The Hanged Man's Song

Bob was holding a heavy sledge-hammer at his side. I wanted to say something about a safety chain on the door, but before I could, John muttered, “Rote’s got the bolt cutters.”
    The four guys knew what they were doing. In fact, they looked a lot like cops; the night before, they’d even talked like cops. Bob got lined up on the door, taking his time, being quiet, while Henry and the others blocked the view from the street and the office. When Bob was ready, he nodded, and Rote showed a big pair of bolt cutters. The bolt cutters turned out to be unnecessary, because when Bob hit the door, there was a single loud whack like a car accident, the door flew open—no chain, or at least, no chain that held—and the four men went straight into the room.
    I was a step behind them. Carp had been sitting on his bed, typing on a laptop, and when we came through he hurled himself at a nightstand on the opposite side of the bed, where a big military-style Beretta sat under the lamp. He almost made it; his hand was six inches from the gun when Bob landed on him, then Rote, and they had him by the neck, dragging him across the bed, and he screamed once and Rote hit him in the nose with a closed fist and his nose broke and he stopped screaming and started to gag; then the door was shut and he was on the floor, three guys on him.
    “Roll him over,” John said.
    They controlled him—I thought cops again—and rolled him, and Rote sat on his chest while John knelt next to his head. “Where is she?” he asked.
    Carp’s eyes were wild, and his torso was shaking under Rote’s weight, from adrenaline. But he choked out, “Fuck you. Go ahead and kill me, motherfucker. You’ll be killing the kid, too.”
    Rote stuck the heel of his hand on Carp’s lips, and pressed his jaw open; he pressed down harder until his fist filled Carp’s mouth. John looked at Carp for five seconds, then dug in his pocket and took a red Swiss Army knife out. He chose one of the blades, looked down at Carp, and said, “I’m gonna ask you one question. If you don’t answer it, I’m gonna cut your nose off. Then I’m gonna cut your eyes out. Here’s the question. What town is Rachel closest to? Universal? Longstreet? That crossroads? Here in Bradentown? Which town? Don’t have to tell us where, just which town she’s closest to.”
    Rote pulled his hand out of Carp’s mouth. Carp gasped for air, groaned, and then said, “I don’t care if you kill me, I’m not gonna tell you where she is. You cocksuckers, you cocksuckers.”
    John leaned forward with the knife. “I’m gonna cut your nose off,” he said. “In ten seconds, your nose gonna be gone. Nobody’s gonna put that nose back on.” He was talking quietly, but his face was a stone; he was scaring the shit out of me. “So answer my question. Not where she is, just what town she’s closest to.”
    Carp stared at him for six of those seconds, then finally spat out, “Universal. If you’d really given me the keys, I would have told you.”
    John turned to me and said, “Get back up there.”
    “I need to—”
    “Just get back up there,” he said impatiently. To the others, “Let’s move him. Terry’s gonna be running out of bullshit.”
    >>> ROTE handed me the bolt cutters, said, “For the chain, if there is one,” and that was the last I saw of John’s friends. John was running things now, and I got in the car and did what he told me: I headed up to Universal.
    >>> GETTING there took a while. Driving at the speed limit, watching the yellow lines, scared to death that a cop might stop me for anything. Saw no cops; Universal was as dead as ever.
    Fifteen minutes after I got there, I was sitting in a booth in the cafe, one of two customers. The other guy looked like a farmer, and he was eating pie at the far end of the line of booths, reading the local newspaper. I was picking at a BLT and a plate of fries—I wasn’t hungry, but I needed a reason to wait there—and Marvel arrived.
    I saw her get out of her car in the parking lot, and she looked at me through the window. As she came in, the counter lady said, “Hello, Miz Marvel,” and Marvel smiled and asked, “How are things?” Then she turned as if checking out the rest of the cafe, spotted me, did a double take, and said, “Say, aren’t you Mr. Barnes from the highway department?”
    “Yup. And you’re the mayor of Longstreet.”
    “Can I join you? I’ve been meaning to call you about the bridge approach