This might take some time.

  After one more hard squeeze, the Cowboy releases the man. The man untenses, hanging limp by his wrists.

  It’s a common acceptance that everyone breaks. The reason torture is so unreliable as a way to gather information is because captives reach a point where they will say anything to make it stop. The truth, yes. But lies as well.

  The Cowboy is sure he can get something out of this man. But there’s the issue of time. Yuri demands that the harvest quota must be met in just a few days. And the Cowboy has work to do.

  “Your lips are dry,” the Cowboy says. “You’re thirsty.”

  There are water bottles on a nearby shelf. The Cowboy opens one, tilts it up to the man’s lips.

  The man drinks in large, greedy gulps. Some of the water spills down his chin, his chest.

  “So wounded. So beaten. I bet you were quite impressive, in your prime.”

  When the water is empty, the Cowboy walks over to the wall of tools, and removes the pneumatic piercer from the peg.

  “Have you ever had a piercing?” The Cowboy asks, expecting no answer.

  Expectations are met.

  “This is a nail gun. It’s been modified to fire piano wire instead of nails. Right now, you’re in the middle of nowhere. No people for hundreds of miles. But some volunteers still try to run, even when there isn’t any place to run to. For a while, we tried an old standard. A ball and chain. But, incredibly, volunteers were willing to break their own feet and heels to get out of the shackle. So I came up with a modern take on an old classic.”

  The Cowboy places the barrel of the piercer under the man’s lower lip, pointing downward.

  “I’m going to shoot a length of 3mm steel wire through your chin, and attach the other end to a large weight. I call it fish-hooking. This is a ball and chain you won’t escape from. Unless, perhaps, you break off your own jaw. I don’t recommend that, by the way. This part of the body is just packed with sensitive nerves.”

  The Cowboy gets in close, to watch his eyes.

  “Hold still. This will only hurt… for the rest of your life.”

  The man’s eyes remain steadfast. Even when the Cowboy pulls the trigger.

  There is minimal bleeding, but the Cowboy knows from first-hand accounts that the pain is considerable. Screams and tears are common. Begging and whining almost universal.

  This man doesn’t make a sound. His pain tolerance is exceptional.

  There is no time to test that tolerance now. But maybe, after Yuri hits his quota…

  It would be an interesting way to kick-off the 24/7 live feed of Usher House 2.0.

  With a quick motion, the Cowboy pulls half a meter of wire through the man’s flesh and bone, and makes a loop under his chin. There’s already a steel sleeve on the long end, and the Cowboy threads the short end through it, then uses a large pair of specialty pliers to crimp them together.

  “Does it hurt?” the Cowboy asks.

  Rather than wait for a response that won’t ever come, the Cowboy pulls down on the wire, making the man’s mouth open like a ventriloquist dummy.

  “Yes, Cowboy, it hurts a lot,” the Cowboy says in a lower voice, matching his words to the jaw movements.

  Amusing as it is, the man doesn’t smile.

  The Cowboy returns to the tool wall and selects the tin snips, cutting the wire after measuring out four meters. The long end gets clamped to the handle of a thirty-six pound cast iron kettlebell.

  “I’ve hunted down over a dozen men who’ve tried to escape. This weight might not seem like a lot, but after a mile it might as well weigh a million pounds. You’re strong. But no one is strong enough to get away.”

  The Cowboy gives the leash a firm tug.

  The man doesn’t make a sound.

  It’s kind of exciting.

  So exciting, that the Cowboy switches off the cameras. For some privacy.

  Vibration in the front pocket, and the Cowboy checks a message.

  COMING HOME TONIGHT?

  The Cowboy eyes the half-naked man and texts back, NO.

  After the reply, the Cowboy turns off the phone and tucks it away.

  There will be no further disruptions.

  “You don’t fear pain,” the Cowboy says to the man. “Do you fear intimacy?”

  No reply. Just hollow eyes.

  The Cowboy removes a glove, and again touches the man’s chest.

  Goes lower.

  And lower.

  “Remember what I told you? You’re my property, to do with as I please.”

