Knorath, Joe - Jack Daniels 03 - Rusty Nail (23 page)

I replied with a snort. Holly and I had already talked about fashion (consensus: Fashion is good), guns (consensus: Guns are good), and parents (consensus: Parents are good if you still had them, but hers were dead and I only had my comatose mother), and we’d finally worked our way around to men.

Holly wholeheartedly agreed I’d screwed up my chances with Latham, and I made a heroic effort to convince her to do the same with McGlade.

“He’s changed, Jack. Loyalty is actually one of his most endearing qualities.”

“It wasn’t back then.”

“He was younger, ambitious. Now he recognizes that friendship is more important than a career. He considers you a good friend, Jack.”

I snorted again. With good friends like McGlade, having serial killers hunting me was almost welcome.

Holly reached for another french fry. We’d stopped at the McDonald’s oasis on the Skyway. I’d polished off my burger and fries a while ago. Holly had bought a Happy Meal, and divided her time between picking at her food and playing with the included toy, some kind of movie tie-in figurine.

The fry disappeared in three bites. Holly chewed slowly. “It’s been years. Why do you still hate Harry so much?”

“I don’t hate him. Let’s just say my life hasn’t been enriched by his involvement.”

“He helped you with the Gingerbread Man case.”

“Reluctantly.”

“And with the case you had last year, that guy who was killing prostitutes.”

“In both cases he wanted something.”

“Isn’t that why you agreed to stand up at our wedding?”

Oops. “He told you that?”

“He said you wanted to get your character off the TV show, and you wouldn’t be his best man until he agreed.”

I shifted in my seat. It was getting dark, so I switched on the headlights. The Gary exit was coming up.

“He’s the one who got me on that damn TV show. It’s jeopardizing my job.”

“Maybe he would have gotten you off the show if you just asked.”

I made a noncommittal grunt.

“He’s really sweet, Jack. I wish you could see that.”

“Yeah. He should be a plush toy.”

Holly dug back into the bag, and found one of the pickles she’d taken off her burger. She put it into her mouth, a gesture that struck me as odd.

“Why’d you take the pickle off if you like them?”

“I hate them.”

“Then why’d you eat it?”

“Waste not, want not. Right?”

“I guess.”

Neither of us talked for a moment. I refused to feel guilty about anything to do with McGlade, even if I was starting to like his girlfriend.

“Tell me about this Bill Kork guy.”

“Bud. His name’s Bud. He was Charles Kork’s—the Gingerbread Man’s—father. You saw the bodies on the news?”

Holly crinkled up her nose. “Yeah. What kind of sicko would bury people in his basement?”

“The same kind who bathes in his own urine, sticks needles in his groin, and whips himself with a scourge.”

Holly made a face and shoved my shoulder. “That’s not true.”

“It’s true. He also emasculated himself.”

She mouthed the word
emasculated,
and then said, “He cut his own dick off?”

I nodded. “He lost his luggage, and both carry-ons.”

“That’s gross.”

“Apparently he was punishing himself for his evil deeds. Some kind of warped Christian thing.”

“Remind me not to attend
that
church.”

I took the Gary exit, trying to remember if the hospital was north or south. I chose north.

Holly liberated her last french fry, sniffed it, and popped it into her mouth. “I don’t know anyone that gross, but we had some killer in Detroit a few years ago. He was peeling people.”

I tensed. “Really?”

“Some serial killer whack-job. He was cutting people up and pulling off their skin. You didn’t see it on the news?”

“I try not to watch the news. Too depressing. They catch the guy?”

“No. Killed three people, then disappeared. Cops called it some kind of organized crime thing. Pretty terrible way to die, don’t you think? Getting skinned?”

I thought about the Mulrooney video. “Yeah. Pretty terrible.”

I knew I made the correct turn, because there were over a dozen news vans, each with that big antenna/dish thing on its roof, parked along the street. The hospital had cleared the media out of the parking lot. I found a handicapped space and pulled my siren out of the glove compartment, sticking it on the roof so I wouldn’t be towed.

Holly got out with me.

“I thought you were waiting in the car.”

“Let me see the guy. Please, Jack? I’ll stay quiet. I just want to look in his eyes.”

“This isn’t the zoo, Holly. We’re not visiting the monkey house.”

“I’m good with men. I really am. If you want him to talk, maybe I can help.”

As with Harry, arguing with Holly was an exercise in futility. We went back and forth for thirty seconds, and I realized the only way I’d get her to stay in the car would be if I handcuffed her. Which I considered, but physical restraints weren’t a good way to begin a friendship.

“Don’t say a word. You can observe, but not interfere.”

Holly mimed zipping her mouth closed.

There were cops in the lobby, including the uniform I’d met who’d previously stood guard over Kork. He gave me a passing nod, then glued his eyes to Holly. The other cops did the same, without giving me a passing nod. If this were a cartoon, their tongues would have unrolled out of their mouths and onto the floor, red-carpet style.

The Feebies, Mutt and Jeff, were thankfully nowhere to be found. Perhaps they were grilling Lorna Hunt Ellison. Or perhaps they were engaged in a sweaty ménage à trois with Vicky, the ViCAT computer. Wherever they were, I thanked the universe I didn’t have to deal with them along with everything else.

Kork’s room was being guarded by two more cops, who’d been expecting me. They weren’t expecting Holly, but when she smiled they all talked at once, introducing themselves and pledging their allegiance.

I left them to their flirting and went in to visit the monster.

Bud Kork eyed me when I entered, his eyes saggy and bloodshot, his complexion sallow. If he recognized me, he didn’t show it.

