Twenty minutes after escaping from police custody, Creighton Melice rounded the corner in the car he’d jacked off some lowlife crack dealer two blocks from police headquarters, and cruised down India Street. Shade had given him the time and place to meet after his escape, and it looked like things were right on schedule.
The escape had gone just as planned.
Inserting the six-inch shiv into his hand last night at the warehouse had been easy. He’d just positioned it against the base of his left middle finger and pressed. It went right in. Just like sliding an oven thermometer into a turkey.
Of course, digging it out meant peeling back a layer of meat from his palm during the interview. For anyone else it would have been painful, but of course he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything. Then, on the way to the exam room, he used the shiv to pick the lock on his handcuffs, and when they arrived and the pockmarked cop was on the phone calling for the doctor, Creighton simply grabbed the guy’s hair with one hand and shoved the shiv all the way into his neck with the other.
It went in clean and smooth. Just like sliding a thermometer into a turkey.
Then he smashed the handcuffs into the other cop’s face. The guy howled in pain and, based on his reaction, Creighton guessed that having your eyeball flattened into paste was a painful experience.
He took note of that as he swung the cuffs at him again and again, sending him reeling into the wall. At that point, though, he realized he needed to hurry, so he’d decided not to take the time to kill the guy, but instead grabbed the keys to his ankle chains, unlocked the shackles, helped himself to a new gun, and walked casually and confidently to the evidence room.
Creighton let the car roll to a stop inside the auto body shop. A moment later he’d pulled down the garage door and locked it. He swept his hand across a nearby workbench, scattering the tools, discarded car parts, and a pile of greasy rags to the floor. Then he retrieved the black duffel bag from the backseat of the car and carefully set it in the center of the area he’d just cleared.
His fingers were trembling.
This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for.
Tonight, after they’d finished with the woman, Shade would use the device on him and he would finally feel pain. Finally realize what it’s like to suffer. What it’s really like to be a human being.
Creighton closed his eyes and let his mind wander into his elaborate fantasies of pain. The spiders were just the beginning.
He thought of blades and screams, of tender flesh so easily torn, and of splintered bones piercing meat. He dreamt of finally feeling that elusive ghost called pain.
Before Creighton could unzip the bag, he heard a swift whish of air and saw the wood of the bench explode less than an inch from his hand.
“Don’t turn around,” said the electronically altered voice from behind him. “Unzip the bag.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Creighton barked. A tense moment passed where neither of them spoke, and then finally, Creighton unzipped the bag, unwrapped the foam, then stared down at a tripod of three broken mop handles with a radio, a can of solvent, and a broken coffeemaker all duct-taped together onto the end. He felt his teeth clench. “No.” Grit. Grind. “No. No!” “Pick it up,” said the voice.
Creighton didn’t just pick it up, he grabbed the fabricated device and smashed it, smashed it, smashed it against the workbench until only a shattered array of broken pieces remained.
“So,” said Shade. “Someone has decided to get creative with us.”
Creighton snatched up a business card that had flown to the floor, read it to himself, then said, “It’s from a federal agent. Bowers. He’s got the real device. He’s taunting us.”
“I know Agent Bowers,” Shade said. “I’ll take care of him. You’ll need to leave here quickly and lay low. I’ll call you in one hour.
Don’t worry, we’ll get the real device. Trust me.”
Creighton Melice probed the corner of the shop with his eyes.
He couldn’t see Shade.
Shadows, always in the shadows.
Creighton didn’t want to play these stupid games anymore. He’d had enough. “Before, you told me not to trust you.”
“And now, I’m telling you to trust me. Follow my instructions or you won’t get what you want when this is over.”
Creighton still had that cop’s gun.
Take care of this freakin’ creep. Do it now.
He drew the gun, but as he did, Shade put a bullet through his right hand, sending the gun clattering to the floor. “Careful, Creighton,” said Shade. “I’d rather you stay alive and assist me, but I’m prepared to deal with my disappointment if you choose not to let that happen.”
“I’m tired of all this spy bullcrap.” Creighton stood tense, ready for a fight, blood dripping from the shredded flesh of the wounds that he didn’t feel in each of his hands. “Show me your freakin’ face. Kill me if you want to, but my guess is I’ll be able to do you some damage first. If we’re going to do this, if we’re going to end this tonight, let me see your face. That or I’m done.”
And then, after a brief moment, the shadows parted and a figure stepped out, and Creighton stood frozen, staring, his jaw gaping. It really was the last person Creighton would have ever expected.
“We finish this, tonight.” No masked voice anymore. Finally, finally standing in the light. “We finish it together.”