by Randy Singer
He stared at the ceiling for a while, then closed his eyes to concentrate on the puzzle set before him, including the possible wording for the search requests he would use in his next message. He thought about sending that message right now but realized how suspicious that would look—logging back on to Westlaw a second time this late at night, even though tomorrow’s activities didn’t really require any research. Plus, another message now might confuse and distract Wellington. No, he would stick with the original plan and give Wellington until tomorrow morning to decipher the last message. Patience. Nothing would change between now and then.
That settled, Finney began to relax, his thoughts jumbling together until he entered that land where reality and illusion merge, engulfing Finney in a fitful dream of Chinese water torture and a hellfire preacher who resembled Charles Darwin.
Before long, Finney was snoring.
53
The next morning, Nikki reached Murphy’s legalistic father, but the man wasn’t buying her routine. “Look,” she finally said, “I’m the law clerk for Judge Finney, who is one of the contestants on Paradise Island, a good Christian man like you, and I’ve got to ask you a few questions about your son.”
“You lied to me,” Pastor Martin said, condemnation riding on every word.
“Not really. I lied to your assistant. She lied to you.”
“You’re despicable.”
“A good man could be in danger—” Nikki began. But before she could finish, the phone line went dead.
She tried calling back but couldn’t get past Martin’s assistant, who also accused Nikki of lying. She tried one more time, and when the assistant started in on her again, Nikki trotted out her favorite Scripture verse. Actually, the only Scripture verse she knew by heart. “Judge not or you’ll be judged,” Nikki said, and this time she hung up the phone.
Less than two minutes later, Wellington called. “I deciphered the next message,” he said proudly.
“Tell me quickly about the code,” Nikki said. “I’m running late for court.” It was another white lie, but by now she had quit counting.
“You were right, Nikki. The key was understanding the link between the code and chapter 4. When Jesus was asked for a sign—”
“Wellington! I can’t do this right now.” She had taken the day off to get a manicure and finish some errands that had been piling up. Fitzsimmons had made a snide comment about her work ethic, but Nikki wasn’t worried. Finney would be back soon.
Right now she was on her way to the gym and didn’t want to spend the entire drive listening to code-cracking details.
“Here’s what it says,” Wellington began, the stiff formality in his voice showing his irritation. “‘I have pc evidence of a murder conspiracy. Go to Feds and get warrant. No publicity.’”
Nikki turned off her car radio. “Say that again.”
Wellington repeated the message, then added, “I’m guessing that pc means ‘probable cause.’”
“Um . . . yeah. That’s probably right.” Nikki pulled into the right lane and tried to focus on what this meant. “Are you sure about this, Wellington?”
“When asked for a sign to prove He was the Messiah, Jesus pointed to His own resurrection, which He predicted would occur three days and three nights after the Crucifixion. I finally realized that the small letter t, the most frequent letter in the chapter 4 code, was actually a sign for the cross. After that realization, I made a chart containing every letter and every number that appeared exactly three symbols after each t in the code message. That turned out to be the solution for chapter 4. When I did the same thing with Finney’s Westlaw searches—wrote down the letters that appeared exactly three spaces after each t in his Westlaw searches—I ended up with this message.”
“Okay.” Stunned, Nikki congratulated Wellington and got off the phone, collecting her thoughts as she drove. Finney really was in trouble. This was no ploy to gain a competitive advantage in a game show. Probable cause for a murder conspiracy. Nikki’s stomach tied itself in knots.
Finney was counting on her. But she didn’t know anybody at the FBI. She didn’t even know if the FBI had jurisdiction in the Galápagos Islands. She did have a few contacts in the US Attorney’s office, but then another thought hit her. Of course. If anybody had connections, he would.
She dialed Preston Randolph’s private cell phone and reached him immediately. Without spilling the details of the codes, she explained to Randolph how she had received a coded message from Finney that had been deciphered by Wellington Farnsworth and that she needed to contact the FBI. Within minutes, she knew this had been the right move. Randolph told her to book the first flight to Washington DC on his nickel and take a cab to his office. He would make some phone calls to some connections he had. Nikki could meet with the Feds right in Randolph’s conference room.
“Better have Wellington available by telephone,” Randolph said. “He’ll have to tell the agents how he deciphered the codes.”
It’s who you know, Nikki thought as she hung up the phone. She turned around and headed back to her apartment. The gym and the manicure would have to wait.
Finney sat straight up in bed, then felt his head whir. Where was he? What time was it?
Knocking. Somebody was knocking on the door. He cleared his thoughts and looked at the clock: 9:11. Blood started coursing through his veins, fueled by his frustration at sleeping through his alarm on such a critical day. Then he remembered—he hadn’t set the alarm. The knocking grew louder.
“Coming,” Finney yelled, then started his morning cough. He stumbled out of bed with burning lungs and with intestines that cramped in protest at the forced cleansing of his system. He managed to throw on a T-shirt while hacking and headed to the front door in his gym shorts and T-shirt, stopping at the kitchen sink to cough up a fair amount of phlegm.
