“I’ve got a good bottle of wine and a much better bed.” Artist didn’t need to hear that twice. He paid the bill and swaggered with her out to the parking lot, where his new imported sedan waited.
He felt like a man who had life figured out. He opened her door, got behind the wheel, turned the key—and both car doors flew open at once.
Before he could react, a bag was yanked over his head and something hard and cold pressed into his side. “Easy, Artist,” said a calm, flat voice. “Show’s over.” Margo vanished like smoke.
When he came to, he was somewhere strange. An abandoned theater. Dusty velvet seats, peeling gold trim, and a huge dark stage.
He was tied to a chair in the middle of it. A single lamp shone straight in his face. Out of the darkness of the auditorium stepped that same former detective, Petrovich.
“Well, look at you,” he said, sitting on the edge of the stage. “Nice venue. Seems fitting. You like performing?”
“Tonight’s your solo act.” Artist jerked against the ropes. “Who are you people? Do you know who you’re messing with?”
“Wolf will bury you.” Petrovich gave a dry smile. “Wolf? I doubt it. He’s busy right now.”
“Looking for you. And Moose. Somebody gave him the idea you met with a rival crew yesterday, so don’t count on help. Let’s talk instead about your last performance. At Mikhail’s house.”
And then came the questioning. But this wasn’t Goldfinch’s interview. Artist got a different language.
The language of pain. Petrovich knew what mattered most to him: his looks, and his hands—the hands of a onetime piano player, which he was absurdly proud of.
First they broke his fingers. One by one. Slowly.
Like men who knew exactly what they were doing. “Got to take care of your instruments, Artist,” Petrovich said while the man screamed. “How’re you going to play now?”
Then they worked over his face. Not enough to kill him.
Just enough to leave scars. Enough that he’d never look in a mirror the same way again. He screamed, threatened, cried, begged for water, begged for air. Petrovich didn’t care.
He waited. Not for the body to fail, but for the spirit to crack. And Artist cracked.
He realized these weren’t ordinary thugs. They weren’t even acting like men anymore. They felt like messengers from hell. “I’ll tell you everything,” he rasped.
“Everything. Just make it stop.” And he talked.
He confirmed Goldfinch’s story. And he added the key detail: where Wolf and Moose were hiding. A cabin deep in the woods.
He drew a map. He gave them everybody. “I told you everything. Let me go,” he said.
Petrovich stood up. “Let you go? Sure. Your show’s almost over.”
“Just one last number. An encore.” Two more men came into the theater and untied Artist from the chair.
He limped and groaned, thinking for one foolish second that they really meant to release him. Instead they led him to center stage. “Dance,” Petrovich said.
Artist stared at him. “What?”
