Read Online Natural Suspect (2001) by Phillip Margolin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Phillip Margolin
Ads: Link
adopted a sonorous mock announcer's voice. "Acme Scalpels. The choice of surgeons all across the globe. Endorsed by ex-KGB, ex-SAVAK, and former Cali cartel operatives everywhere. So precise, you'll hardly feel the slice ..." He glanced at Patrick's face. "Or, at least, that's what I'm told. Haven't had the experience firsthand, you know." The clown approached the chair. He placed the blade of the scalpel against the last joint of Patrick's little finger on his left hand. When he pulled back, there was a small cut in the finger, and a thin red line of blood sprang up.
It did hurt, like a paper cut, but Patrick didn't move.
"Brave boy," the clown said, observing Patrick's face. "That couldn't have been pleasant."
He moved the blade over Patrick's right hand and repeated the slice against the flesh of the thumb.
Patrick thought he might pass out and in that second couldn't tell whether unconsciousness might or might not be preferable.
The clown took the blade and moved it to Patrick's crotch. An involuntary whimper escaped from the bound man's mouth.
"Yes," the clown said, as Patrick's head spun dizzily. "That's something to be afraid of, isn't it?"
"Yes," Patrick coughed out. He was surprised he could make any noise at all, his terror was so complete.
The clown hovered over him, huge, menacing.
"So, now, on to the questions. Tell me what you know, Patrick. And tell me how you know it. ..."
"Know about what?" Patrick started, but the clown merely waved the scalpel in the light so it glistened, then gestured toward Patrick's groin.
"Please, don't insult my intelligence. You've been snooping around and digging about, trying to come up with some information that will help you get a job as a real newspaper man. You're ever so curious about the late Mr. Hightower. Now, Patrick, no First Amendment protections in here. Please answer. Immediately."
Patrick nodded and started speaking rapidly. "I know that Arthur Hightower wasn't dead when they think he was because someone saw him at the Sweeney Hotel and I know that he was supposed to sign some papers which he didn't and that his lawyer knows a woman named Cordelia who is dating a guy I know which doesn't add up and ..." The words poured out of Patrick in a rush. A torrent of discombobulated information, some nugget of which he hoped would please the clown who was leaning toward him, listening carefully.
"And . . . ," Patrick continued, only to stop abruptly, when the clown held up the scalpel.
"Patrick," he said slowly, "you have been busy. More busy than you probably can imagine."
The clown seemed pensive for an instant, as if digesting what Patrick had said. The would-be reporter simply held his breath, waiting for instructions.
"Did you know," the clown said slowly, but then picking up the pace of his words, "that scientists believe that within the next couple of hundred years the human race will no longer be born with the small toes on our feet? They are genetic and evolutionary anachronisms, Patrick. A leftover from our time swinging about in trees. We don't use them for anything except a little bit of balance. So, like all else that Mother Nature finds obsolete, they are slowly but surely being phased out of the body picture. Did you know that?"
"No," Patrick replied, shaking his head.
"Well, now you do. And so, I suspect you won't miss yours. ..."
With that, the clown suddenly bent down and seized Patrick's right foot. Before the surprised erstwhile reporter had time even to shout, the clown had taken the scalpel and neady severed the small toe from the foot. Pain shot through Patrick's leg, black hurt clouded his eyes, he wailed once and almost lost consciousness.
The clown rose, holding the small toe.
"I'll save this for you," he said. He reached over and opened the small blue plastic cooler, which was filled with ice, dropping the toe into the center. "As you can see, Patrick, there is room in the cooler for other digits and appendages."
The clown stared
It did hurt, like a paper cut, but Patrick didn't move.
"Brave boy," the clown said, observing Patrick's face. "That couldn't have been pleasant."
He moved the blade over Patrick's right hand and repeated the slice against the flesh of the thumb.
Patrick thought he might pass out and in that second couldn't tell whether unconsciousness might or might not be preferable.
The clown took the blade and moved it to Patrick's crotch. An involuntary whimper escaped from the bound man's mouth.
"Yes," the clown said, as Patrick's head spun dizzily. "That's something to be afraid of, isn't it?"
"Yes," Patrick coughed out. He was surprised he could make any noise at all, his terror was so complete.
The clown hovered over him, huge, menacing.
"So, now, on to the questions. Tell me what you know, Patrick. And tell me how you know it. ..."
"Know about what?" Patrick started, but the clown merely waved the scalpel in the light so it glistened, then gestured toward Patrick's groin.
"Please, don't insult my intelligence. You've been snooping around and digging about, trying to come up with some information that will help you get a job as a real newspaper man. You're ever so curious about the late Mr. Hightower. Now, Patrick, no First Amendment protections in here. Please answer. Immediately."
Patrick nodded and started speaking rapidly. "I know that Arthur Hightower wasn't dead when they think he was because someone saw him at the Sweeney Hotel and I know that he was supposed to sign some papers which he didn't and that his lawyer knows a woman named Cordelia who is dating a guy I know which doesn't add up and ..." The words poured out of Patrick in a rush. A torrent of discombobulated information, some nugget of which he hoped would please the clown who was leaning toward him, listening carefully.
"And . . . ," Patrick continued, only to stop abruptly, when the clown held up the scalpel.
"Patrick," he said slowly, "you have been busy. More busy than you probably can imagine."
The clown seemed pensive for an instant, as if digesting what Patrick had said. The would-be reporter simply held his breath, waiting for instructions.
"Did you know," the clown said slowly, but then picking up the pace of his words, "that scientists believe that within the next couple of hundred years the human race will no longer be born with the small toes on our feet? They are genetic and evolutionary anachronisms, Patrick. A leftover from our time swinging about in trees. We don't use them for anything except a little bit of balance. So, like all else that Mother Nature finds obsolete, they are slowly but surely being phased out of the body picture. Did you know that?"
"No," Patrick replied, shaking his head.
"Well, now you do. And so, I suspect you won't miss yours. ..."
With that, the clown suddenly bent down and seized Patrick's right foot. Before the surprised erstwhile reporter had time even to shout, the clown had taken the scalpel and neady severed the small toe from the foot. Pain shot through Patrick's leg, black hurt clouded his eyes, he wailed once and almost lost consciousness.
The clown rose, holding the small toe.
"I'll save this for you," he said. He reached over and opened the small blue plastic cooler, which was filled with ice, dropping the toe into the center. "As you can see, Patrick, there is room in the cooler for other digits and appendages."
The clown stared
Similar Books
