“I can help. Really.” His voice carried a hint of slur and his eyelids hovered at half mast, making him sound and look as if he’d had a bit too much to drink. He gave me a little smile that completed the picture. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I get the feeling you’re not going to tell me. But I saw you bring in the old man.”
He’d recovered from the amobarbital quickly. A little too quickly for my comfort. “So why did you pretend to be unconscious?”
“Would you find me less attractive if I admitted I wasn’t feeling exactly brave after all that happened earlier?”
Less attractive? Not likely. Whether Victor was friend or foe, he was certainly attractive.
But then, my taste in men tended to be suspect.
“So who is he?” Victor asked.
“A friend.”
“That’s how you referred to me.”
“In his case, it’s not a lie.”
“Ouch.” He gave me a puppy dog look, as if his feelings were genuinely hurt. “It’s the Sox fan thing, isn’t it? Be honest.”
I couldn’t keep from exhaling a half-stifled laugh.
“See? You think I’m funny. That’s a good basis for a friendship.”
I let out a long breath and narrowed my eyes on him. “You’re pretty cool under pressure, aren’t you Victor?”
“I don’t know. I guess. Have to be for my job.”
I supposed he was right. Facing life and death situations on a daily basis taught a person to compartmentalize their emotions. He wasn’t that different than me, in that regard. Except where he tried to save lives, I was more apt to take them.
“I know I’m not in the greatest shape right now, but he looked like he was close to going into shock. You need to stop his bleeding and stabilize him. I see you found what was in the bathroom. There are more supplies in the spare room’s closet.”
“Thanks.” I turned and started back to the kitchen.
“You could also use my help.”
I could. And I had to admit, everything about Victor felt sincere. But as much as I would like to have an EMT help me stop Kaufmann’s bleeding, I couldn’t cut Victor’s ties. Not until I was sure about him. “I can handle it.”
“I’ll bet you can.” A small smile curved the corners of his lips. “You’re a fascinating woman, Carmen. Scary, but fascinating. Are you planning on hurting me?”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“Let’s hope you don’t.”
I walked away from my lie, back down the hall to tend Kaufmann’s wounds. Once I was sure I’d done all I could to stop his bleeding, I’d be back.
And unfortunately for Victor, he wasn’t going to like what was coming next.
“Like debriefing, interrogation is about obtaining intelligence. But often the subject is hostile, and not willing to part with the information. Persuasion to cooperate is essential. First, you must gauge a subject’s suggestibility. Then, various means can be used to elicit information, including the Reid technique, good cop/bad cop, pride and ego manipulation, drugs, fear, and pain. While the effectiveness of torture remains unclear, I have no doubt you’ll eventually have to hurt a subject in order to get him to talk. Everyone has a breaking point. Find it.”
Kaufmann was unconscious when I returned to the bedroom. Using a zip tie like the ones I used to bind Victor, I secured his wrist to the headboard. I didn’t want him to move while I worked on his finger. I gave him several shots of local anesthetic and cleaned the stump of his finger with alcohol. Then it was time to stitch.
Even with him sedated and loaded with painkiller, I found myself flinching as I worked. Tending to my own wounds was one thing. Tending to another operative, or enemy, easier. But someone I cared about? The thought of causing Kaufmann pain, even though it was for his own good, set my teeth on edge and made my hands shake.
I knew the technique, but the forceps felt awkward in my hand, the action of penetrating the skin at a 90 degree angle with the curved needle nearly impossible. I went with simple, interrupted sutures, tying off each stitch of skin individually with a square knot. The technique took longer than I wanted, but it was strong and afforded a novice like me a chance to realign the skin between each stitch. Kaufmann would have a nasty scar, but I doubted that mattered when it came to a finger stub.
By the time I finished the sutures, cut Kaufmann free and wrapped his hand in anti-bacterial cream and gauze, I was exhausted. The adrenaline and amphetamines that had kept me going all day had ebbed, and the weight of my responsibility for Kaufmann bore down. My body ached from the scrapes on my feet to the slash in my scalp, and I’d give just about anything to shoot myself up with the amobarbital and slide into sleep.
But first, I had to deal with Victor.
I didn’t hear a sound from the apartment’s main room. The odor of the disinfectant I’d used on Kaufmann’s wound still hung in my nostrils, making it difficult to detect scents. Suturing Kaufmann’s finger had taken more time than I liked. Victor would be out of his fog by now, but with any luck, the amobarbital still in his system would lower his guard. A barbiturate, amobarbital or sodium amytal, was an effective sedative, but it also acted as a truth serum, similar to its relative sodium pentothal. Of course, the drug’s power as a truth serum was largely exaggerated. And if Victor actually was working with my doubles, he’d be trained to resist the effects.
But if he wasn’t…
I clamped down hard on that hope. I had to forget I liked this guy and focus on only the reality in front of me. If he was who he said he was, he would have the chance to prove it. If not, I’d end him.
