"Now didn't that get the kinks out?" Ali asked. "There's nothing like working the muscles a little to relax them and unwind at the end of the day and encourage conversation, right? But before we start our chat, let's review the basics of interrogation. The absolute certainties that you and I both know. No one, regardless of how strong and determined, can resist a steady assault. As sure as the sun rises, you know that the combined effect of weakness, pain, shock, trauma, fear, and disorientation will reduce you to a whimpering near-animal who'll do anything to stop the agony. Knowing that, you'll make bargains with yourself. Right now, you're thinking, 'I'll hold back information as long as I can. Maybe someone will burst in to rescue me. Or maybe the person I'm trying not to betray will suspect I'm being interrogated and take steps to protect himself and the mission. That way, if I eventually confess, it won't matter. Don't think about a day from now or an hour from now or even a minute from now. Just concentrate on this moment. I can deal with this moment. That's a do-able task.' Isn't that the attitude you were taught to have when you're being interrogated, Gerald? Sure.
"But this is what I'm going to teach you. Before tomorrow morning, you'll tell me everything I want to know, or else I'll cripple you. I'll leave your body so broken, your senses so impaired, you'll be a prisoner within yourself for the rest of your long days and nights. As I cripple you, you'll experience pain of a sort you never thought possible. Pain that won't ever end. At last, you'll talk. You know that. The question you need to ask is, since you realize you'll eventually surrender the information, why suffer the pain in the meantime? Of course, you need to prove that you're strong and brave. I understand, and I'll give you the chance to show your stuff. But the emotions that usually stop someone from talking are loyalty or fear. I can't imagine you feel loyal to whoever's killing your fellow protectors. So I'm forced to conclude that you fear this person more than you fear me. I'll make you a promise, Gerald. Tell me what I need to know, betray him, and I'll personally guarantee your protection. I'll make you another promise, Gerald. If you don't do what I ask, I'll make you fear me far more than you ever feared the person you report to."
Ali shoved the bile-soaked rag back into Brockman's mouth and pulled the levers on the machine faster than before, causing Brockman's legs and arms to jerk upward and forward with greater force, the weight against them threatening to tear sinews and ligaments and pop sockets.
Brockman's vision turned gray. Again, Ali removed the rag from Brockman's mouth, letting bile spew out.
"Talk to me, Gerald. Tell me about Carl Duran."
Chapter 15.
Even when viewed from a wooded hilltop a half mile away, the farmhouse, barn, and outbuildings were obviously in disrepair. As the sun rose, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford lay on cold ground behind red-leaved bushes, using binoculars to peer down past the stubble of a cornfield. In the mid-distance, a dirt road went from right to left. Beyond was a field of wild grasses that belonged to one of the few cherished places in Cavanaugh's memory of his youth, the farm where he had spent so many wonderful Sundays. At least, the Sundays had once seemed wonderful. Not because of what he had learned about making knives. The knives hadn't been as important to him as the time he'd spent with the person he once considered--and believed would always be--his closest friend.
With the sun behind them, they didn't need to worry about light reflecting off their binoculars, signaling their location. Even so, Cavanaugh took care that his were shielded.
"The place looks deserted," Jamie said. "Porch needs paint. Roof needs new shingles. The barn's listing."
"When Carl and I visited there, the old man kept it in perfect shape. He never let age slow him down."
"Sounds like someone I'd like to have known," Jamie said.
"I doubt John here would have. Not the way Lance was always cussing."
Rutherford looked amused. "Well, there's cussing, and then there's cussing ."
"This was the latter."
"According to the local FBI office, after the old man died, an English professor from the university in Iowa City bought the place," Rutherford said. "Gentleman farmer sort of thing. Sold some of the land to the neighbors. Leased out the rest."
"Yeah. I remember. When I was a teenager." Cavanaugh felt hollow. So much had happened in the meanwhile. Except for Jamie, so much of it had been painful.
"Four years ago, the professor retired and moved to Arizona." Lying on his stomach, Rutherford scooped up black dirt and studied it. "That's when Bob Loveless bought the place."
"Seems like Duran had a yen for the good old days," Jamie said.
Rutherford kept examining the dirt in his hand. "Awfully rich soil. Excellent loam. Breaks apart easily."
"Since when do you know about soil?" Cavanaugh asked.
"My dad was a farmer in Arkansas. I grew up, helping him plow and plant. What he wouldn't have given for soil like this."
"You've got all kinds of secrets, John."
"None like yours, Aaron."
"How strange it feels to be called that."
"Did the local FBI office talk to the neighbors?" Jamie asked. "Is there any indication that Duran actually lived there?"
"Someone matching Duran's description lived there off and on four years ago. A few of the neighbors dropped by to welcome him. They remember he was polite but that he didn't encourage socializing. When he smiled, it was sort of distant."
"Yeah, that's Carl," Cavanaugh said.
"As near as they could tell--tire tracks in snow, that sort of thing--he seemed to be there only a week or two at a time."
"So this is where he went between assignments," Jamie said to Cavanaugh, "the same as you went to Jackson Hole. This was his home."
"Close to Iowa City and Hafor Drive, where his real home was when he was a kid." Three houses up the street from mine , Cavanaugh thought. He remembered the two-story homes along the street. Most were painted an idealized white. Big front windows. Thick bushes. Luxuriant flower beds. Lush lawns. Again, he felt hollow.
"Then three years ago, according to the neighbors, he pretty much stopped coming," Rutherford told them. "That's when the place started looking worn down."
"Three years ago." Cavanaugh nodded. "After Carl got fired and wound up working for that drug lord in Colombia."
"The postman who drives this route says Bob Loveless gets magazines and bills. Renewal forms. Advertisements. Things like that."
"And tax forms," Cavanaugh said. "He needs to keep paying his property taxes, or else the county will take the farm. We need to assume someone comes here to check if there's mail and to forward it. Maybe the same person who pays his taxes."