“Davey?” he said. The eyes were closed, but now there was an attentiveness, an alertness to him. Alan stepped back quickly, feeling foolish at his fear of this pathetic, disjointed bound thing on his floor. No two ways about it, though: Davey gave him the absolutely willies, making his testicles draw up and the hair on the back of his arms prickle.
“Set the chair down there,” Alan said, pointing. He hoisted Davey up by his dry, papery armpits and sat him in the seat. He took some duct tape out of a utility drawer under the basement staircase and used it to gum Danny down in the chair.
“Davey,” he said again. “I know you can hear me. Stop pretending.”
“That’s your brother?” Kurt said. “The one who—”
“That’s him,” Alan said. “I guess you believe me now, huh?”
Davey grinned suddenly, mirthless. “Still making friends and influencing people, brother?” he said. His voice was wet and hiccuping, like he was drowning in snot.
“We’re not going to play any games here, Davey. You’re going to tell me where Edward, Felix, and Griffin are, or I’m going to tear your fingers off and smash them into powder. When I run out of fingers, I’ll switch to teeth.”
Kurt looked at him in alarm. He moaned. “Jesus, Adam—”
Adam whirled on him, something snapping inside. “Don’t, Kurt, just don’t, okay? He tried to kill me tonight. He may already have killed my brothers. This is life or death, and there’s no room for sentiment or humanity. Get a hammer out of the toolbox, on that shelf.” Kurt hesitated. “Do it!” Alan said, pointing at the toolbox.
Kurt shrank back, looking as though he’d been slapped. He moved as if in a dream, opening the toolbox and pawing through it until he came up with a scarred hammer, one claw snapped off.