Despite how sick Brockman felt, he desperately needed water to soothe his parched lips, to clear the taste of bile from his mouth.
"I bet I can read your mind. I bet you're thirsty. Right, Gerald?"
Brockman closed his eyes.
Ali peeled their lids upward. "Thirsty?"
Hang tough, Brockman thought. Take it a moment at a time. Hope for somebody to break in and rescue me. Make Ali believe I'd rather die than tell him anything.
But what if it comes to that? I might in fact die.
Stop thinking like that.
Ali held up a pitcher filled with water and ice cubes. He swirled the cubes, making them clink against the pitcher. On the outside, moisture beaded, trickling down like rain on a window.
"Gerald, I'm getting tired of asking if you're thirsty."
Brockman tried to nod, but the straps kept his head in place. "Yes." His voice reminded him of the sound of a boot breaking crusted mud.
"That's all you needed to say." Ali poured ice cubes and water into a glass, inserted a straw, and raised it to Brockman's lips. "Easy. Only a little at a time. You don't want to get sick."
Brockman sucked on the straw, feeling the delicious, cold water fill his mouth. Ali took the glass away as Brockman swallowed and ran his wet tongue over his crusted lips. He had thought that the crust was from dried bile. But now he tasted the copper of blood.
Ali dipped a cloth into a basin of water. He twisted the excess from it and pressed the cloth against Brockman's forehead. He stroked Brockman's cheeks with it. The cloth felt wonderfully cool.
"The Russian, Gerald. Tell me about the Russian. This doesn't need to be difficult. The Russian was long ago. Four years ago. I don't want you to talk about what's happening now. Four years ago. It's safe to talk about that. It's safe to talk about the Russian."
Through his groggy, nausea-and-pain-filled thoughts, Brockman tried to decide what to do. Stay silent; suffer more pain. Or try to string Ali along. Seem to give him information but not really tell him anything. Stop him from…
"Have more water, Gerald." Ali lifted the glass, extending the straw.
Brockman opened his mouth. At once, Ali shoved the rag into it, then yanked the handles on the flex machine, thrusting Brockman's legs up, propelling his arms inward.
Brockman's rotator cuff ripped. He could hear it give, like a zipper being yanked open. In the blazing lights, his mind went black. Fire filled his throat. He fought to breathe.
Coughing. Mouth open. Rag gone.
Water streaming over his head. Dripping. Cooling.
Shadows.
"Have more water, Gerald."
Brockman blearily opened his eyes and saw that Ali had turned off most of the lamps. The one that stayed lit had its shade adjusted properly, shielding the bulb's glare. His parched, burned skin felt refreshingly cool.
Ali took away the basin, part of the contents of which he had poured over Brockman's head. Again, Ali extended the glass and the straw. Desperately thirsty, Brockman studied it, afraid that, when he opened his mouth, Ali would again yank away the straw and shove the rag between his lips. He was conscious of his wet hair clinging to his scalp.
"Drink, Gerald."
Brockman opened his mouth and sucked on the straw. He rinsed bile from his tongue. He spit it out, unable to project it far, some of it landing on his pants. He sucked more water, swirling it, swallowing, purifying his throat.
"I promise to protect you from Carl Duran," Ali said.
"He kind of seems in control, don't you think?" Brockman murmured. "All the protectors who've already died. Nobody could protect them."
The shadows in the room were luxurious. He wanted to close his eyes and-
"I can fix it so you seem to disappear, Gerald. He'd never be able to find you."
Disoriented, Brockman realized that Ali had managed to engage him in a conversation, a sin of being interrogated that had to be avoided at all cost.
At all cost? Brockman thought groggily. Look at what it's already cost me. After the last three years, do I care anymore? Do I want to keep living like this?
He licked his coppery tasting lips. "What if…"
Ali waited.
"What if he's not the one I'm afraid of?" Brockman asked.
"Then who are you afraid of?"
"All of you. Need more water."
Ali extended the straw.
Brockman sipped.
Ali prompted him. "Afraid of all of us?"
"Protectors. Afraid of what you'll do if you find out."
Ali set down the glass and raised an electrical box with a switch on it and numerous plugs attached to it. When he flicked the switch, the room blazed again. All the lamps were attached to the box, all the bulbs suddenly glaring.
"No." Brockman groaned. The heat swept over him.
From the shadows behind the glare, Ali asked, "What are you afraid we'll find out?"
"Suppose I did something."
"Something?"
"Sleepy. Feel sleepy."
"Don't worry, Gerald. The glare and the heat of the lights will keep you awake. What did you do?"
"How can you protect me from…"
"Stay awake, Gerald, or I might need to tear your other rotator cuff. Protect you from what?"
"Keep me from being punished."
"A deal, Gerald? Is that what you're asking me to make with you? A promise to protect you from Carl Duran and from your fellow protectors?"
"Can you do it?"
"I promise you this. You tell me what I want to hear, and I'll look after you as if you're my closest friend. I'll do everything in my power to get you out of whatever trouble you're in."
"It'd be a…"
"Be a what, Gerald?"
"Relief. The bastard held it over me for so long."
"Tell me," Ali said.
18
The building was made of weathered boards. It was twenty-feet-square, single-level, with a dusty window on two sides and a black stovepipe protruding from its sloped roof. The door was blank wood. On leashes, two dogs sniffed at it.
"They don't seem interested," one of their handlers said.
"The same as the other buildings. So far, no indication of explosives," the second handler told Cavanaugh.
Cavanaugh looked around-at men coming in and out of the farmhouse, whose door they'd rammed in; at other men searching the barn, whose padlock they'd cut.
"No indication of radiation, either," a man said, walking over with a Geiger counter. "A dirty bomb or anything like that."
"Or smallpox or anthrax," another man said. He held a compact device programmed to identify the DNA of selected bacteria and viruses. His hands were covered with latex gloves.
"And the place tests negative for stashes of drugs," Rutherford said, joining them.
A man with bolt cutters indicated the building's locked door. "Shall I do the honors?"
Cavanaugh walked to where a window provided an inside view of the door. Through the dusty glass, he didn't see any sign of a booby trap, but even though trained dogs had failed to indicate that they smelled explosives, he needed to be sure.
Reaching into a windbreaker, he pulled out a twist tie. "Free the lock," he told the man with the bolt cutters.
When the lock fell to the ground, Cavanaugh eased the door open a quarter inch, knelt, inserted the twist tie through the narrow gap, and slowly raised the pliant strip from the ground, alert for any sign of resistance from a wire attached to a detonator. While Jamie aimed her flashlight, searching for a reflection off a wire, Cavanaugh drew the twist tie along the entire door.
"Anybody care to step back?" he asked the group.
They thought about it.
"Wouldn't hurt to crouch behind that car," one of the dog handlers said.
"John, why don't you and Jamie go with them?" Cavanaugh asked.
What Jamie did instead was cautiously open the door.