Saffire (12 page)

T
he creaking and buzzing and whining of insects began to lessen, gradually replaced by the songs of birds. I began to sweat under the burlap sack over my head.

My bladder hurt.

I'd paced myself on beer at the Coconut, but since arriving here I'd been alternately sitting and standing for hours, sliding up and down the center pole to stay awake, growing more aware of the pressure of my bladder.

I called for the guard.

No response.

I pushed against the center pole and heard a warning shout as the roof above me clattered. Tin roof.

I pushed again and tracked the guard's entry by the rising volume of the volley of Spanish.

I tried body language to express what I needed.

The unseen guard must have understood, but all he said was, “Bah.” Universal enough.

I bashed the pole to shake the roof again. Almost instantly, a blow struck me across the face, hard enough to daze me.

Universal enough.

I sat, and any chance of coherent thought was driven away by the willpower it took not to empty my bladder. Time began to move much slower than it had during my earlier cycle of thoughts about Raquel, then Winona, then what needed to be done at the ranch, then questions about my situation.

I was at the point of deciding I would simply void my bladder and soak my trousers when I heard the rustle of movement.

“Stand.” English with a heavy Spanish accent. A deep voice, almost a growl.

“Only if someone takes off my handcuffs so that I can relieve myself.”

“You do what we tell you and answer the questions that we ask.”

“Not if I end up wetting my pants. I promise if that happens, you can cut off my arms before we have a conversation.”

Whispers reached me.

A few seconds later, the deep voice said, “If you stand, the handcuffs will be unlocked. Then you will put your hands in front of you to be handcuffed again. At gunpoint, you will be led outside. After you have finished relieving yourself, you will be led back to this pole and handcuffed again with your hands behind you. The sack will be over your head. I advise you not to try anything heroic. The first bullet will be into your kneecap. The second, your other kneecap. Understood?”

Instead of a verbal answer, I stood. I heard the click of metal on metal. My wrists were released. I held them in front of my body. I was handcuffed again.

I did not feel powerless, however. My unseen captors had bent to my will, not the reverse.

Outside the hut, I heard a small snort of a horse. I wondered if it was attached to a carriage or wagon.

Behind the hut I eased the pressure of my bladder, aching with relief. When I'd finished buttoning my trousers, I was pushed roughly back through the doorway. The unseen man handcuffed me to the pole again with my wrists behind me. Ironically, with the pressure gone from expelled fluids, I became aware of my thirst. I doubted, however, that I would be granted water. I wasn't going to ask for something I wouldn't get. That would make me powerless again.

Behind me, someone slipped a cord over my head, lifted the burlap enough to slip the cord against my throat, and pulled so that my head was against the pole, with the cord cutting into my skin.

It was apparent I'd been deluding myself about having any degree of control over the situation.

“We are standing behind you,” the deep voice said.

We.
I guessed by rustles of movement that there were three or four men behind me.

The voice continued. “Your single hope of saving your life is to make sure you don't see our faces. I think you understand those implications. Please say yes if you understand.”

I gritted my teeth to keep my mouth shut.

The cord tightened.

“Yes.” I was stubborn, but I wasn't an idiot.

“Excellent.”

The burlap was yanked off my head.

I blinked against the sudden light. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that my guesswork had been correct. Dirt floor, which I knew because I'd scraped my boot heels against it. Crossbeams above, tin roof. Shanty walls of odd-sized pieces of pressed tin. A hammock in the corner with mosquito netting. Improvised as it seemed, the hammock would have been an infinitely more comfortable place to spend the night.

One other object drew my attention. It had been placed on the floor a few feet in front of me. The base was a short and wide plank, unpainted. Screwed onto the center was a crank handle, attached to a generator shaft in front of it. I understood the concept. Move a magnet through a wire coil, and electric current would flow in one direction as the magnet was pushed through the center of the coil and in the opposite direction as it was pulled. An alternating current. The stronger the magnet, the bigger the coils, and the faster the magnet moved, the more current would be supplied.

I saw boot prints on the back of the plank. This generator was big enough that a man needed to stand on it to turn the crank, which was why the large generator had been screwed down to the center of the plank. It had probably taken two men to carry it into the hut. That would have been the reason for horse and carriage or wagon. Hauling a generator this big up the hill without horsepower would have been too much work.

The ends of the wires were attached to metal clips. This generator could power a lot more than a light bulb.

“Do you recognize that contraption?” There was no pleasure in the deep voice to indicate the questioner enjoyed trying to strike fear into me.

I didn't answer.

Again, I felt the bite of the cord into my neck.

“Speak!”

“I want my hat. It's a good hat. Don't know how I'm going to find one like it down here.”

“Are you aware of what that is in front of you?”

I said nothing.

The next jerk of the cord was vicious.

“Yes,” I grunted. “I'm aware of what it is.”

What had I gotten into that unknown men were willing to torture me?

