Without meeting her eyes he shook his head. She stood there awkwardly for another moment, uncertain what to say, then went to join Jake. He opened his arms, signaling for her to sit between his legs. After a moment’s hesitation, she obliged. “You’re sure this chair can hold both of us?” she said in a low voice, feeling the plastic weave strain under their weight.
“Hell, I’m not sure of anything.” He nuzzled her hair affectionately. “But if it breaks I’m totally blaming you.”
She punched his arm in retaliation. He grabbed her hand and kissed it, then pulled her in so she was settled against her chest. “I missed you, Jones,” he murmured into her hair.
She sighed and let herself relax. “Yeah, me too.”
“Yeah? ’Cause sometimes it doesn’t seem like it,” he said casually. “I mean, hell, we’ve been together for almost a year now. But your partner over there didn’t know you had a boyfriend?”
“We agreed to keep it casual,” she said in a low voice.
“I know. That’s getting tough, though.” He put a hand under her chin and gently turned her head so she was looking in his eyes. “I’m getting to where being half a world apart is too hard. I want to spend more than just a few days here and there with you.”
“Can we talk about this later?” she murmured.
“Yeah, sure.” He touched her cheek gently, then took a sip of beer and shook his head. “Jeez, you’re right, I’m sorry. I don’t know—I swear, something about being with you turns me into a chick.”
“A chick?” She raised an eyebrow.
He held up a hand defensively. “I mean that in the best possible way, of course.”
“Of course.” She smiled.
“You two are something else. Miss Kelly, I still can’t believe you never mentioned this hunk of a man you were hiding.” Kelly turned and shaded her eyes with one hand, blinking. Monica was standing over them, margarita glass clasped in one hand. She was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a Vermont PD T-shirt. Kelly noticed that today she’d taken the time to put on some makeup. If she wasn’t mistaken, Monica had curled the ends of her hair, too.
“See, Kelly? Someone appreciates me,” Jake said sotto voce.
Kelly ignored him. “Jake’s not around very much.”
“Oh.” There was a moment of awkward silence. Jake cleared his throat. “So, Monica, what did you think about this Evans character?”
“You mean, did I believe his story?” She arched an eyebrow, and her eyes flicked toward Kelly. “I think Kelly’s right, he doesn’t have the cojones to have killed the boys. He’d let someone else do it, especially if it helped him out somehow. But I can’t see him doing it himself.”
“But saying that the boy was downstairs when he went to bed, then he woke up and the kid was gone…” Jake’s tone was skeptical.
“I know.” Kelly shifted uncomfortably. “It sounded sketchy. But what were we supposed to do?”
“You could’ve arrested him,” Jake pointed out.
Kelly shook her head. “What, when we’ve already got another guy in custody for the same crime? Doyle would’ve blown a gasket if he’d known we were even talking to Evans.”
“So what if he bolts?” Jake asked.
“I don’t think he will, we didn’t give him any reason to. And we’ll keep digging next week, see if we can turn up anything else on him.” When Jake raised an eyebrow, she bit her lip in frustration. “What, you think you could’ve gotten more out of him?”
“Oh, I have my ways,” he said. A slow smile spread across his face, then halted when he caught her expression. “Easy, Jones, I’m just yanking your chain.”
She pushed herself off the chaise longue with both hands as she muttered, “I’m going to get another beer.”
“Have a margie, honey, you deserve it!” Monica called after her. “They’re nice and strong, I made ’em myself.”
“Burgers are done!” Zach called out.
“About time!” Monica clapped her hands together. “All right, everyone, help yourselves. Kelly, while you’re at it pour me another, and make it a double.”
The kid gasped as water seeped through the cellophane layers wrapped around his face, exposing only his mouth. The slow, steady stream of water coursed down, dribbling onto the board he was strapped to before landing on the concrete floor where it pooled in a filthy puddle. Dwight stood over him with a watering can, keeping one eye on his watch as he poured. When the boy choked, spitting up water, he eased up, slowing the stream to a trickle before abruptly stopping. The boy gasped for air between choking coughs. Dwight settled back on his haunches, surveying him with interest.
“What’s the problem?” he said jovially. “You said you were thirsty.”
