At least Victor’s cat thought I was all right. Somehow that pleased me more than it should.
I ushered Kaufmann into the kitchen. The room was cramped, barely big enough for a small table slid against one wall. I smelled the faint odor of fried eggs, dish soap, and sour milk coming from the sink. Victor’s jacket hung on the back of the only chair. I guided Kaufmann to sit, and after checking the jacket’s pockets and finding them empty, I threw it around his shoulders.
A search of the refrigerator turned up a bottle of orange juice. I opened the twist top and gave it a sniff. Satisfied it was fresh, I gave it to Kaufmann and ordered him to drink. At least that would hydrate him and raise his blood sugar while I focused on stopping the bleeding. “Let me take a look at that hand.”
He set the bottle of juice on the table. Steadying himself with his good hand, he nodded and held out the other. “Go ahead.”
I unwound the bloody T-shirt, trying to steel myself against the tight expression of pain pinching his face and the sweat beading along his hairline. His skin looked like wax.
The strong, copper-sweet odor of blood oozed over me, making my stomach hitch. I clamped my bottom lip between my teeth and forced myself to look at the damage I’d caused. Where his index finger should have been, there was only a stub. Blood surged from the wound in time with his pulse. But as bad as it looked, I let out a breath of relief. At least Cory had taken the finger off at the joint and not severed the bone.
“What are you going to do?” Kaufmann’s voice was weak, his words forced out between clenched teeth.
“I’m going to disinfect it and put in a few sutures. I should be able to slow the bleeding, help it clot.”
He took a long drink then set the bottle of juice on the table. Swiping his good hand over his face, he let out a sigh. “Got a bullet for me to bite?”
“I was thinking of something more pharmaceutical…and effective.”
“Thank God.”
I led him into Victor’s bedroom. Once Kaufmann was comfortable on the bed, I dumped the yellow bag filled with money in the closet and pulled a clean syringe from my duffel along with the amobarbital I’d used on Victor. There was no need for Kaufmann to be clear-headed. Better to send him into a haze where the pain would be more bearable. Even better if he could sleep. And one of the best side effects of the amobarbital was the touch of amnesia it left behind. I couldn’t erase the trauma Cory had put Kaufmann through, couldn’t restore his finger, but at least he wouldn’t have to remember the next few hours.
“Care to hurry with that?” He gave me a little smile, but I could tell the gesture had taken a good amount of effort.
“By the time you wake up fully, the worst of this will have passed.” I rolled up his sleeve and gave him the shot. “I’m so sorry, Kaufmann. For your finger. For Cory. For all of it.”
He shook his head. Raising his good hand, he brushed my words from the air. “No reason to be sorry. You saved me, just like you said you would. But even more, you saved yourself.”
I narrowed my eyes on him, not following.
“When I first met you, you were on a bad path.”
“An understatement.”
“You changed, turned your life around, made something of yourself. I don’t know the details of your job, and I don’t think I want to. But I can tell what you’re doing, it’s important.”
A flush of heat pooled in my cheeks. I thought about the many men I’d killed. Bad men, every one, according to their dossiers. I could refuse jobs and had in the past. The only people I’d sanctioned had it coming.
But still, a contract killer is a contract killer. Even one who worked for Uncle Sam. “Kaufmann, I’m not exactly a Girl Scout. I’ve…”
“Hush. I’ve been a parole officer for a lot of years. I’ve seen a lot of young people get caught by bad choices. Very few can pull themselves out. You did.” His words were a little slurred now, the amobarbital taking effect.
I put my hand on his shoulder and guided him back on the bed. “Just relax.”
“I just want you to know…” His eyes became hooded, as if he was fighting to keep them open.
“Know what?”
“Couldn’t be prouder if you were my own daughter.” Kaufmann’s eyelids dropped lower. “Just want you to know that.”
I blinked and tried to swallow the tightness in my throat. I’d gotten him into this. All of it. And instead of blaming me, he’d given me what had to be the best words anyone had ever said to me.
I opened my mouth to explain what he meant to me, how much I loved him like I loved my own parents who had died when I was too, too young, but then I shut it without speaking, watching his breath settle into the steady rhythm of sleep. I replayed what he’d said in my mind, feeling the history, the emotion, the texture of each word, and then I folded and tucked them in the most private place in my heart. When he woke, I’d tell him all he meant to me, not that anything I could say would suffice.
For now, I just had to hope he knew.
I pushed up from the side of the bed and tossed the syringe into a wastebasket. I had some basic supplies in my duffel, but from my earlier search of the place, I knew Victor had more. I rummaged through the bathroom medicine cabinet, collecting items I might need. When I stepped into the hall, I heard the stir of movement in the apartment’s main room.
“I can help with that.”
I jumped at Victor’s voice, my heartbeat launching into double time. Pulling the pistol from my waistband, I slid into the room.
Victor lay in the same spot, still tied. No one else was in the room but Mozart, curled on the back of an overstuffed chair, giving herself a bath. I detected a whiff of cat box I hadn’t noticed earlier. The theme music for Jeopardy wafted through the walls from next door.
Satisfied the apartment was still secure, I put my weapon away.
“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 from 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 cu
t 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 had 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 ninety-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 antibacterial 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 duffel, 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 was 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 know 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 dialogue 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 goin
g 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.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 8