He needed Marty Feldman alive.
Shane sat in Veteran’s Park, watching the junkies slip away to shoot up and the working girls as they plied their trade with the businessmen staying at the hotel across the way. His attention focused on the pair of dealers off to the right, young men trying to look like anything other than what they were.
The dealers had lookouts scattered along Elm Street. Some directed clients to the young men, others called in warnings about the police. Neither of the men nor any of their lookouts seemed to realize that the police didn’t care.
Manchester PD knew exactly who everyone was and what role they played. The entire, minuscule operation could be shut down in minutes.
Shane lit a fresh cigarette and saw his opportunity.
One of the young men took a handoff from his partner, did an elaborate handshake, then ducked his head down and left the park with a rolling gait, the type of walk that was supposed to scream, “Stay away from me. I’m a bad man.”
You haven’t met a bad man yet, Shane thought and stood up.
His own pace was slower, calm, and assured, nothing extraordinary about his movements, nothing that would stick in someone’s mind should the police, for some reason, feel the need to look for witnesses. He kept his hood up over a battered baseball cap, sunglasses on. The sweatshirt was a dull gray with a faded Patriots football logo on it. His jeans were worn, but not threadbare. His boots didn’t have a shine, nor were they particularly battered.
Everything was forgettable, which was what Shane wanted.
The rolling gait of the dealer was more theater than anything else, and it allowed Shane to casually catch up to him. When he was within several feet of the young man, Shane could hear hip hop coming out of a pair of earbuds the dealer had in.
Oh, you’re a sweet setup, aren’t you? Shane wondered, following the young man down a small alley. As the dealer stepped into a doorway, Shane continued past, not slowing his pace. A second later, the young man was behind him, following. Shane smiled, feigned a stumble, and went down to one knee.
It was an action the dealer hadn’t expected, and as he tried to come to a stop, Shane attacked.
His blows were fast and brutal, driving the young man back against the wall. A strike against the dealer’s forehead tore open a thin gash and sent blood spilling down into his eyes. A snapped backhand to the left of the throat sent the young man to the alley’s floor, his hands clutching at a bright, polished revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants.
Shane plucked it out, opened it, and dumped the shells onto the ground. Then he took out the cylinder and threw it down the alley to the right. He tossed the rest of the weapon into a trash barrel behind him.
The dealer tried to get to his hands and knees, but Shane kicked his arms out from under him.
A cry of pain escaped his lips as he struck the ground. He lay there for a moment, and then he reached for his phone.
“Come on,” Shane grunted with disgust, taking the phone away. It appeared to be a burner, a cheap flip-phone. Shane tore out the battery and snapped the device in half, dropping it next to the dealer’s face.
“We done now?” Shane asked.
“I’m gonna kill you,” the young man gasped.
Shane reached out, took the dealer’s pinky finger, and said, “This is to assure you that I am not screwing around.”
He broke the finger, and the young man howled.
Shaking his head, Shane put his hand over the dealer’s mouth until he stopped screaming. Removing his hand, Shane wiped it on the front of the young man’s shirt.
“Now,” Shane began, “you have nine more fingers, ten toes, and your genitals. Not to mention your eyes, ears, nose, lips, and tongue. There are a lot of body parts that I can remove, break, or otherwise injure before I run out of options.”
“Money’s in my pocket,” the dealer whispered.
“I don’t want your money,” Shane told him.
The dealer stared at him, confused.
“Honest,” Shane said, moving a little away and sitting down. The young man tried to push himself up again, and Shane shook his head. “No. I’ll break your other pinky if you get off the ground without permission.”
The dealer laid back down without hesitation.
Shane nodded. “I want information.”
“’Bout what?”
“Not ‘what’. Who. Marty Feldman.”
The dealer’s eyes widened a fraction.
Good poker face, kid, Shane thought.
“Don’t know him,” the young man replied.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Shane whispered, leaned forward, and punched the dealer in the nose, driving the young man’s head into the ground. As the dealer swore, Shane broke the other pinky and covered the mouth again.
When the young man became quiet, Shane smiled. “Okay. Let’s try this again. Marty Feldman.”
The dealer told Shane everything he wanted to know.
Chapter 41: An Unwelcome Intrusion
Tuesday, 3:00 PM
Carl stood in front of the framed photograph of himself. It had been taken, at the behest of his mother, in 1914 at the beginning of the Great War. The photograph was all that remained of his life prior to the war, a sad piece of history that reminded him of his mother’s death while he was a prisoner of the Americans.
And here I am. Korporal Carl Frederick Hesselschwerdt, Stroßtrupper. Dead and bound to this place and worrying about my living friend.
Carl smiled. Motion off to his right caught his attention, and when he turned, he saw Thaddeus standing by the fireplace.
“Hello, Thaddeus,” Carl greeted, his English slightly tinged with his birth language. “How goes it today?”
Thaddeus smiled. “It’s okay, Carl. I’m kind of bored. Eloise and the Davis sisters are talking about dresses, and the dark ones are arguing about stocks and bonds.”
Carl chuckled. “Well, I’m sorry to hear this. Would you care to accompany me?”
“Sure,” Thaddeus said. “I’d like that. What are you up to?”
“That, I am not quite certain of yet. I do know it will not be standing and staring at a photograph of myself,” Carl assured him.
“Okay,” Thaddeus laughed.
They left the small study on the second floor, walking into the hall and to the main stairs. As they descended them, a curious event occurred, causing both Carl and the dead boy to stop halfway down the stairs.
A woman walked into the house.
Through the door.
Carl saw the wound in her belly, the way she was dressed, and took a chance, asking, “How are you, Miriam?”
The dead woman’s head snapped up, and her attention locked onto Carl.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Who?” Carl replied, feigning ignorance and confusion. “I have Thaddeus beside me. The dark ones are in the pantry. I haven’t seen the musician in a terribly long time. I’m afraid I cannot assist you.”
She shook her head, grinning. “I already know he lives here. I want that chrome dome. Get him down here and have him face me if he’s man enough.”
Carl nodded to Thaddeus, and the boy ran off as Carl began his descent.
“Look at you,” she sneered. “Disgusting. You don’t even look like a man.”