The kid didn’t respond. He’d stopped talking a few hours ago. It was interesting, watching him go through the stages, Dwight thought. For a long time he’d maintained an attitude, like he really didn’t give a shit. Dwight had been impressed in spite of himself. For a little faggot, the kid was pretty tough. But once he started in with the phosphoric acid from the railroad hobby store, the blubbering and screams had finally come. In all honesty, he hadn’t been crazy about that part himself. When it burned the kid’s flesh it made a disgusting smell, and pouring it while wearing heavy rubber fishing gloves was tough. He’d come close to spilling some of it on himself. Plus he was a little worried about getting the stench out of the warehouse. He’d have to come up with a way to air the place out before Tuesday, when the day shift showed up for work. No, so far the water boarding had definitely been his favorite.
Dwight wondered if the Captain ever bothered with acid or anything like that. Despite all the hours he’d spent watching the Captain crawl in and out of the hatch, he’d never gotten a chance to see him in action; just saw the aftermath when he dug the boys up. And by that point it was hard to tell what had been done to them, they were such a mess.
He straightened and left the kid’s side, strode a few feet to a small stack of boxes and picked up a sheaf of papers from on top. He shuffled through them, squinting to see. He’d brought in a camping lantern, which helped a bit, but the lighting was still dim for reading.
“All right, let’s see,” he said to himself, flipping the pages over one at a time. “Done that one there, and this one.” He frowned as he read the next page, then glanced over at the kid and said conversationally, “They got one here about sodomizing with a baton, but I think you might like that too much. Kind of defeats the point.” On the Internet he’d found a list of the different interrogation techniques used at military prisons for enemy combatants, like at Abu Ghraib. Not that he had anything to ask the kid, but it couldn’t hurt to practice. That way, when he got to Langley and the higher-ups found out he already knew how to treat those damn ragheads, they might rush him through training. He kept flipping pages, then his eyes brightened. “Hot damn, almost forgot about this one.”
He put the papers down, came back to the kid and bent over him. “You stay put, I’ll be right back.” He turned on his heel and vanished into the depths of the warehouse.
Danny waited, naked and shivering in just a pair of shorts. He was strapped to a board that rested at a forty-five-degree angle, so his head was below his feet. The water was frigid, droplets of it pooled on his sunken stomach. He listened, straining his ears. The cellophane wrapped around his face was horrible, smothering. He’d always been claustrophobic anyway, hated elevators, but this was so much worse. He couldn’t imagine what the guy was going to do next, so far everything had been increasingly horrible. He tried to wriggle his hands and feet again, but they’d lost feeling a long time ago. His hands were bound together above his head, feet taped to the top of the slant.
Danny lifted his head up, flexing his stomach muscles, feeling the water run down his sides. The board rocked slightly as he did. He cocked his head to the side then, using his shoulders and hips, rocked to his right. The board followed his movement slightly, whatever the guy had propped it on wasn’t very stable. He strained his whole body now, tilting from one side to the other, the board moving with him until with a heavy thud it slid off the support and he landed on his side, hands and feet still strapped to the board. He lay there, gasping. Shit, if only he could see. The barest trace of light filtered through the layers of plastic binding his eyes. What now? he thought.
He heard a sound in the depths of the warehouse and felt a ball of panic rush from his belly to his throat, further constricting his breathing. Calm the fuck down, he told himself. His shoulder sank a few inches into the puddle formed by all the water that asshole had poured over him. He groped with his hands, trying to feel for something that might cut the tape, but they were lashed to the board too high off the ground to reach anything. The puddle he was lying in felt pretty deep, though. Not that a puddle would do him any good, no chance the duct tape was just going to melt away.
Danny was overcome by a sense of futility. His whole fucking life had been nothing but a waste. And now, the end of it was going to be spent entertaining this sick fuck. He had no idea how much time had passed, it felt like days but the guy kept going on about how much time they still had, how much more he was going to do to him. And the asshole kept whistling the melody from Tom Petty’s “American Girl”—the same refrain over and over like a skipping CD. It was driving him fucking batty.
