“I got something you can eat,” the big man Colella said.
“Up yours, buster,” Clara snapped. “If this is gonna be a rape job, I want you to know the doctor’s treatin’ me for gonorrhea.”
Salvatore Fiore said, “We ain’t gonna hurt you. We just wanna know where Frank Jackson is.”
They could see the change that came over her. Her body suddenly stiffened and her face became a mask.
“Frank Jackson?” There was a note of deep puzzlement in her voice. “I don’t know any Frank Jackson.”
Salvatore Fiore pulled a lead pipe out of his pocket and took a step toward her.
“You don’t scare me,” Clara said, “I—”
His arm lashed out across her face, and in the midst of the blinding pain she could feel her teeth crumbling inside her mouth like tiny pieces of grit. She opened her mouth to speak and blood began pouring out. The big man raised his pipe again.
“No, please don’t!” She gagged.
Joseph Colella said politely, “Where can we find this Frank Jackson?”
“Frank is—is—”
Clara thought of her sweet, gentle man in the hands of these two monsters. They were going to hurt him and, instinctively, she knew that Frank would not be able to stand the pain. He was too sensitive. If she could only find a way to save him, he would be grateful to her forever.
“I don’t know.”
Salvatore Fiore moved forward and Clara heard the sound of her leg breaking at the same instant she felt the excruciating pain. She fell to the floor, unable to scream because of all the blood in her mouth.
Joseph Colella stood over her and said pleasantly, “Maybe you don’t unnerstand. We ain’t gonna kill you. We’re just gonna keep breakin’ things. When we’re through with you, you’ll look like a piece of garbage the cat threw away. Do you believe me?”
Clara believed him. Frank Jackson would never want to look at her again. She had lost him to these two bastards. No dream come true, no marriage. The little man was moving forward with the lead pipe again.
Clara moaned, “Don’t. Please don’t. Frank’s at the—the Brookside Motel on Prospect Avenue. He—”
She fainted.
Joseph Colella walked over to the telephone and dialed a number.
Michael Moretti answered. “Yes?”
“Brookside Motel on Prospect Avenue. Want us to take him?”
“No. I’ll meet you there. Make sure he doesn’t leave.”
“He won’t go anywhere.”
6:30 A.M.
The boy was beginning to stir again. The man watched as Joshua opened his eyes. The boy looked down at the wire on his wrists and legs, and then looked up and saw Frank Jackson, and the memories came flooding back.
This was the man who had pushed those pills down his throat and kidnapped him. Joshua knew all about kidnappings from television. The police would come and save him and put the man in jail. Joshua was determined not to show his fear, because he wanted to be able to tell his mother how brave he had been.
“My mother will be here with the money,” Joshua assured the man, “so you don’t have to hurt me.”
Frank Jackson walked over to the bed and smiled down at the boy. He really was a beautiful child. He wished he could take the boy to Canada instead of Clara. Reluctantly, Frank Jackson looked at his watch. It was time to get things ready.
The boy held up his bound wrists. The blood had caked dry.
“Would you mind taking this off, please?” he asked politely. “I won’t run away.”
Frank Jackson liked it that the boy had said “please.” It showed good manners. These days, most kids had no manners at all. They ran around the streets like wild animals.
Frank Jackson went into the bathroom where he had put the can of gasoline back in the tub so that it would not stain the rug in the living room. He prided himself on details like that. He carried the can into the bedroom and set it down. He moved to the boy’s side, lifted up the bound figure and placed him on the floor. Then he picked up the hammer and two large nails and knelt next to the boy.