Landon manages to find out a lot before he goes back to the cabin. Brian wasn’t a delivery man. He hasn’t had a job in years. His criminal record is long but not violent. Possession of opiates and weed, a driving while intoxicated charge, trespassing, and theft. He’s on probation now for some of the charges.
The decision is made. Tomorrow night Landon will stay here with Silver while Justus and I pay Brian a visit.
We park beside the tiny run down house just after dark. Brian Reffit has no close neighbors, so grabbing him from here shouldn’t be a problem. We don’t see any cameras, but we put on our masks just in case. Justus steps up quietly to look through the window.
“He’s asleep on the couch.”
The back door is unlocked, and it opens with a low creak when I turn the knob. We step inside and Justus is right, he’s sprawled on the couch, either passed out or asleep. The roomglows blue from the light of his TV that drones on through a show. I get closer, and he’s definitely the man from the video. The crossed out name tattooed on his neck is clearly visible.
Justus nods at me and we both move. I snatch him up from the couch and Justus pulls his hands behind his back. He makes a strangled noise, jerking awake, but far too late. Justus already has his hands zip tied.
“Hey. What the fuck? Listen, I’ll have the money, okay? Just two more days. Tell Benny I only need two more days and I’ll pay with interest! Or is this about the car? Darla said I could use it. I was going to bring it back!”
Justus looks over at me and snorts out a laugh. “This guy really rubs people the wrong way.”
I tie the blindfold around his eyes, and he starts breathing heavily the second his vision disappears. That’s when fear really takes over, when there’s nothing left to hold onto. “Wait! Wait!” he shouts, and I grab his face, squeezing it.
“If you scream again, I’ll cut your throat, do you understand?”
Sweat pops out on his upper lip and he nods furiously. His voice is barely a whisper when he replies, “Yes, yes.”
I let him go and Justus lightly pats his cheek. “That’s better. Now, we’re going to take a ride.”
“No.” Desperation lives in that one uttered word, and he tries to run, but I pick him up as he kicks his feet. I carry him out to my truck like a wayward toddler throwing a fit, but he doesn’t yell. He believes I’ll kill him. Good.
I shove him in the passenger side, and Justus pushes him over farther while I get in the driver’s side. He’s sandwichedbetween us. He smells like panic sweat with a side of stale grease, and I roll down my window so we aren’t trapped with the scent.
As soon as the truck starts moving, he starts talking. “Listen, just tell me what this is about. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. You don’t have to do this. Just tell me what to do. Tell me what to do.”
“Shutting up would be a good start,” Justus replies cheerfully. He might be enjoying this. I’m focused on making sure this guy is good and scared so he’ll talk, and sometimes the scariest thing you can say is nothing. Let his own worst case scenarios do the work.
He doesn’t say anything else until we stop the truck at the cabin and pull him out. “No, no, please. Don’t kill me.” Whether it’s the sound of the wind in the trees or the smell of them, he recognizes he’s in the woods. Of course he assumes we brought him out here to kill him.
“Walk,” Justus says, clutching his elbow and leading him to the cabin door.
“Where are you taking me?” We remain silent and Justus walks him inside where I lock the door behind us.
I imagine what he’s experiencing as we force him into a chair in the center of the room and tie him up. He can’t see, but he can hear the crinkle of plastic under his feet, the rough wood against his back, the silence that tells him we’re the only ones here and no one can help him.
When he’s secure, Justus unties the blindfold and pulls it away.
Fear slams into him as he takes in his surroundings withfrantic jerks of his head. The boards over the windows turn the room into a box. The sheets of plastic spread across the floor make his eyes widen, but the sight of the tools sends him into a panic. His breath comes in fast shallow gulps, frayed at the edges.
He looks at us and whispers, “Oh fuck.” He jerks forward, straining against the ropes until his face goes red.
“That looks like it hurts,” Justus remarks.
Realizing he can’t get loose, he goes back to talking. “Please,” he says. “Please, I can get money.”
We don’t answer. Justus walks past him to the table where we laid everything out beforehand. Pliers, a hammer, a box cutter, a drill, and a reciprocating saw, along with other menacing looking tools. The car battery with wires that Justus suggested was a nice touch. On the other end of the table is a tray of medical supplies like gauze, gloves, and tape.
Justus lets out a low whistle. “This is great. We have everything here we need to fuck him up, keep him from dying, and fuck him up some more.” He holds up a small blowtorch and turns it on, grinning at the hissing flame. “We can use this to cauterize, right?”
The guy starts shaking and babbling. “I’ll get the money! My cousin! My cousin will pay you. Tonight, I swear!”
Justus ignores him, and returns the blowtorch to the table, picking up a pair of wire cutters. “Do you want to start with fingers or teeth?” he asks me conversationally. “Teeth are messy. Fingers are cleaner, but you have to commit or it’s a lot of screaming.”
The guy lets out a sob. “Please,” he says. “Please just tell me what you want.”