Danny debated, lying there with so few options. His skin felt like it was on fire from the acid the guy poured over him, punctuated by cigarette burns, and his lungs hurt from coughing. He hadn’t thought anyone could be as mean as his pa when it came to hurting him; turns out he’d been wrong. Fighting it any longer hardly seemed worth the trouble. By the end of this he’d be dead anyway, it was just a question of what would be done to him meanwhile. It wasn’t like the movies, where he suddenly realized he had something sharp in his hand and could cut the tape and escape, or some shit like that. No, he knew for certain he was going to die sometime in the next few days, after this sick fuck checked off whatever else was on his list. When it came down to it, he really only had one option.
Making his decision, Danny leaned back, felt the board follow him, then strained his head forward with all his might until he flipped forward, the weight of the board pressing down, forcing his face into the puddle. His body fought reflexively for a few minutes, trying to lift his head out of the water, but the board forced him back under. Finally, his struggles stilled.
Dwight came around the tiers of boxes, talking to himself. “Goddamn, had a hard time finding this, stowed it away in a completely different bag…paid a hell of a lot of money for it, too, supposed to deliver more’n fifty volts…” His voice trailed off as he took in the scene. He darted forward, grabbed a corner of the board and lifted, flipping it back. The kid’s mouth was gaping, the visible parts of his face already an unnatural color.
Dwight ducked his head down, listened for breathing, then dropped the board and sank back into a crouch. “Well, I’m not gonna give you CPR, you fuckin’ faggot, if that’s what you wanted,” he muttered angrily. “Fuckin’ waste of space that you are, couldn’t even follow the goddamn plan.” He raised the belt he was holding in one hand and spit out, “I spent a month’s fuckin’ salary on this, asshole!”
Dwight settled back so he was sitting on the floor, legs crossed. He glared at the boy for a few minutes. Bet nothing like this ever happened in Abu Ghraib, he thought, reaching into his pocket and drawing out three pennies. He proceeded to shift them through his fingers, one after the other, shuffling them with his thumb and middle finger until he felt himself calming down. Nope, that’s why you needed a full unit to deal with these bastards, going it alone was too tough. He idly wondered how the Captain did it, and with so many of them. Of course, he had a better place to keep them, Dwight reminded himself. Wasn’t like he was in a warehouse and had to keep stuff stored in bags all the way at the other end. Once, when the Captain was out of town, Dwight had snuck down to see the setup for himself. If he had a place like that, something like this would never have happened.
Standing, Dwight brushed off the seat of his pants and shrugged. “Fuck it,” he said with resignation. “I got a barbecue to go to anyhow.” He pointed at the kid. “I’ll be back to deal with you later.”
Nineteen
Simon Wentzel ducked low under some branches, stepping carefully to avoid the dry crackle of twigs snapping under his feet. It was in his sights now, just a few feet away. He shifted into a crouch, lowering himself down one inch at a time until he was settled on one knee. He felt his breathing slow as he zeroed in on his target. He’d been waiting years for this, it was hard to believe he was finally so close that he actually had the object of his obsession in his sights.
His movements were so measured as to be almost undetectable, like a plant arcing up to sunlight. Even though inside a voice screamed, For God’s sake, hurry up before you miss the opportunity, he forced himself to maintain his composure, to raise the binoculars one millimeter at a time until they were finally at his eyes, to carefully shift his index finger over the focus button, twisting with infinite care until the zoom was adjusted and the picture suddenly leaped into focus. In spite of himself he let out a gasp. His gut had been right, he’d known it. On reflection, the day had felt special from the moment he awoke. En route to the park he’d seen a heron in midflight, silhouetted against the waning moon—an auspicious omen. Then his car was the first in the lot, always a good sign. And the morning air was already perfect, warm and laden with jasmine. The promise of a gorgeous sunrise lurked in the shades of crimson seeping up the tree branches.
Simon’s chest swelled as he observed his prey. His body started to ache. Crouching in this position was hell on his artificial hip, but right now he didn’t give a damn. He watched, riveted, as his target lowered its head, eyeing the ground carefully. He eased the binoculars back down, slowly, slowly, maintaining his focus as he did so. Pacing himself, he edged his right hand across his vest to the left side, holding his breath, issuing a silent prayer that he’d get to it in time. As he withdrew an item from his pocket, his pulse quickened.