He opened the door and found the Swami and Gus standing there, somber faced. Gus didn’t have his huge camera, and Finney’s stomach dropped. He knew immediately the news would be bad; he could see pain written all over the Swami’s normally cheerful face.
“I slept in,” said Finney apologetically. “Of all mornings.”
“Can we come in?” the Swami asked.
“You don’t have to ask.”
The two men walked into the condo and took a seat in the TV room. Finney joined them, and the Swami spoke first. “They think Horace might have had a heart attack this morning.”
Finney went numb, hoping this was still part of some extended bad dream. His thoughts raced to the chubby smile of his friend—the innocent vivacity that made Horace so much fun to be around. “Is he okay?” Finney managed.
“They think so,” the Swami said, and Finney took a breath. “He complained of severe chest pains, and the island physician looked him over. They’re trying to decide whether to send him home or not.”
At that moment it dawned on a still-groggy Finney what had happened. His buddy was trying to get off the island so he could deliver Finney’s message. “You think I could see him?” Finney asked.
“Probably,” Gus said. “They let me talk to him this morning. He actually looked pretty good. It’s probably just the pizza.”
“We’re supposed to be in court in about forty minutes,” the Swami reminded Finney.
Finney stood and stretched. No time to waste. “I better get ready,” Finney said. “I’ll see you guys in court.” He headed back to the bathroom for a shower. This morning he would have to skip the shave.
Finney turned on the faucet and ran the water until he heard the front door shut. Then he went to the kitchen and, blocking the camera with his back, slipped a sharp knife and plastic bag into the waistline of his shorts. He went back into his bedroom, picked up a thick book on Islam he had checked out of the Paradise Island library, and headed into the toilet stall. Once inside, he cut out the middle pages of the book and stuffed inside it the tape Horace had filmed last night. He would return the book to the library later today.
He put the pages he had cut from the book inside the plastic bag, sealed the bag, and dropped it into the reservoir on the back of the toilet. He replaced the lid and smiled.
He took the book back out to his bedroom and placed it on his desk, checking the clock. He had just enough time to log on to Westlaw and see if Wellington had solved his last critical message. Plus, he needed to send another message of even greater importance.
If Nikki and Wellington already had the Feds involved, then Finney would try to get Horace to stay on the island. Finney now believed he was in real danger. He needed an accomplice on site more than he needed someone helping Nikki pressure the Feds. Finney clicked on his Internet browser and stared at the message on the screen in disbelief: “Since all courtroom sessions except the closing arguments for the finalists have now been concluded, you will no longer need Internet research. Accordingly, access to the Internet is denied.”
Finney thought through his alternatives and decided he had to trust Wellington’s code-breaking abilities. Finney would operate on the assumption that Wellington had deciphered the last message and had gone to the Feds with Nikki. That being the case, he would ask Horace to stay with him on the island. At least that way Finney knew he could trust his own cameraman. Somebody to guard his back.
Finney threw on his clothes and paid Horace a visit. Within minutes, the chubby little man’s stomach and chest began feeling better.
54
They strapped Finney into something that looked like a cross between a dentist’s chair and an electric chair. He was in a stuffy windowless room in the main building on Paradise Island, the same building that housed the library. Finney, like the other contestants, had been shown this room and others like it two days ago, presumably to increase his anxiety. The room smelled like the turkey sandwiches the setup crew had eaten before they threw the wrappers in the trash. Finney wondered if the smell of food was part of the torture.
Tight iron wrist and ankle shackles bound him to the chair. He wiggled and felt the shackles rub uncomfortably against his skin. They fastened a seat belt contraption tightly around his waist and tilted the seat back. Last, they clamped a thick shackle over his neck so that he couldn’t move his head more than a few inches.
“You okay?” McCormack asked.
“Do I get a last cigar?” Finney asked.
“Seems like you’ve already had a few too many of those,” McCormack replied.
They tilted the chair back even farther so that Finney was nearly horizontal, looking straight up at the ceiling. The end of a small hose hung about four feet above his forehead. On the wall he could see the digital clock, the figures set at zero hours, zero minutes, and zero seconds.
“As we explained before, there’s a panic button at the bottom of the armrest about two inches from your thumb,” McCormack said. Finney wiggled his thumb until he found the button. “That’s the one,” McCormack confirmed. “If you push that at any time, the water torture will stop immediately and you will be out of this round of the competition. Dr. Andrews, the gentleman who examined you earlier this week, will be checking periodically to monitor your vital signs. We also have a clinical psychologist, Dr. Hargraves, who will be making rounds as well. The camera on this tripod will be taping the entire time, and our control center will monitor the footage. Anything you say will be heard in the control center.”
“What about room service?” Finney asked.
“Okay,” Bryce McCormack said, “amateur hour’s over. Let’s get this started so I can set up the next contestant. Any final words or predictions before we start, Judge Finney?”
