Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best way to read books txt) 📕

nobody deserved this. He could have been in a fight, which would account for the bruises and busted knuckles and teeth, but Jesus, the hanging arm and broken leg? What kind of animal does that? He picked up the little pill container lying among the water bottles and held it to the candle to read the label. Painkillers, opioids, a dozen or so left, and if he understood the man correctly there weren’t going to be any more. And then the pain would be unbearable and the man on the blanket would be begging for his death. That would make the end result all that much sweeter for a certain kind of person; and from everything Jared knew or suspected about him, Albright was exactly that kind of man.

He lifted the candle high and surveyed the room. Roughly square, maybe twenty by twenty, empty save for a few cases of engine oil and some filters stacked against one wall. He went over and searched through them for something he could use as a weapon, an oil spout used to puncture the cans and pour would have been useful, but he found nothing. Another smaller door was set in the far wall, and he went across and tried the door. It was unlocked and he opened it. A small washroom with a toilet and wall-mounted basin and a pair of towels hanging below a shelf containing matches, candles, and a bottle of hand cleaner. Above it was a small polished metal mirror riveted to the bulkhead. He took one of the towels and wet it under the faucet and went back to the man on the blanket. Setting a case of oil alongside him, he melted some wax and fixed a candle on top of it. He gently sponged the man’s burning forehead and battered face, then reached down and removed the stained trunks and washed him from head to foot. When he was done he took the second towel and dried him off and then Jared went into the washroom and cleaned himself up.

He stared into the mirror, running his hands over the lump on his head, assessing the damage. Not too bad. It was tender, but apart from that and a long shallow cut on his forehead he found no other injuries. He had a throbbing headache along with his nausea and for a brief moment he considered taking one of the man’s pills but was immediately embarrassed by the thought. Apart from having no idea about their strength and the effect they would have on him, the other guy needed them a hell of a lot more than he did. He went back into the room and squatted down against the wall beside the man, listening to the raspy uneven breathing and waiting for him to wake again. He noticed a lump under the blanket that formed a partial pillow for the man’s head and reached underneath and found some clothes. He pulled them out and replaced them with the rolled-up towels.

A dress shirt and tie and a stained navy-blue business suit with a matching vest and expensive labels. Jared went through everything carefully but found nothing. The man had been stripped clean. And then in the bottom of the inside pocket of the vest, an old business card. Richard Sullivan Q.C. and a group of initials that was meaningless to Jared. But he didn’t need them to realize it was the missing lawyer Cat had read about in the paper. The one who worked for the party. Shacked up after all, although not in the sense that one of the more lurid newspapers had implied.

“Pill.” The man’s urgent whisper broke into Jared’s thoughts. He passed the man a pill and the water bottle.

“You’re Sullivan. The lawyer.”

The man nodded. “Richard.” His face was greasy with sweat, and Jared handed him the damp towel. He wiped his face and held up two swollen fingers. “Ten minutes.”

Jared waited. Sullivan’s laboured breathing gradually eased and some of the tension left his body and there was almost the hint of a smile on the battered face. “Whooee,” he said. “Much better. How many left?”

Jared counted. “Thirteen.”

“Maybe two days then. After that I’m done. I can go almost four hours, I think. Don’t have my watch. First hour is good, second is tolerable, then it’s all downhill from there. My leg is gangrenous, I know that smell. I volunteered for the Peace Corps in Haiti a long time ago. When I was a better man. He wants me to beg him for my death. Please. I’m begging you. Promise me you’ll help me when the time comes.”

“We’re nowhere near there yet,” Jared said.

“Only a matter of time.”

They sat there not speaking for a few minutes, and then Sullivan began to talk.

“I’m not sure you could hurt Albright with a ball-peen hammer. I always suspected he was a bit of a masochist, but it’s more than just that. I’ve had some experience, I was decent in the ring once. I dislocated his jaw there, right at the beginning. I was just beginning to realize I was never going to get off the boat anyway and I thought screw it and I hit him so hard I broke two of my knuckles. And he just smiled, standing there with his jaw hanging all crooked. It was like he didn’t even feel it, like I had feathers on my hands instead of boxing gloves. He tilted his head back, put both hands in his mouth, and twisted and pulled and popped his jaw right back in. It’s called congenital analgesia, something like that. You can damage him, but I doubt you can actually hurt him.”

Sullivan paused and Jared held the water bottle for him and he drank again, taking in great gasping swallows. “Better,” he said. “I was dehydrated. Couldn’t manage.”

“I’ve got friends. They’ll be looking for me. How many men does Albright have on board?”

“Five or six, including him. I don’t know about the captain