was.
I lunged for the door and threw my shoulder against it just as he was closing it. A second later and it would have been shut. I could feel the dual impact of my thrust against the door and then the counter-push against his body when it collided with him. Turns out, I’d knocked him to the floor.
“Here, Stanley,” I said, throwing an envelope like a Frisbee onto his chest. “You’ve been served with a subpoena.” That threw him off temporarily, as his mind raced, mentally bracing for danger and then hearing me say something nonthreatening, the subpoena. I stood over him and grabbed him by the sweatshirt and lifted him to his feet. He still wasn’t sure what had hit him.
Stanley Keane was in his mid-fifties, maybe six feet tall, on the thin side, with a military crew cut. He was decked out in sweats, head to toe.
I held him there, almost lifting him off his feet, face-to-face with me. He was on the tips of his toes. Fear ran through his beady eyes-yes, now he realized the danger impulse had been the correct one.
“What… do you want?” he managed.
“I want to know who tried to kill me. Twice,” I added. “And I’m going to break bones until you answer me.”
His fear turned quickly into defiance. He scowled, which was somewhat of a chore for him, given that he was off balance and having some difficulty breathing.
“You’ll have to do… more than that,” he snarled.
“Interesting, Stanley. I would have expected, ‘What do you mean, someone tried to kill you? I have no idea what you mean. I have no idea who you are.’ So I appreciate that, Stan. The honesty. That’s a good start.”
I threw him against the nearest wall but kept my grip on him.
“See, Patrick Cahill and Ernie Dwyer-you remember them, the Aryan brothers who got picked up in the city after they tried to kill me? They say it was you, Stan. They’re putting this all on you and Bruce McCabe.”
“Like… hell,” he said through his teeth.
“Personally, I think it was Ronald McDonald or… what was his name? Oh, yeah, Randall Manning.” I hurled my right knee into his groin. He doubled over, but I was there to catch him. His body was collapsing, but I hadn’t had any exercise since I hurt my left knee-which, by the way, was holding up nicely, thanks to the adrenaline pump-and I could prop him up with help from the wall. Some kind of physics thing. I’d ask Tori later.
“Jason, what are you doing?” Tori asked.
“I’m obtaining information. Why don’t you go upstairs and see what you can find? That okay with you, Stan, if my associate pokes around?”
“Fuck… you.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I nodded to Tori, careful not to use her name. “Poke around. Look for a computer, a cell phone, any papers, that kind of thing.”
I waited until Tori had run up the stairs.
“I’ll kill… both of you,” said Stanley.
I used my left hand to brace him. With my right, I hit him with a shiver into the shoulder. The linemen at State used to practice that move all day long, and I would join in after practice. I always liked the shiver, the quick thrust that came almost out of nowhere, no windup.
The pop to Stanley’s shoulder was either sickening or enjoyable, depending on your perspective. Stanley cried out in pain and gnashed his teeth. Angry guy.
“That’s a separated shoulder, Stan. So I said I was going to break bones, and here I’ve just kneed you in the balls and taken out a shoulder-”
His right hand rose up in a vain attempt at a punch. I grabbed his hand with both of mine. I bent his fingers back, putting all my weight forward. I figured I broke at least three fingers, based on the number of snaps I heard. It was hard to tell because they all came at once.
Keane fell to the floor, his left hand clutching his right. He was screaming, and this was a quiet neighborhood, so I came down on him and pressed my hand over his mouth.
“It’s going to get worse, Stan. I’ll break every bone in your body if I have to. So let’s cut to the chase.
“Stanley,” I said, “tell me about the bombs.”
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