  Then the Cowboy begins to stroke.

  PRESENT

  JACK

  I was out of the camera frame, Harry had cleaned up his jacket, and the twins were fussing with their laptops.

  “We’re running the opening in ten, and then live in twenty,” said Heckle.

  They’d set up a laptop teleprompt monitor for Harry, and I watched as the opening title sequence played out.

  First it was a shot of McGlade, at a desk, looking constipated and pretending to type on a keyboard.

  Cut to McGlade on a beach, surrounded by women in bikinis.

  Cut to McGlade on a firing range, shooting his .44 Magnum.

  Cut to a stock footage explosion.

  Cut to some guy in a ski mask, breaking into a house.

  Cut to McGlade, with an AR-15 rifle.

  Cut to the Crimebago Deux, with a crash zoom.

  Cut to me, from earlier that day, squatting next to Waddlebutt. As promised, my face was pixelated. Crash zoom on the penguin.

  Cut to black and white security footage of a robbery in progress at a convenience store.

  Cut to McGlade, fake-punching someone in the face.

  Cut to two people having sex on infrared video.

  Cut to a stock footage explosion. The same explosion as before.

  Cut to title, PRIVATE DICK LIVE AND STREAMING IN YOUR FACE.

  Cut to a tight shot on McGlade, looking serious. Then silly string shoots up into frame from below his waist, and he winks.

  “Subtle,” I said.

  “Shh,” said Heckle, “we’re live in three, two…”

  He pointed to Harry, who began to read his lines.

  “Greetings, Tubers. As you probably know, I’m Harry McGlade, rich media celebrity and real-life private detective, and I’m ready to stream all over your face.”

  I rubbed my eyes and tried to pinpoint all the life mistakes I’d made to lead me to this moment. There were too many to count.

  “This week on Private Dick Live and Streaming In Your Face, I’m taking you along for a ride in my fabulous crime lab on wheels, the Crimebago Deux, as we hunt an American modern slavery ring and the notorious serial killer known only as the Cowboy.”

  The monitor cut to a recording of an older guy who had uncombed Einstein hair and a face shaped like an egg. He was sitting at a desk, and there were books on a shelf behind him. The graphic at the bottom of the screen read, Dr. Cornell Holden, Columbus College, Chicago.

  “Isn’t Columbus a joke college where the only admission requirements are a check and a pulse?” I asked.

  “Shush,” McGlade shushed me.

  “Slavery is a thirty-billion-dollar industry,” Dr. Holden said. “To put that in perspective, Starbucks has seventeen thousand shops worldwide and made ten billion last year.”

  Cut to a prerecorded McGlade, sitting across from Dr. Holden, looking serious. “So you’re saying that human trafficking is three times more popular than coffee?”

  Cut to Holden. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Cut to McGlade. “Does that include all of the non-coffee items that Starbucks sells? Like scones?”

  Cut to Holden. “I would assume so, yes.”

  Cut to McGlade. “Scones make me unhappy. Are they bread? Are they dessert? Make up your damn mind already. So… this modern slavery problem, this certainly doesn’t happen in the US.” He leaned closer and raised an eyebrow. “Or does it?”

  Cut to Holden. “It does. The majority of people sold are women and children, for the sex trade, but adult males are commonly sold for slave labor. It’s estimated that over three hundred thousand Americans are victims of human trafficking every year. That’s the population of Orlando, Florida.”

  Cut to McGlade. “So Orlando is where all the slavery is happening?”

  Cut to Holden. “No. I just used that as a comparison.”

  Cut to McGlade. “Is Disney a part of this?”

  Cut to Holden. “I don’t think so.”

  Cut to McGlade. “Are you sure? What kind of person would wear a Donald Duck costume in hundred-degree heat? I’ll say it if you’re too scared; a person with no choice. Tell me, Dr. Holden, how slavery can hide in plain sight in this country. Surely not all slaves are dressed up like lovable cartoon characters.”

  Cut to me, unable to comprehend the stupidity playing out before my eyes.

