Page 22 of The Chain House

“Snappy casual.” Carl slow-spun in a circle, graceful in his white Nikes.

“Don’t know what snappy casual means, but I like it.” Jennifer flicked lint from the shoulder of Carl’s blazer, and then faced Sam. She checked her watch. “We have ten minutes. Take the shirt off.”

“Why?”

Carl said, “It’s wrinkled as a fucking prune, bro.”

Jennifer said, “Unless you got another shirt that looks better, off with that one. What about an iron?”

“Coming up.” Carl disappeared into the hall, his voice trailing him. “No ironing board, though.”

“I’ll use the ping-pong table.” Jennifer looked at Sam. “Let’s go, time’s running. And are you sure about those pants?”

“Only ones I have.” Sam began plucking at his shirt buttons, but his hands were shaking like a meth addict in withdrawal, so Jennifer stepped in to help, her fingers moving as nimbly as a concert pianist, and the next thing he knew he was standing bare-chested and self-conscious.

They left the apartment at eight sharp, with Carl driving his Ford 150 and Jennifer and Sam going over their notes in the back seat. Jennifer had a habit of scouring the news every morning, both local and national, and as Carl drove, she spouted off headlines. So far there were no leads on yesterday’s apparent abduction of Beth Hawthorne, with no ransom demands. As Jennifer read off the numerous national news outlets reporting on the morning’s interview with Sal Batise, Sam feared they’d come for him as soon as they pulled onto the prison grounds.

“You’re not gonna get out of this without giving a few interviews yourself, Sam,” Jennifer said, reading from an article in the Twisted Tree Gazette, whose headline told of a fire last night at the mansion of James McFee, the multimillionaire owner of the Old Sam Bourbon Distillery. “Suspected arson,” she said. It was common knowledge that the McFee family owned practically all of Twisted Tree. “No deaths, thank God,” Jennifer said, reading to them how outspoken James McFee had been in recent weeks of Sal Batise’s imminent execution, clearly in favor of the sick son of a bitch finally getting what was deserved. The state penitentiary’s property, the writer stated, was only three miles from McFee’s largest Old Sam distillery, and the distillery owner was tired of the extra traffic the impeding execution was bringing, people starting to camp out in his woods weeks before the needle was set to enter Batise’s vein.

“You think they could be connected?” Sam asked. “That fire and Hawthorne’s abduction?”

“Could be a good follow-up question,” Jennifer said, writing it down on their legal pad. “They were both clearly in favor of Batise meeting his Maker.”

Halfway there, with Carl cruising casually down the westbound lane of I-64, he spoke over his shoulder like a tour guide. “Remember the Spider Murders? We’re right on that stretch of road where the bodies were found.”

Sam said, “He brings that up every time we’re on this interstate. He’s infatuated with it.”

“No different from you and Batise, bro.”

“I’m actually a member of the Spider Web,” Jennifer said, referring to a popular online true crime community

“No shit?” Carl said with a glance over his shoulder. “Same. I joined soon after it all went down, and they finally caught the bastard. I’m on the Web about every night.”

“He’s in love with Ellie Isles,” Sam said, glad for the sudden diversion.

Carl grinned large as he drove, and said under his breath, “Now that’s the fuck.”

Sam folded his hands in his lap so Jennifer wouldn’t notice his nerves. But she must have because she casually placed her left hand on his right forearm. She left it there for a few miles, and damn if it didn’t help to calm him.

She said to Carl, “So that’s the fuck?”

“What?” he asked as he drove, nearing the main exit for Twisted Tree. “What about it?”

“You’ve said it several times,” she said. “Just never heard the phrase before. Doesn’t make much logical sense.”

“So there’s a story,” Carl said.

Sam saw Carl eyeing him from the rearview mirror, and just knew Carl was begging him with that stare to let him tell it. “Don’t,” Sam said.

“Come on,” Carl pleaded.

“What?” Jennifer eyed them both. “Tell me.”

“It’s stupid,” Sam said, “She doesn’t need to know. Carl’s just an asshole.”

That didn’t stop Carl. “So Sam here, this is back during our senior year at U of L, and he’s studying for a physics final and I’m on the couch binging Breaking Bad and eating corn nuts.”

“That checks,” Jennifer said.