“Hey.”Caleb’s breathing is loud on the other end of the line.“I found the rat.Cormack Pope.He’s working with the Vorsongs.”
Pope—the guy Troy and I spoke with yesterday.I don’t like his shifty eyes, never have.
Jaw clenched, I ask, “Where is he?”
“I’m with him at Rendsell.He’s in the garage.”
Caleb doesn’t mean the regular car garage—he means the underground garage where less savory aspects of the business occur.It’s a sickening place, a place of blood and screams.Torture, retribution, revenge.
Troy comes into the living room and tilts his head in question.
“It’s Pope,” I tell him.To Caleb, I say, “We’ll be there in fifteen.Don’t talk to him without us.”
We arrive at Rendsell.It isn’t Pope at the gate this time, it’s a guy named Flescher.He waves at me to stop before I go through the gate.
Troy brakes and rolls down his window.
I lean forward so I can see past Troy.“What is it?”
“I just—sir, I don’t think Pope did anything wrong.He seems real confused by the whole thing.”
“Is that all?”I ask.
He nods, looking serious.“But sir, you have to understand?—”
“Drive,” I say to Troy.
Troy drives.Once we’re well past Flescher, he says, “It wouldn’t have hurt to listen to him.”
“He’s covering for his friend.I don’t blame him.But his opinion doesn’t count for much right now, does it?Not when we need to find Danica.”
Troy nods, his face hard.“True.”
We drive around to the back of the house.I look for Arky as Troy parks the truck, but Arky doesn’t come back here—he doesn’t like the garage.I don’t blame him.
At the base of a sloped driveway, the wide garage door is lifted, revealing a cavernous room.A man sits strapped to a chair, illuminated by a single bulb.It’s Pope.His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something, but he can’t come up with words.His black pants and buttoned shirt are wrinkled by the thick canvas belts holding him to the chair.
I stride toward him.Troy walks next to me, his face grim.
“Edmund, Troy.”Caleb enters through a side door.“I held off on interrogating him, like you asked.”
“Please.”Pope finally finds his voice and it’s plaintive, wheedling.“I didn’t do anything, I promise.”
Ignoring him, I grab a rolling tool bench and slide it forward.I yank open the top drawer and pull out various implements—a hammer, a wrench, pruning shears, pliers, a handsaw.
“Cormack Pope.”I sigh.
He stares at me, fear filling his eyes.
“I hear you’re working with the Vorsongs.I hear you know more about Danica’s kidnapping than you let on.I hear youlied to me, motherfucker.”
“I didn’t!Please,” he blubbers.“I didn’t lie!I don’t know anything!”
I flick my gaze to Troy, then to the pruning shears.“Start with his pinky.No, his thumb.”
“No, please.”Pope’s eyes widen in fear.“Please, I don’t know anything—I wouldn’t hurt you or your girl, Edmund.I promise, please!”
Troy picks up the shears and lifts them up and down, as if weighing their usefulness.