  Cut to Holden. “Chances are you’ve run into a sex slave and didn’t even know it. Forced marriage, prostitution, even adopted children, could be human trafficking victims. With labor slaves, you may have seen them on farms, or in factories, forced to work. Some slaves are domestic, like live-in maids or nannies.”

  Cut to McGlade. “So a man could have a wife, children, and a maid, all living with him, and they could all be slaves.”

  Cut to Holden. “Correct.”

  Cut to McGlade. “Like some sick, twisted, modern day slavery Brady Bunch.”

  Cut to Holden. “I suppose.”

  Cut to McGlade. “But even worse, because Alice isn’t allowed to date Sam the butcher.”

  Harry, sitting near me, said, “Heh. Good line. How many views we got?”

  “Two hundred sixty thousand, and going up fast,” Heckle said.

  Color me incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

  “How much ad revenue is that?” Harry asked.

  “Figure eight dollars per thousand views, that’s about two grand.”

  Harry nodded. “Not bad for the first two minutes.”

  I was obviously in the wrong profession. “You really just made two thousand bucks?”

  “Gross, not net. YouTube takes forty-five percent. Uncle Sam takes a chunk, as you know. But if we hit two million views a day, like I’m hoping, I can clear about a quarter mil per month.”

  “Private Dick McDude, you’re live in three, two…”

  Heckle pointed. Harry read off the monitor and spoke into the camera.

  “So according to Dr. Holden, human trafficking is a huge problem. And so are serial killers. As many of you are aware, I know psychos. I was even married to one, ha ha ha. My dear friend and former partner, the late, deceased, no longer alive Jacqueline Daniels, and I have managed to catch or kill more than a dozen of these assholes over the last few decades. And while Jack is very much gone, may she rest in peacepants, I am continuing the good fight and once again will risk my life and limb to chase yet another fine specimen of human garbage. This time, I’m after a real whacked-out pinhead who calls himself the Cowboy.”

  The monitor cut back to pre-recorded video, ominous organ music playing over a sketch of a crazy-looking man dressed up as a Cowboy.

  Dr. Holden’s voiceover: “The FBI estimates there are between one hundred and three hundred serial killers currently active in the United States. They’re responsible for three percent of all murders, which accounts for roughly five hundred victims per year. But what’s worse than a serial killer? How about the ghost of a serial killer?”

  “What did he just say?” I asked, as a very bad Flash animation ensued of the Cowboy picture starting to shimmer and float.

  “Paranormal shit gets more hits,” Harry said. “We found that out in the market study. Focus group ate it up.”

  I shook my head. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Heckle, hit count?”

  “Three hundred twenty thou.”

  “Who’s ridiculous?” Harry asked me.

  “Dressed in black,” Holden continued as the scene changed to a landscape shot, “always wearing a mask, the Cowboy’s identity is unknown. What is known is his trail of victims, by some estimates more than sixty, strewn across the Great Plains, tied together by the specter’s unmistakable signature; a bullet in the head. But prior to that fatal coup de grace, a gristly commonality… most, or all, of the victims’ teeth… have been removed.”

  Cut to a skull animation, the teeth disappearing one by one.

  “Could the Cowboy be the disembodied spirit of Charles Kork, infamously known as the Gingerbread Man?” Holden asked. “Roaming the countryside, seeking vengeance against the man who killed him?”

  Cut to a newspaper headline and picture, featuring Harry, from the Gingerbread Man case.

  “On in three, McDude. Three, two…”

  Jeckle pointed. McGlade read off the prompter.

  “We know very little about the Cowboy,” Harry spoke into the camera, “but besides the bodies of the deceased, we do have eyewitness statements. Rumors of a ghostly ghost train that silently roams the Midwest, searching for victims. Stories of modern day slaves being hunted and killed for sport. We also have an actual survivor. Someone who escaped the Cowboy, and lived to tell the tale. Watch the countdown clock and tune in again for our next episode of Private Dick Live and Streaming In Your Face. I’m Harry McGlade. Keep your lights on and your doors locked.”

