Hell and Gone

and knee. Balancing himself on that single knee, he reached out and grabbed the edge of the table, slowly working himself up again. He took the black cane from the tabletop. His right leg was still numb and fluttery, like a phantom limb. He needed the table.

He took a series of wobbly steps and, by way of sheer luck, eventually crashed into the door that Mann had used to exit. Hardie balanced himself, grabbed the handle. Locked tight. Somewhere above him, some unseen construction crew labored. Clanging. Pouring. Welding. Sealing.

“HEYYYYYYYYY!” Hardie screamed, so hard that he lost his balance, a misstep exacerbated by a sudden coughing fit.

“HEYYYYYYYYY UP THERE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

No response came. Either they were unable to hear him above the din of the power tools or the construction crew was dedicated to doing their job and their job alone.

Hardie made his way back to the table and sat down and considered his options.

He didn’t have to think long—because his options sucked.

So little of this made sense. It was like snapping awake from a horrible, sweat-soaked dream, only to discover that the world was about to end, the H-bombs were dropping everywhere, and boy, you’re about to wish you’d stayed in that bad dream.

The elevator door was the only way out.

Out was not up; out was down. Deeper into the bad dream.

To his staff—is that what she’d said? What the hell did she mean by that?

The stubborn knot in Hardie’s gut told him to stay put. Just sit here and do nothing. Eventually he’d dehydrate, maybe even be lucky enough to pass out. Just to spite Mann. Write a little message on the wall for her before he finally expired. Hope you choke on the olive in your fancy-ass cocktail.

Yeah.

Sometimes after a tough case Hardie would find himself hanging out on Nate Parish’s broken couch in his Philly PD office. One of the fabric-covered arms had long ago snapped, leaving a perfect V in which Hardie could rest his aching head. Hardie would crash on that couch, sipping a can of lukewarm beer, too keyed up to go home, too tired to move. Once, he’d said to Nate:

“We’ve been really busy lately.”

“We’re always busy. Remember what Pascal said.”

Hardie had no idea who Pascal was—some South Philly mobster he’d never heard of, maybe?

“What’s that?”

“All human evil comes from a single cause—man’s inability to sit still in a room.”

Nate turned out to be right, of course.

Hardie stepped into the elevator cage, slid the old-fashioned accordion-style gate shut. His grandmother’s old apartment building used to have an elevator like this. As a kid he’d constantly worry about getting his fingers chopped off when the gate slid open. That never prevented him from running his fingers over the greasy gate anyway. He pressed one of only two buttons in the elevator—ancient semen-colored circles of plastic adorned with the chipped words UP and DOWN. He seemed to already be UP. That left DOWN. Hardie pressed the button, which lit up. Somewhere, ancient machinery kick-started; pulleys and cables started turning. Hardie’s body jolted as the car slid downward. Here we go.

Going down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

What was down here? Hardie tried to decode Mann’s cryptic statements about this place—site 7734, she’d called it. A maximum-security facility. Buried deep in the earth. (If the length of this elevator ride was any indication, she was telling the truth about that, at least.) But for what? Was he being sent down for human experimentation? Imprisonment? Torture?

Suddenly Hardie got the idea that he may have been better off sitting up in that waiting room and withering away slowly.

After what seemed like an absurdly long time, the cage touched down at the bottom of the shaft. The air was noticeably cooler down here. Hardie braced himself with the cane, realizing that, yeah, he really should have stayed up top. He stabbed the UP button, but now it refused to work. Something clanked, but the mechanism failed to restart. Well, he was stuck with his choice now. Time to see it through.

Hardie reached out with this right hand to slide open the gate. He took a step forward, supporting his weight with the cane. The moment he stepped out of the elevator, he heard the strangest noise.

Applause.

11

[When he] heard the cell door banging shut, he’d been scared. Like a little kid he had wanted to shout: I take it back!

—Malcolm Braly, Felony Tank

FOUR PEOPLE IN dark brown uniforms stood in a half circle, clapping their hands, all eyes focused on him. Hardie froze in place. They kept applauding anyway, seemingly oblivious to his shock. A bearded guy gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed something like, Right on.

Oh fuck, Hardie thought. What was this?

Their uniforms had deep red piping and cargo pockets, and were paired with black leather belts, black leather wristbands, and even black leather boots. The four of them took a collective step back, as if to encourage Hardie to take another step forward, come on, now, that’s it, that’s a good boy. Welcoming him into their communal bosom, all smiles and cheers and even a few woo-hoos. Hearty cries of congratulations in languages he didn’t recognize—but the overall meaning was clear.

The bearded one broke ranks and nervously shuffled forward, still pounding his hands together. Smiling through his dark, neatly trimmed beard.

“Welcome, Warden,” he said in a broad Australian accent. “Boy, are we glad to finally have you here.”

Warden?

“Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

Hardie looked over the Aussie’s shoulder and saw cages, and two figures sitting inside those cages.

All at once Hardie realized what this was.

This was a secret prison; these were the guards.

And all this applause bullshit was the mockery before the crucifixion, and here were his tormenters. Fucking with Your Victim, New-Testament Style. Sure, yeah, now they were shouting and proclaiming him the King of the Jews and shit. Next they’d be dividing up his new suit in dice games and shoving a crown of sharp thorns down on his tender scalp.

Not if he could help it.

Hardie took a step forward, scanning the four guards quickly. Three men, one woman. All wearing the same uniform. Tools and gadgets hanging from their belts. Plastic restraints. Tasers. A few syringes topped with sturdy plastic caps. Still applauding and opening the circle up wider for Hardie.

No doubt getting ready to pounce his ass.

Hardie switched the cane into his other hand, using his weak arm to balance himself, hoping it would be enough to support his own body weight. Because the moment the bearded Aussie took another step, Hardie lunged out and grabbed up a fistful of the guy’s uniform and then pulled him in for a violent head butt.

Skull bone made contact with nose bone; bright lights flashed. Hardie’s head suddenly felt like it had been blown apart by a cherry bomb. But so what? His head already hurt like hell. What was pain on top of pain?

The Aussie guard’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. He was not expecting the forehead-to-nose action. Hardie tightened his grip and used the Aussie’s body to support himself as he spun around and whipped the wooden cane across the head of the next advancing guard—a blond, pale guy. The guy cried out as his head snapped to the