Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
GRIFFIN
L eaning against the rustic wall, I sift through the wallet in my hands and tsk. “This would go a lot easier for you if you would just tell us what we want to know.” I come across the driver’s license and pull it out. “Chet Turner of Boston.”
The man tied to the dingy chair lets his head hang forward. His flannel shirt is ripped around the collar, and his jeans have droplets of red all over the thighs. Chet found himself here in the barn over an hour ago.
We should probably replace the chair, but there’s something about being strapped to a rusty chair that usually gets people talking.
The dirt floors, lack of windows, and general stench of pain probably contribute to people’s loose lips as well.
It helps that it’s still so early in the morning that the sun hasn’t even begun to peek its head out over the horizon.
“Did you hit him too hard?” I ask, folding my arms.
Knox, my twin brother, scoffs at the insinuation. “No way. I was pulling my punches. We need answers, not a corpse.” He folds his arms, analyzing the motionless heap of a man in front of us.
Knox is my mirror in every physical way except for our eyes and the scars that cross his upper lip and left eyebrow. Where my eyes are a russet brown, his are a green hue.
“Maybe pull a little more,” I suggest with a shrug.
Knox rolls his eyes, drops his arms, and approaches Chet with heavy footsteps.
He crouches down so he can look Chet in the face.
“You’re a little far from home, Chet, and we don’t take too kindly to out-of-towners ‘round here. And encroaching on claimed territory isn’t the smartest move.
So, how about you answer our questions so we can all move on with our days. Who do you work for?”
Chet groans, swinging his head to the side and righting himself so he can return my stare. “The tooth fairy.”
Digging into my pocket, I pull out a small plastic bag filled with little blood-red pills. “Where did you get these?” I question, giving the bag a shake.
“Easter Bunny gave them to me.”
Knox stands to his full height of six feet four inches and shakes his head. Then, without warning, he draws his fist back and lands the punch in Chet’s gut. Coughing, Chet hunches forward as far as he can with his wrists and ankles tied to the arms and legs of the chair.
Stepping forward from my spot, I bend down to get Chet to look at me again. “We can do this all day, but I’d prefer if we didn’t.”
“Fuck you,” Chet spits out.
In perfect synchrony, I stand up as Knox strikes Chet across the face with an open hand. Chet’s head whips to the side, and he spits out bits of blood over the side of the chair.
Knox rests his hands on his hips. “Should we?—”
“It’s probably about that time,” I interrupt.
“Knees or?—”
A malicious smile lights up my face. “Let’s start with his fingers.”
Knox mirrors my expression, probably giddier than I am. He reaches into the maroon toolbox resting against the wall and pulls out a hammer. Chet’s eyes widen, and he starts rocking back and forth with a hop, trying to scoot the chair away from Knox.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Chet begins to beg.
I grab the small rickety table that also needs replacing and set it in front of Chet’s spastic form.
Knox stops Chet’s movement of the chair and gives me a nod.
Having done this before, we go through our next movements easily.
Knox pulls out a pocketknife and cuts the tape wrapped around one of Chet’s wrists.
I grip Chet’s freed arm and slam it down on the table, holding him steady.
My voice gets deeper and darker. “Hand flat, Chet, unless you want my brother here to start by breaking your radius.”
Chet whimpers but complies.
Knox skims the cold metal of the hammer down each of Chet’s fingers. Each time Knox lifts the hammer and starts again, Chet twitches.
“Man, this hammer is getting heavy,” Knox fibs as he acts like he’s going to drop the tool on Chet’s pinky. Chet cringes, tensing his body. “You might want to start answering our questions before it just slips out of my hand.”
Chet flattens his lips into a thin line and shakes his head in denial.
Knox’s face darkens. “Wrong choice.” He lifts the hammer in the air and brings it down on Chet’s little finger with a disturbing crunch. Chet wails, his cries bouncing around the room, but no one will hear him. And anyone who can, won’t come to his rescue.
The barn is located on the same land as our childhood home.
Acres and acres of land. We’ve since torn down the house we called home, and live elsewhere now, but the land is still good for some things.
Like questioning people undisturbed. We usually only use it when someone owes us money, but putting the beatdown on a rival deal is a good excuse too.
Plus, it’s just a short drive to the other end of our property to our place of business.
“Does your boss pay you to keep your mouth shut?” Knox taunts.
Chet’s rapid breathing shakes his body. “I’m not a fuckin’ rat!”
