A Friend in the Dark - Gregory Ashe Page 0,79

been struck.

His vision, as he tried to take in his surroundings, doubled when he focused too hard. Not simply a whack over the head—a concussion, perhaps. Rufus tried again, carefully taking in the room around him. It wasn’t that big, and the fluorescent overheads were only on near the door, opposite of Rufus. One lightbulb flickered, and its buzzing filled the silence.

The room smelled too. Musty, like it hadn’t been opened in over a year. But more immediate than that was the distinct odor associated with an auto body shop. Metal. Motor oil. Grease. Those little pine tree air fresheners.

Rufus carefully rolled onto his side. He was lying on a sheet of moldy cardboard. He reached out to touch the floor, confirmed it was cement, because what else could be so cold and so hard underneath his bony hip and ass, then belatedly realized there was a large zip tie around his wrists.

That’s when all those individual assessments slammed back together, like the north and south poles of magnets in a science class experiment. Rufus scrambled into a sitting position. His breathing was coming quick now, which made his head pound harder. His fingers were already tingling in that telltale manner that warned life was about to get rough if Rufus didn’t get control over himself, and quick.

Don’t panic. Be smart. Don’t panic. Be smart.

Think back, through the pain and fog, Rufus told himself as he tried to recount what happened to have landed him… wherever he was. He’d left the apartment and slid down the handrails. Right, because he was going to check 9F, J. Brower. And Sam was still upstairs, still upset.

Rufus felt as if his heart actually stopped beating for a moment. Where was Sam?

He craned his neck to the left, ignored the pain that ricocheted around the back of his skull like a pinball game, and examined the room more carefully. There were stacks of boxes everywhere, old and forgotten. But no Sam. The smell of auto body persisted, and Rufus considered he was in a storage room, maybe on the second floor, above a garage. And maybe Sam was in the garage. Rufus turned toward the lit-up part of the room again and was knocked so hard upside the head that he briefly saw white stars, black spots, then red.

Red?

He was lying on the floor again, with blood dripping from the side of his head and into his eye. Rufus grunted and flopped onto his back with his tied hands in front of him. Looming over him was a big burly motherfucker with a shaved head and nose that’d been broken and set crooked. He probably had a name like Mad Max. No—Bruno.

Rufus started laughing. “Aren’t you handsome.”

Bruno snarled. He reached down, grabbed Rufus by the front of his T-shirt, and yanked him up. “Where’s the phone?”

“What?”

Bruno took an unassuming smartphone from his pocket and waved it in front of Rufus’s face. “The phone, dipshit.”

“That’s mine. You’re holding it. I don’t understand the question.”

Bruno cracked Rufus upside the head again, sending him sprawling backward.

The air was knocked from Rufus’s lungs and he choked and gasped for breath. He slowly raised his head, watching Bruno through his nonbloody eye as the sonofabitch dropped Rufus’s phone to the floor and stomped on it with the heel of his boot.

“That cost forty bucks, asshole.”

Bruno unholstered a gun from his side and pointed the barrel at Rufus. “Where’s the phone?” he repeated.

“I don’t know what—” Rufus bit off the thought. He’d been right about the pickup being a burner, and Bruno the Bulldog here thought he had it, or at least knew where it was. The mailbox. Had Rufus gotten it open before being whacked over the head? No, maybe not, but it was difficult to remember. If he had, though, wouldn’t Bruno have the phone? Yes. And Rufus would have a third eye.

Maybe Sam found the phone. Rufus had told him what he’d meant to do, after all. That brought him back full circle. Where was Sam? Was he still at the apartment, safe and sound? Did he have the phone and was he giving it to Ophelia, like they’d discussed?

Rufus said, with as steady a voice as he could muster, “I don’t have it.”

“Don’t bullshit me.” Bruno forced the muzzle of his pistol against Rufus’s cheek, grinding it against his face.

“I’m not.”

“You’re a liar, Rufus O’Callaghan.”

Rufus’s eyes grew wide.

“That’s right. We all know who you are. Jake’s little snitch.”

“I don’t have the phone! I don’t know where