I rummaged through my duffle, fishing out the supplies I needed. From the kitchen, I collected a mortar and pestle I’d noticed on my first search of the place, opened a bottle and spilled half a dozen tablets into the mortar. After grinding them to powder, I mixed in enough water to make a solution and filled a large syringe. A second syringe I filled with plain water.
The syringes and a pair of handcuffs in hand, and my pistol in my waistband, I walked down the hall for my rendezvous.
When I entered the room, Victor’s gaze skimmed my face then focused on my hands. “Again? Do you have some kinky thing for needles?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I made a show of laying out the syringes on the coffee table. I wanted to give him time to think about them, obsess on them, wonder what I was going to do next. An interrogation is a delicate thing, a balance of power. Normally I’d like to have more knowledge on my side. Facts to convince him I knew the truth, so he might as well come clean. Then all I would have to provide is the incentive. With Victor, I had no facts tying him to the women who were trying to kill me and no hint of who in the hell they were. With Victor, I would have to bluff like a master poker player.
When I finished placing my tools on the table, I sized up Victor, not saying a word.
“Is this where you tell me to talk? Look, I’ll talk about anything you want me to. Ask me anything.”
He looked small, lying on the floor, bound as he was. Much smaller than the man who’d answered the door earlier, fit and strong. Being tied and drugged and powerless, even for just a few hours, took a toll. It would help me get what I needed from him, but seeing him this way was a little like watching a magnificent bird with clipped wings or a Bengal tiger pacing bars of a concrete cage.
I took a long, deep breath and willed ice to envelope me. Getting the truth from Victor was all I could allow to matter. Since I was so bereft of knowledge, I’d start with the basics. “What is your name?”
“‘Come on, Carmen. You know my name.”
Exactly the response I’d expect from a regular person, one who couldn’t begin to believe he was being interrogated. Score one point for Victor the regular guy. Not that I planned to stop there. “You said you’d answer my questions.”
“Victor. Victor Cormack.”
“How did you find me online?”
“Find you? We met in the IRC chat. We hit it off. You k
now that, too. You were there.”
Of course, I knew that much. I also knew it wasn’t too hard to clandestinely monitor someone’s internet service provider and follow their Internet trail, even as careful as I had been to conceal mine. With plenty of time and planning, Victor could have discovered the internet relay chats I preferred and entered the same chat room under various names until he started up a dialog I liked.
The thought that a guy I met and liked would go to such lengths to set me up was a bit paranoid, perhaps, but being paranoid had kept me alive more than once. “Who helped you find out what IRCs I liked to frequent?”
“What?” He narrowed his eyes to blue slits and shook his head. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
Time to be more direct. “Who do you work for?”
“The Chicago Fire Department. You know that, too.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’d like to think this is some kind of game or joke, but I’m not sure that would be better.”
“No joke, Victor. Why didn’t you go to work today?”
“I told you—”
“That’s just the problem. You told me a lie.” I delivered the line with a certainty I grabbed out of thin air.
“I didn’t. I switched shifts.” He answered without pause, then gave a laugh flavored with a hint of bitterness. “Shifts can run long. I wanted to make sure I’d be free for our date tonight.”
I let my expression soften. I’d gotten nowhere so far, and I wanted to try another tack, one not so confrontational. But I had to admit, acting as if my feelings toward him had warmed wasn’t a tough trick after his last comment.
“Listen Victor, I know you didn’t expect me to show up here. I understand why you felt you had to lie. I also realize you weren’t aware of what went down at my apartment this morning.”
“This morning? What happened?” He actually appeared concerned.
Either he liked me too, or he was one hell of an actor. I ignored his query. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with that. I know you were just supposed to find me. And believe me, I understand about needing a little extra money, God knows. I’m not going to hold that against you. What I need to know is if they told you why.”
“Told me? Who? What did they tell me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Victor. I’m not the one playing games now. I already know how it went down. I can even believe whoever approached you didn’t give you a name. I just want to know why they were looking for me. You tell me that much, and your worries are over. I’ll give you another sleep shot, take my friend, and be out of your life forever.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. How can I tell you anything?”
I studied him for signs of lying—an averted gaze, fidgeting, sweating, blinking too little or too much—and came up empty. He was showing some signs of stress, his voice was pitched a bit higher than it would be if he was relaxed and his pupils were slightly dilated, but that was to be expected. He’d had a rough day.
I picked up the first syringe and slipped off the plastic guard.
“Carmen, please. You don’t have to do this.”
I shook my head. “Apparently, I do. I have to admit, I thought you’d help me with this. I’m disappointed.” The truth was, I was far from disappointed. Not only did Victor’s body language suggest he was telling the truth, he was also sticking by his claims of ignorance instead of jumping at the easy explanations and excuses I offered. Unfortunately that didn’t mean I could trust him yet. I had to test him over higher heat. I stepped toward him.
He eyed the needle in my hands. “What are you shooting me up with this time?”
“Something to help you remember.”
“Some sort of truth juice?”
“Something more effective.” I knelt by his side. Before he could brace himself, I stuck the needle into his muscle and delivered the dose.
