“What kid? What’s that mean?”
“The kid you people tortured and killed.”
“Killed? Man, I never killed nobody! I never even heard about nobody being killed!”
“Right,” said Kirk.
“I mean that, man! I don’t know what you people are talking about. I was shooting pool all goddamn night. A lot of people seen me, man—I can prove it!”
Bunch clicked the hammer back on the revolver. It made an oily, efficient sound. “We’re not cops, Visser. We don’t have to worry about due process. Your alibi don’t mean shit to us, so shut the fuck up.”
The streets seemed a bit grayer with the thinning of night, and the widely spaced streetlights were growing feeble. Devlin turned onto Brighton Road and then off again at a dirt track. It followed a chain-link fence around sprawling and ill-lit acres that held piles of heavy equipment, rusty oil rigging, stacks of wire cables and wooden spools. Then it bounced toward the fringe of weeds and scrub that marked the banks of the South Platte. Here the forgotten river was a shallow expanse oily with waste and clots of yellowing chemical spume that floated on the almost stagnant water.
“You guys listen—whatever happened, I didn’t have nothing to do with it!”
“With what, Eddie?”
“You know. What you told me about. The kid.”
Kirk halted the truck beside the fence. A tall stack of steel construction frames hid them from the view of distant I-270. An early jet whistled in from the north as it glided toward Stapleton Airport. In the south against the lightening sky, a tall plume of dark steam and smoke rose from the Public Service generating plant. The nearby Conoco refinery made the cold air smell thick and heavy with its flaring burn-off.
“You hear me? I don’t know nothing about it!”
Bunch gestured for the man to get out.
“No! I don’t want to!”
Devlin grabbed him by the nape and hauled him writhing from the Bronco. Shaking too hard to support him, his legs collapsed against the vehicle. He slid down until his bony knees pressed against his chest, and his hands splayed outward to hold off the two men who leaned over him.
Bunch took the wooden blocks from his truck and ran the loop of piano wire through the holes. It made a high-pitched, sizzling noise.
“Uh hunh—no … .”
Bunch yanked Visser’s head back. Dropping the wire around his neck, he cinched the blocks, and the wire bit into flesh. Visser made strangling sounds and dug his fingernails at the wire as his face turned blue. Then Bunch slacked the blocks. He drove a fist into the gagging man’s stomach. Visser doubled over to vomit and scrabble in the dirt in a mindless effort to crawl under the truck’s high running board. Bunch again yanked the wire taut, and planted a shoe on Visser’s back. “You keep wiggling, you sorry son of a bitch, I’ll slice your head off just like that fucking dog.”
Kirk dragged him from beneath the aluminum running board, with its little piles of gravel and dust collected in the corners. “Maybe I should break his knees so he’ll stay put.”
“No… . Don’t… .”
They leaned against the vehicle and watched Visser slowly stop retching and shuddering.
“I’m puking blood… . You busted something inside—I’m puking blood!”
“Enjoy it while you can, Eddie,” said Kirk. “You’re going to hurt a lot more.”
“No!”
“Oh, yeah.” Bunch smiled.
“But I tell you what. We won’t start until you finish talking. How’s that for Christian charity?”
“What you want to know? Goddamn—what you want to know?”
“Who did it.”
Eddie named Scotty Martin and someone called Tony. Martin had told them that Tony was from out of town—back east somewhere. “I never saw him before the other night when I met with you guys. He come in just for that meeting. I swear I don’t know nothing about him. That was the first time I ever saw him,
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