Page 50 of Shatter

He's been prospecting for a while now, and I've heard him say maybe fifty words total, most of them to his bike.

"He's awake." Aren doesn't look away from the trees. "He's been crying."

"Good." It's out of my mouth before I think about it.

Aren looks at me for a second longer than he needs to, then looks back at the trees.

Inside, the bulb swings a little on its cord, and the shadows swing with it.

They've got the driver in a metal folding chair in the center of the room, over the drain, his wrists zip-tied behind the chair back and his ankles zip-tied to the legs.

Black cable ties.

Somebody has a sense of humor.

He's younger than I expected, late twenties maybe, with a sunburned nose and a blond crew cut going dark with sweat.

The loafers are Italian.

Somebody paid for those shoes, and it wasn't him.

His left eye is swelling shut where Ulf hit him in the lot, and dried blood crusts under his nose and over his lips.

The front of his khakis are dark and wet.

Tor stands against the far wall with his arms crossed, Rati beside him with a toolbox at his feet.

Gunnar's by the door, and he catches my eye as I come in and gives me a small, tight nod.

"Prospect." Tor doesn't look away from the man in the chair. "Your mess. You ask."

Ice spreads under my ribs.

Not fear.

Something colder than fear, and steadier, a level calm moving out from the center of my chest and down into my hands.

I've felt it before.

I felt it two nights ago with the Glock in my hand and Colin Dufresne's cable ties spilling onto the asphalt.

I walk over and crouch down in front of the chair, low, so I'm looking up into his face.

"What's your name?" I keep my voice easy.

He stares at me with his one good eye.

His lips are trembling.

"Fuck you." His voice cracks on it like a kid's.

Rati sighs from the wall.

"Okay." I nod slowly. "We'll come back to that."

I stand up and walk to the toolbox.

Rati watches me with no expression at all.