Knox frowns. “Are you sure? I could swear I saw a little tail earlier. Shit, you even have whiskers.” Knox mockingly pats Chet’s scruff-covered cheek. “What do you think, Griff? Rat?”
“Definitely a rat,” I agree, continuing to hold Chet’s arm in place.
Chet’s face flushes. “I’m not a rat!”
“Agree to disagree,” Knox replies sarcastically and slams the flat hammer on the table right in front of Chet’s ring finger. But Knox doesn’t show the aggression he’s feeling. “Does your boss give you hazard pay? How much do you think he’ll pay for each finger? A thousand?”
“Doubt it,” I comment.
Again, Knox raises the hammer and smashes it on Chet’s hand, but this time, breaking Chet’s fourth finger. Chet screams again, reaching a pitch I didn’t know was possible for a grown man.
Knox repeats his process with each of Chet’s fingers. Ask questions, threaten and tease a bit, then break bones when answers aren’t received.
“The other one,” Knox instructs me, and I get right to it.
“Wait! No!” Chet pleads, but Knox and I ignore him.
I sigh. “You should’ve given us a name.”
After we work together, taping his broken hand back to the chair and releasing the other, Knox doesn’t even start with a question. He aims for Chet’s thumb.
“WAIT!” Chet screeches.
Knox pauses. “You got something to say, tough guy?”
Knox and I both pause as Chet gives us the name of the last person we expected. His voice is scratchy. “Alienist.”
“Say that again,” I grit out through clenched teeth, losing my patience.
“The Alienist,” Chet repeats.
I roll my eyes. “His real name, dip shit.”
“I-I don’t know.”
Blowing out a sigh through loose lips, I stare at the ceiling and rest my hands on the back of my neck.
Chet truly doesn’t know anything, or he’s not willing to turn into a rat. Either way, he’s useless to us now.
Knox is the first to fragment the silence. “Say, Griff, how many hands does a man need to rub one out?”
“One.”
Knox’s eyes fill with an ice that I can only describe as spine-chilling. When he speaks, the room fills with a terror so thick that even the hair on my arms raises in alarm.
“I don’t think he even deserves that.” Knox uses the hammer to shatter all the bones in Chet’s hand.
Screams, once again, decorate the desolate room.
Slow country sways around the room, flowing from the jukebox against the far wall.
The lighting in here is dismal, but that’s by design.
If people can’t tell what time of day it is, they stay longer, like Benny here.
But then again, Benny is always here. He doesn’t care what time it is. Besides, he has his uses.
The Wandering Raven is a town staple. People don’t like to admit they come here, but everyone does.
We’re the only place in Mystic River with dart boards and pool tables.
The neon beer signs, license plates, and band posters on the walls add to the aesthetic.
We have a few booths, some high-top tables, and stools along the bar.
The wood floor is scuffed from years of use, and the bartop probably needs a polish. But I’m proud of it.
This bar has been in my family for generations.
I’ve helped reupholster the booths more than a few times and grew up sweeping and mopping the floors.
When Knox and I took over, we replaced the billiards and purchased new stools.
We couldn’t change the place too much because then it wouldn’t feel the same.
We didn’t want to get rid of Pops’s mark on the place.
Pops, our grandfather, treated us well and raised us right. Despite the town motto of “the sins of the father are visited upon the children,” we turned out okay. All our business dealings may not exactly be legal, but it is what it is.
Our mom left when we were young, and our father, Amos, never got over it. After she packed up, he spiraled his drunk ass all the way to prison. Right before Amos was sentenced, our older brother, Trey, turned eighteen, joined the military, and never looked back. We haven’t heard from him since.
Knox and I were left without a home because the bank seized it, and we were placed in the foster care system. Pops fought like hell to get custody. When we got to go home with him, I slept like a baby. And thankfully, he’s not a drunk or an ass.
Well…
He was an ass to some. He died of lung cancer over a decade ago.
But Amos left his own special mark here. It’s ugly and no one will ever forget it. When your father is convicted of killing the daughter of the local psychiatric hospital administrator, people tend to hold onto that and deem you a murderer as well.
I guess they’d be right about that now. They weren’t back then, though.
I sling a rag over my shoulder and rest my elbows on the dinged wood of the bartop. “What’ll it be, partner?” I ask in my best cheesy southern accent like I’m a bartender in an old western movie.