  Cut to end credits, which lasted only a few seconds, and then Heckle said, “We’re off.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  Jeckle nodded. “We’re keeping the episodes under four minutes. Studies have shown that’s when viewers’ attention starts to wane.”

  I noted the clock on the monitor was counting down from one hundred and eighty minutes.

  “And you’re going live again in three hours?”

  “That’ll give us enough time for ep one to go viral on social media,” said Heckle.

  “We should have triple the audience for ep two,” said Jeckle.

  Harry turned to me. “What did you think, J-Dawg?”

  “I weep for humanity’s future.”

  “Did you like Dr. Holden? He’s head of the Urban Legends Department at Columbus.”

  “You just made that department up.”

  “I didn’t. But its existence is shrouded in doubt and speculation.”

  “What does Dr. Holden have a doctorate in?” I asked. “Chupacabras?”

  “I dunno. Horticulture, I think.”

  “He’s a tree doctor? Seriously?”

  “No. It was something else with an h. Uh…” Harry snapped the fingers on his good hand. “Human Resources.”

  “He’s got a PhD in HR,” I stated, letting it sink in. That seemed even more ridiculous than horticulture.

  “Jackie, J-Dawg, you’re missing the bigger picture here. We got—how many views, Heckle?”

  “Just passed half a mil.”

  “Half a million hits. And that episode will continue to get hits, forever, without putting any more work into it. With TV, you get paid when it first airs, but the residuals for reruns and Blu Ray releases are miniscule and eventually taper out. By the time it gets on Netflix, the only one making money is the studio. But this web series will still be lucrative when Harry Junior is my age. It’s like a stock that keeps paying dividends. And as more eps are produced, the dividends are going to go up.”

  “So it doesn’t matter that it’s awful?”

  “Do you live in this world, Jack? Everything is awful. That’s not the point. This show will get me back on the A-list. Lucrative endorsement deals. Hollywood parties. Dates with beautiful women that I don’t have to pay by the hour. Maybe the show is a bit sensationalistic and caters to the lowest common denominator, but there’s no downside here.”

  I frowned. If I’d learned anything from my five decades of life, it was that there is always a downside.

  And it would probably come from out of nowhere and blindside us.

  THE MAN

  The man follows Harry McGlade on social media. He’s been following him for quite some time.

  He sits in front of his laptop and begins to watch Episode One of Private Dick Live and Streaming In Your Face for the second time. He pauses during the opening credits. Pauses on the brief shot of the woman, squatting next to the penguin.

  Her face is blurred out, but the man knows who she is.

  Jack Daniels.

  He knows all about Jack.

  Harry McGlade says that Jack is dead, but that’s not the truth.

  She’s very much alive.

  The man goes to the gun safe.

  Chooses a rifle.

  Ready or not, Jack. Here I come.

  PRESENT

  HERB

  Car #4 was hot and humid, smelled like body odor and piss, and every breath was labored. It felt like there was a truck parked on Herb’s chest, his head seemed to pound with his heartbeat, the metal cable looped through his jaw felt like a non-stop toothache, and he was so tired and hungry that he was practically sleeping on his feet, even though the overhead UV grow-lights were brighter than an operating theater.

  But, paradoxically, he was neck-deep in beauty.

  Hundreds—thousands?—of long, green pods, some almost as tall as he was, surrounded him, growing out of the dirt on the floor.

  Their bright flowers, pink and white and purple, waving on long stems.

  And when Herb leaned in close enough, the stench of enslaved men was masked by a scent of cherry blossoms, vanilla, a hint of citrus.

  It was a heavenly garden, located in the darkest pit of hell.

  Herb wasn’t sure how long he and Tequila had been working on the poppy farm. Probably no more than a few days, judging by scab formation. But it seemed so much longer.

  This place made the Mexican rehab prison look like an all-inclusive luxury resort.

  Clutched in Herb’s hand was a curved metal spatula, made of cheap, bendable tin and roughly the size of a cake server. On the back end of the wooden handle was a tiny fork with three prongs, each only a millimeter long.

  The routine was simple.