Already Gone

– 20 –



I walk around to the front of the table.

The big guy’s hand is strapped, palm down, to a thick block of wood that makes me think of a cutting board. His fingers are spread wide and pinned in place by five heavy industrial staples just below his knuckles.

There is blood everywhere.

At first I think Gabby must’ve split the guy’s hand in two, but he didn’t. He did exactly what he’d said.

The man’s middle fingertip is forked in the center, and there is a wooden shim wedging the bone apart, almost to the breaking point.

Even though Gabby told me what to expect, seeing it makes my stomach twist and my mouth fill with water.

I look away and think about Diane.

The more I picture her in my mind, the less any of this bothers me.

I step closer and stare at the man’s face. He doesn’t look as bad as the other one, but he doesn’t look good. His nose is broken, his eyes are closed, and the front of his shirt is covered in blood and dried vomit.

I lean in. “Wake up.”

The man doesn’t move.

I tap the side his face, soft.

His eyes flutter open, distant and unfocused.

I wait.

Eventually, he lifts his head and looks around. It takes a minute before he realizes where he is, and then his lips start to shake.

“What do you want?”

I can’t tell if it’s the accent or damage from the beating, but the words rumble out and blend together, making it hard to understand.

“Do you remember me?”

He turns his head back and forth, scanning as much of the room as possible, ignoring me. I ask him again, and this time when he doesn’t answer, I press my thumb against the shim embedded in his finger.

This gets his attention.

When he calms down, I ask him again.

The man shakes his head. “I don’t know you.”

I show him my left hand with the missing finger, and something changes in his eyes.

“No, no, no,” he says. “Please.”

“Who are you?”

“It was just a job,” he says. “We didn’t want to hurt anyone, not bad, I swear—”

“A job?”

He nods. “Just a job.”

“Who hired you?”

He mumbles something. I lean in close, and he flinches, closes his eyes.

“I want a name. Tell me who hired you.”

He starts mumbling again, and the next time I speak, I have to force myself to keep my voice calm.

“The man who brought you here,” I say. “The one who did this to your hand? He’s waiting outside.”

I hear the man’s breath catch in his throat.

“He wants to see if you’ll tell me what I want to know. If you do, you go home. If you don’t, then he comes back in here.”

The big guy whimpers, says, “I’m just a baker.”

I ignore him. “I can’t tell you what he’ll do, because he’s capable of absolutely anything.”

The man shakes his head. There are tears now.

I reach down and touch the shim. He twitches and makes a high whining sound in the base of his throat.

“Tell me who hired you.”

“We wanted to open a bakery, we didn’t mean—”

“Who is we?

“My brother,” he says. “We came here, we had to leave, they would’ve killed him if we stayed.”

“Leave where?”

“St. Petersburg. They hung him in the street, in front of our mother. They left him to die.”

I look past him to the man in the corner.

He looks back, unafraid.

“Someone hired you to cut off my finger?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” He coughs, and blood sprays across the table. “We were told where you’d be and what we were supposed to do. He was very specific.”

The man looks down and starts whispering to himself about starting over, about not living this kind of life. As he talks, a long trail of blood and saliva runs out of his mouth onto his shirt.

I bend down and say, “I want a name.”

The man shakes his head.

“You give me a name and you and your brother can go. But this is the last time I’m going to ask. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to leave, and then my friend—”

“No, please.”

“—will come back.”

“I only saw him one time.”

“Last chance.”

“He was a cop.”

I stop talking.

“He told us we’d be deported and sent home unless we agreed to help.” He looks at me, his eyes pleading. “We can’t go back. They’ll kill us both.”

“Who was he?”

“He gave us money. It was just a job, I swear.”

“What was his name?”

“I only saw him once.”

I reach for his hand, fast. He jerks back in the chair and screams.

“Give me a goddamn name!”

“I don’t—” He hesitates. “Nolan. Dan Nolan.”

I don’t say anything right away. I can’t. My throat closes, and the floor under me seems too far away.

I bend down, eye level, and ask him to tell me again.

“His name was Nolan. I swear on the mother of Christ that’s all I know. Please.”

The air tastes stale in my throat.

“I want you to be sure.”

“I don’t know anything else, I don’t.”

“The name, are you sure about the name?”

The man nods.

“You saw a badge? He was a detective?”

“Yes, I think, I don’t know. Please, you said we could go.”

I push myself to my feet and follow the line of blood toward the drain. There are no thoughts in my head, just questions and rage.

“Did he hire you to kill my wife?”

The man looks at me, and I see the confusion on his face. “No.” He shakes his head. “Your finger, that’s all.”

Every muscle in my body aches. I don’t want to be down here anymore, and I don’t want to hear anything else. But I have to be sure.

I walk back to the table and press hard on the shim.

The man doesn’t scream this time, but he feels it.

“Was it you?” I ask. “Did Nolan—”

“I don’t—”

“Did you kill her?”

“No,” he says. “I killed no one.”

He keeps giving me the same answer, and I keep working the shim back and forth until I’m sure he’s telling me the truth. Then I grab both sides and tear it out.

He screams.

I turn the bloody shim over in my hand, then set it on the table in front of him and say, “Nothing personal, okay?”

The man looks at the shim, then up at me.

His eyes are distant, tired.

A moment later he drops his head, his shoulders shake, and he begins to cry.