Then Holly walked in. Penis be damned, Bud caught a breath and stared wide-eyed.

Perhaps it was the Versace tee. I needed to get one of those.

“Mr. Kork? Do you remember me? I’m Lieutenant Daniels. I dropped by your house the other day, and you showed me your root cellar.”

He nodded, his gaze still fixed on Holly. She moved toward the bed, her hand extended, and Kork flinched hard enough to make the frame squeak.

“Holly Frakes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kork.”

Bud reached for her hand as if it were a rattlesnake. He managed a quick, limp handshake, which he retracted immediately.

“How are they treating you?” I asked.

“They . . . they won’t give me any lemon for my water. I keep asking, but I don’t get any lemon.”

He stuck a finger into his mouth and gnawed on a cuticle, his gaze flitting back and forth between me and Holly.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

As I spoke this, Holly went out into the hallway. I imagined the cops tripping over themselves searching for a lemon.

I pulled up a plastic chair and sat next to the bed.

“Do you know why you’re here, Bud?”

“To be punished. Because I’ve been bad.”

He seemed appropriately sad when he said it. Then his face creased in a wicked grin and he began to giggle.

“What’s funny, Bud?”

“ ‘Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you, and cast out your name as evil.’ Luke 6:22.”

His whole body shook, as if he were having a seizure. The Parkinson’s. It subsided before I could call the nurse, and Bud again burst into laughter.

“Indiana has the death penalty. They’ll kill me by lethal injection.”

“That amuses you?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You’ve killed a lot of people, Bud.”

He bit at his hangnail and pulled. Blood smeared across his lips, bringing color to their liverlike pallor.

“I should be tortured to death.” He giggled again. “Lethal injection is too good for me.”

He sucked on his finger, tongue lapping at the blood. I kept my expression neutral.

“I saw Lorna earlier today.”

Bud frowned around his finger. “She never visits me.”

“She’s in prison, Bud.”

“She helped me, with the sinners. Liked to do the flogging. Sweet, sweet Lorna.”

He hummed a song, off tune, suckling his bleeding digit.

I had no doubts Bud Kork was insane. But there was more to it than that. Sitting this close to him, I felt a deep sense of revulsion—the same kind of feeling I had when I watched a nature program on TV that showed a spider catching a fly. Bud Kork radiated a very real feeling of harm, of fear and decay and death.

Talking to him made me want to take a hot shower and brush my teeth until my gums hurt.

“Would you like to see Lorna again, Bud?”

“Yes. My sweet love. So good with the repentant. So eager to make them confess their sins.”

I lowered my voice, so he had to strain to hear me.

“I can arrange it, Bud. For you to see her.” I figured it would happen anyway, once Lorna cut her deal. Bud didn’t have to know it didn’t come from me. “But I need you to tell me something first.”

He stared at me, slurping on his finger, a line of pink drool rolling down his chin.

“I need you to tell me where Caleb is.”

Bud began to cackle. “ ‘You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father’s desires.’ John 8:44.”

“You treated Caleb as your son?”

“Caleb was the devil, like Charles was the devil. But not the devil of my flesh. A devil conceived in light.”

I leaned closer, though I had to force myself to do so.

“Where is Caleb?”

Bud opened his mouth to speak, then his yellow eyes darted behind me, to Holly.

“I found a lemon for you, Bud.” She offered him a wedge of the fruit.

Bud snatched it in a gnarled fist, then squeezed it onto his bloody hangnail and rubbed it in, gasping and shuddering.

“Freaky,” Holly said, eyes wide.

I reached for the lemon, then thought better of it; Bud was grinding it into his open cut, and the pulp was turning orange with blood. Instead, I tapped his shoulder.

“Where’s Caleb, Bud?”

He ignored me, focusing on Holly.

“ ‘How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, my angel of the morning.’ Isaiah 14:12.”

Holly found another chair and pulled it over to Kork’s bed. She straddled it and leaned on the back, resting her chin on her forearms, her eyes bright and alive.

“I hear you like needles, Bud.”

He nodded at her, gasping.

“Look what I found in the gift shop.”

She held up an emergency sewing kit: three mini spools of thread, a thimble, and eight sewing needles.

“Holly.” I gave her a look. “Remember what we talked about in the car.”

She kept her eyes on Bud. “Lieutenant Daniels asked you a question, Bud. Where’s Caleb?”

He eyed the needles like a starving man staring at a menu. “I . . . I don’t know where Caleb is.”

Holly opened the pack, pulled out a needle. Examined it.

“Where does he live?”

“Different places.”

“Which places?”

“Indiana. Michigan. Illinois.”

Holly parted her lips and placed the needle between them. Bud was panting in a manner that could only be described as sexual. The lemon was dropped, forgotten.

I’d lost control of the interrogation. I shook Bud’s shoulder.

“Where is Caleb now?” I asked.

Bud remained transfixed on the needle in Holly’s mouth. “Illinois.”

“Where in Illinois?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“I don’t know.”

Holly pouted, and slowly pulled the needle out of her mouth, letting it linger on her tongue before she put it back in the kit.

“If you want this, Bud, you have to give us more than that.”

Bud swallowed, an audible gulp that the stretching silence amplified.

“Talk to Steve.”

“Steve who?”

“Caleb’s friend. Steve Jensen. He’d know.”

I’d heard that name recently, and couldn’t remember where. Steve Jensen. Steve Jensen. Steve . . .

And then I had it. I shook Bud again, harder.

“Do you know where Steve is, Bud?”