Finney rolled his eyes toward the camera. “I would say myself and the Swami are the ones to watch,” he predicted. “We’re the only ones who know the key to outlasting this thing.”
“We’ll see.” McCormack turned from Finney and spoke into the air. “Let’s get it started.”
On cue, a drop of water from the plastic hose that ran from the ceiling to its point of suspension just above Finney fell on his forehead, close to his nose. As the digital clock ticked off the first two seconds, another drop fell. They moved the chair just a little so that the next one plunked right in the middle of Finney’s forehead. He watched the next drop form . . . drip . . . and blinked just before it hit his forehead . . . splat.
Drip . . . splat. Drip . . . splat. This could be a long day. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.
A few days ago, Finney had done his Internet research on what he was about to experience. The ordeal would not be physically painful. Even now, the dripping water was more an annoyance than anything else. After some period of time, different durations for different people, a victim would begin dreading the next relentless drip. Increased anxiety, caused by the helplessness of not being able to avoid the next drip, would ratchet up the psychological pressure exponentially. If a person was held in place long enough, the unremitting drips would literally drive the victim mad.
Not that far of a drive for some of us, Finney thought. He was trying hard to keep a sense of humor about this.
Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat. Though he no longer watched the drips forming, he still felt himself flinching just before each drop hit his forehead. Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat. Relentless. Like your son when he’s just learning to play the drums.
Tyler. Finney thought about Tyler for a few moments but quickly forced himself to dwell on something else. Finney decided to spend his first few hours refining his plan for ensuring that all the contestants, including himself, escaped Paradise Island unharmed. Small rivulets of water started running through his hair and down the side of his head. Splat . . . splat . . . splat. He assumed that by now Nikki and Wellington had solved his last message and procured the help of the FBI, though he would have no way of knowing for sure with his Internet access cut off. Although the code for chapter 4 was unconventional, Wellington was the best cryptanalyst Finney had ever seen.
Splat . . . splat . . . splat. The drops made it nearly impossible to focus on anything but the next drop of water ready to hit his forehead. Think!
Hopefully, the FBI would raid the island and make arrests soon. Finney’s job would be to keep everyone alive until they did. Splat . . . splat . . . splat. If the FBI didn’t show up before the finalists were announced, Finney would have to take matters into his own hands. The darker possibilities tried to torment him, like the water dripping on his forehead. What if Wellington couldn’t crack the code? What if Finney had done the unthinkable—put Nikki in danger too? The thoughts made the shackles seem tighter, accentuating his own feelings of helplessness.
Splat . . . splat . . . splat. He ran through all the possibilities and gradually reassured himself. Wellington was a genius. How many times had the kid proved that? And nobody but Wellington, and possibly the Feds, would even know that Nikki was communicating with Finney. Finney’s instructions had been clear about that.
Splat . . . splat . . . splat.
Eventually he began to calm down again. He realized that the lack of food and the constant dripping of water had sent his mind spiraling into dark realms where it did no good to dwell. He had a plan and a backup plan. And right now the plan required that he endure this water torture. Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat.
He needed something to help him relax, not make him more tense. He could pray. He could use some relaxation techniques he had learned from the Swami. He could think about simpler times with his family—vacations, amusement parks, holidays. He could think of nothing at all. Splat . . . splat . . . splat. He could try to fall asleep . . . splat. Nope, that definitely wasn’t going to happen.
Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat. Finney focused on his breathing. Deep, relaxing breaths.
Splat. “Are we done yet?” he asked the camera.
Splat. The stillness in the room was his reply. Splat. More water ran down the sides of his head. Splat. Some trickled into his eye even though it was closed. He couldn’t reach up and wip
e the water. The shackles started playing games with his mind, chafing his wrists as he squirmed to get more comfortable. Splat. The quietness exaggerated the slight noise caused by the water drop hitting his forehead. He could tell that after a few hours it would seem like a sledgehammer. Splat. Or maybe an atom bomb.
Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . He resisted the urge to count.
The Assassin thought the Chinese water torture was a pitiful joke. The Assassin had seen torture. This didn’t qualify.
The real water torture, the Assassin knew, would come in a few days. The victim would be bound with these same shackles so that any rub marks would not be suspicious. The victim would be forced underwater and held there until he started swallowing large quantities of water, distending his stomach. Just short of death, the victim would be allowed to resurface so that the Assassin’s client could taunt the victim and order him submerged again. Five times. Ten times. It all depended on how long the Assassin held the victim under.
It would look like an accidental drowning, though the Assassin and the Client had a much better name for it in their coded messages. Baptism. What was it the Christian churches said? The Assassin had looked it up on the Internet. “Buried with Christ in baptism . . .”
A holy saying turned into a taunt.
The Assassin liked the religious overtones. It’s why he had selected his own code name for this assignment: Azrael. How clever. Too bad the secretive nature of the assignment prevented others from appreciating the Assassin’s creativity.