“Ouch.” He shifted his weight, his movement limited to rocking a little back and forth on the floor. “Now what?”
Now it was time to wait. And watch. “I need you to answer my questions.”
“I told you. I can’t help you. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” He shifted again as if growing uncomfortable. After a few minutes, I noticed a little flush starting to bloom in his cheeks. “What was that stuff?” he asked.
I smiled. “A little something the U.S. government developed using the toxin of the cone shell snail.”
“Toxin?” He stared at me as if I’d changed colors. “You poisoned me?”
“You aren’t going to die right away. It’s a slow-acting poison.”
“Well, I guess that’s okay then.” He shook his head. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Fear spiked his words, driving his voice higher, louder.
Just the effect I was after. “Let me tell you a little about what you’re feeling.”
“Why are you doing this? What did I ever do to you besides think you’re hot?”
I tried not to hear the last part. “You’re experiencing a tightening in your chest, aren’t you? Next your face and neck will flush. You’ll start sweating.”
“That was how you made me feel before I found out you were some sort of sadistic maniac.”
I continued. “Your skin will become blotchy, your fingers tingly. You’ll feel sharp heat, like a sunburn. And then your body will begin to shut down.”
“So you’re killing me, why?”
“I told you. We need to talk.”
“And women wonder why men hate hearing those words.”
I turned away from him and paced across the small room, buying a few seconds of time to compose myself. I’d observed different defense mechanisms from people I’d interrogated. None had unnerved me as much as Victor’s flirty humor. It had been his humor that had first drawn me to him in the chat room. It had kept me coming back for more in our internet conversations since. But today, the way he still joked even while staring fear and death in the face?
It was an unspeakable turn on.
There was no more powerful aphrodisiac than facing death, and after the day I had, I’d probably feel turned on by half the male population. But that didn’t excuse my ever-growing crush on this man. Wanting to fuck Victor didn’t make him easier to read.
I moved to the window and looked out at the afternoon sun casting angles of light and shadow on the street below, taking a moment to harden my resolve and let the dose I’d administered catch up to him. With the amount I’d injected, it shouldn’t take long for him to feel all the symptoms I’d described. If the fear I sensed under his jokes was real, actually feeling the symptoms I’d described should make him eager to tell me everything I wanted to know.
Red blotches started showing on his neck. His forehead carried a sheen of moisture, his blond hair sticking in dark fringes. His breathing grew faster, bordering on a pant.
Finally I spoke. “How are you feeling, Victor?”
“At the moment, I’m leaning toward scared shitless.”
Just the effect I was after. I dipped a hand into my duffle and pulled the picture of the Russian hit man that I’d printed from his computer. I held it in front of his face.
“Let me guess, you’re expecting me to know who this guy is.” He canted his gaze up to my face and looked directly into my eyes, unwavering. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Again, I wanted to believe him. Even though giving me a name would save his life, he hadn’t. Every test I’d given suggested he was telling the truth. But was I missing signs because I wanted him to be an EMT from Chicago and not a spy out to kill me? I had to be sure. I had to push him further. “Then why have you been in contact with him?”
He stared at me, his lips open, breathing through his mouth. “What?”
He hadn’t been in contact with the Russian. Not that I knew. But I hoped watching his reaction to the accusation would let me get an accurate read on him. Right now, I was reading genuine bafflement.
Or a
n excellent actor.
I decided to press it. “Your arms are burning, aren’t they? Like a bad sunburn. And I’ll bet your fingers and toes feel like they’re being stuck with needles. Does your chest feel tight?”
His shallow breaths told me it did.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. Tell me, and I’ll say it.”
“I want the truth.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
I held up the second syringe and spoke, this time in Russian.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re saying…”
“Come on, Victor. If you want to live, you’d better quit fucking around.” I repeated my Russian statement, watching for some kind of acknowledgment in his eyes, some kind of reaction to my words.
He stared at me with wide eyes, on the verge of panic. “I don’t know what you want from me. You’re insane.”
This time I spoke in English. “You know that toxin I gave you?”
“How could I forget?”
I directed his attention to the second syringe with a shake of my hand. “This is the antidote. I’ll give it to you, but first, you have to help me. You have to give me the truth. Are you a spy?”
“Are you joking?”
“Are you a spy?” I asked again and watched him closely.
“Of course not. What the hell is going on, Carmen? Spies? Is this for real? Who talks about spies?”
“I’m not giving you this shot until you come clean.”
“And if I don’t tell you I’m a spy, I’ll die. I get it. But I’ve been honest. You’re not listening.” He gasped in a breath.
If he were anyone else, someone I didn’t give a shit about, I might believe him. But I just wasn’t sure I could trust my own instincts. Not where he was concerned. Still every objective test I’d given him had suggested Victor was on the up and up. And in light of that, I’d taken this interrogation as far as I was willing to go.
At least for now.
I set the syringe back on the table and picked up my razor. I crossed to him, knelt by his side and sliced the zip tie binding his feet. I took a step back, pulled up the tail of my shirt and flashed him my gun. “Get up.”
Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath Page 8