“Good. For your protection, you will be hooded again. Much as you might not want to see our faces, I've discovered that men will react violently to the current. The wrong turn of your head could be fatal for you. Nor do you want to see the man at the generator.”

Someone slipped the burlap over my head again, and I breathed in the familiar smell of dirt and potatoes.

“We'll start with your ears,” the voice said. “I like to start gentle. Otherwise I would have let you soak your trousers with your own urine. The current, as you might guess, travels well through damp saltiness, and those clips can be attached anywhere on the body, including portions far more sensitive than your ears.”

Even though I had been warned, I still flinched when hands reached under the burlap sack. I felt the scrape of the metal clips against my cheek and then my neck as those hands felt around to clamp one clip to each of my ears.

The bite of the clamps made me gasp. How did women endure what it took to pierce their ears?

Despite the pain, I felt a sense of disbelief that allowed me that kind of inappropriate speculation in a situation like this. The concept of humans inflicting torture on other humans was an abstraction to me. Intellectually, I understood that some men stood behind me with the power of my life or death in their hands, and intellectually, I understood they had coldly trussed me and promised to inflict pain. But emotionally, it still did not seem possible that—

I screamed before I could bite off the noise and felt my heels drumming the ground and the arch of my back against the pole. A surge of sheer white kept stabbing through my body like I'd been dipped in molten steel.

Just as suddenly, it ceased. I panted, trying to recover.

Again, without warning, it hit. I managed to keep my jaws shut, and the only sound that escaped me was muffled groaning, low enough that I could hear the cranking of the generator. This time it seemed to last longer, so long that when it stopped, I wondered if the intense contraction of muscles had cracked some ribs.

I panted again. Hard.

“Imagine then,” the voice said, “that after this, the clips are attached to other parts of your body. Usually, the chest area is next. And rarely, someone makes it to the third level, much lower on your body and much more sensitive. Shall we have a conversation? If so, we'll remove the clips.”

“Strangely,” I said as the heaves of my chest subsided, “at the moment, I find myself in a chatty mood.”

I wanted to survive this. Just for the privilege of wrapping my fingers around Miskimon's skinny neck and squeezing until the man's eyes bulged. What had he kept hidden from me that resulted in
this
? And where was he? How difficult would it have been to follow me after my arrest?

Hands reached under the burlap and removed the clips.

A second voice reached me. It was barely more than a whisper, but I was paying very close attention and heard each word clearly.

“Why are you asking questions about Ezequiel Sandoval?”

I sucked air in through my nostrils. It felt great to fill my lungs. The electricity had seemed to shrink them into raisins. “I met a girl who asked me to help her search for her mother.”

“We both know there is more to it than that. I have plenty of time. I can wait for the clips to be reattached. Why are you asking questions about Ezequiel Sandoval? Lie to me even once, and we go to the next level.”

I remembered what Harding had said the evening before in the dining room of the National.
“Ask your questions. I'll probably learn as much from what you ask as you would tell me about yourself.”

“There's not much point in answering if you're not going to believe my answers. Trust me, I'm very motivated to tell you what you want. I am here because of the girl. There's nothing else I care about in this country to keep me here.”

A long silence.

I flinched again as hands touched the front of my shirt. I made a hard twist with my upper body to shake the hands loose.

“Hold still,” the first voice said. “We do have the cord at your neck to keep you obedient.”

I felt a small jerk of the cord against my Adam's apple as a reminder. I stilled, and those unseen hands unbuttoned my shirt and left it on my upper body, the front open, my chest exposed.

“I think you understand where those clips go next,” the voice said. “I suggest you make sure your conversation doesn't frustrate my friend here.”

The whisper returned. “You sat beside the girl in Culebra as you waited to see Goethals yesterday. Nothing in your conversation with her indicated you had any interest in her situation. What happened during your meeting with Goethals to change that?”

“Ask your questions. I'll probably learn as much from what you ask as you would tell me about yourself.”

So…there had been a spy in the waiting room. No point in speculating who it might have been. I didn't see how knowing that could help, but knowing there had been a spy reporting to this questioner told me that I needed to proceed with caution. The threat to reattach the clips was not a bluff.

“It was suggested that I find out more about the situation.” I had no particular loyalty to Goethals, and they probably knew this anyway. “To keep embarrassment away from Cromwell.”

“Suggested by Goethals?” came the whisper.

“Yes.”

“Why did he choose you?”

“He probably thought I could keep my mouth shut. Bad judge of character. All you needed to do was light me up a few times and I'll tell you anything.”

I
did
feel chatty. On the one-in-a-thousand chance that Miskimon would actually do something to intervene, the longer I dragged out this conversation without reaching the next stage of the clips and generator, the better it would be.

“Let me rephrase my question. You traveled a long distance and, from all sources, made it clear you had no intention of staying in this country more than a day or two. If so, why did Goethals choose you?”