Screwed by Eoin Colfer Read Free Book Online Page B

and I know it’s him not from the single syllable but from the inverted-cauldron shape of his head and the fact that his narrow-set eyes don’t quite line up with the eyeholes. “Look who’s awake.”
    Krieger whistles. “Thank Christ for that. I thought the second dart might have killed him.”
    Fortz punches his partner’s bare shoulder, which is matted with fuzz. “So why did you give him the second dart, moron?”
    “I was angry with you, Dirk,” says Krieger, whose body language screams bitch. “You’ve been ragging me all week.”
    Dirk Fortz does his eye-rolling thing. “Shit, Krieg. We’re partners. Ragging goes with the turf.” He turns to me. “That’s quite a ticker you got there. I never saw a guy still jabbering after getting sparked.”
    I have crescents of pain behind my eyes and would really like a nap, but I figure keeping the conversation going will delay whatever shit storm is drifting my way.
    “Depends on the weapon. I got hit with fifty thousand volts last year, knocked me out of my skin. What’ve you got there? Thirty?”
    Fortz’s lip juts out through the hole in his gimp mask. “Nah, it’s fifty. Well, that’s what it says on the barrel. You never know with these fucking things, right? A bullet’s a bullet. But Tasers could be shooting fairy dust for all I know.”
    “Feckin’ electricity,” I agree good naturedly, going for reverse Stockholm syndrome. “That’s some sneaky invisible shit.”
    Krieger interrupts our bonding session. “Dirk, we’re at fifteen grand already,” he says, tapping the laptop’s screen. “We should get oiled.”
    It’s a little difficult to understand what Krieger is saying because of the mask. I really hope he didn’t say oiled.
    “Fifteen grand,” says Fortz, clapping his hands. “Twenty is our reserve, which you should feel very proud of. Five more and we’re good to go.”
    Good to go? Nothing about this situation is good as far as I’m concerned. I have an idea what’s going on here, and half of me almost doesn’t want my suspicions confirmed. The other half of me blurts: “What the hell is happening, Fortz?”
    The detective scratches his beer gut and ignores the question. “You probably guessed they make porn in this building, McEvoy. Friend of mine lets me use a room on occasion. Did you know that they shot the entire Twelve in a Bed series in that bed behind you? Sunny Daze made her debut in this very room.”
    “No way,” says Krieger. “You never told me that. I love her flicks. Especially Good Daze and Bad Daze.”
    “That was a classic,” says Fortz and is lost for a moment in fond reminiscence.
    I try again. “Come on, guys. What am I doing here?”
    Fortz picks a scalpel from the table. “Deacon said you were smarter than you look, so figure it out, why don’t you? Let’s look at the clues: You’re handcuffed to a chair in a porn studio. There are two guys in rubber watching pledges mount up on a laptop with a built-in webcam. Whaddya think’s going on? Poker night?”
    It’s pretty conclusive stuff, but cops have been known to concoct elaborate scenarios to trick confessions out of suspects. My old army buddy, Tommy Fletcher, told me that two guards from Athlone once dressed up as al-Qaeda to try and get him to sell them a trash bin on wheels full of Stingers that they were convinced he kept in his yard.
    I would have sold ’em the bin too, he admitted. But they had one whiskey too many in a hot bar and their beards melted off. Coupla red flags right there.
    Tommy. What a fecking nutcase.
    “Maybe, you’re trying to set me up,” I venture. “Trick me into confessing something.”
    “You got something to confess?” asks Fortz.
    “Nothing worth this much trouble.”
    “Bang goes that theory,” says Krieger.
    “So that’s it? You’re just gonna auction me online?”
    “Yup,” says Fortz. “People gotta pay to log on and watch us torture you to death. You would be amazed at how many sickos are