Abrams shaved, then showered. He dried himself, passed on the aftershave lotion in favor of some witch hazel, then wrapped himself in the bath towel. Boxer shorts in one hand, gun and holster in the other, he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.
She was standing in front of her dresser wearing only a pair of running shorts and holding a T-shirt in her hands. They held eye contact without speaking for what seemed like a long time, then Abrams turned and walked out of the bedroom.
Abrams sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. He had, he reflected, come a long way since Friday morning when he’d arrived at work to find a small stack of terse memos and notes on his desk, all signed Kimberly.
There was a knock on the bedroom door and Katherine called out, “May I come in?”
“Sure.”
She entered the living room, dressed in white cotton shorts and the blue T-shirt, carrying her shoes and socks. She looked him up and down, dressed in the green bath towel. “You won’t get far in that.” She smiled, then sat in the armchair and pulled on her sweat socks. Abrams found himself looking at her legs.
After a few seconds of silence, they both said simultaneously, “I’m sorry—” then both smiled.
Abrams said, “I should have knocked.”
“Well, I should have… dressed when I heard the shower running.”
“We’ll get it together next time.”
She tied her running shoes. “I see you hung your clothes neatly on my kitchen table. Why don’t you get dressed behind me while we talk?”
“Right.” Abrams walked to the small round table in the corner and began dressing.
She said, “We can’t both hide out here forever.”
“No, but there is a certain safety in numbers.” He tucked his shirt in and slipped his shoulder holster on. “I suggest that whoever is still alive by tonight stay at the house on Thirty-sixth Street. The police are watching it.”
She nodded. “That sounds sensible. Claudia will enjoy the company.”
Abrams didn’t respond. He walked around the armchair and sat on the couch across from her. He put on his socks and shoes.
She stood, stretched, and touched her toes. “Well, this will be a good run. I’ll meet you at your place in about an hour.”
“Fine.” He stood and slipped on his jacket. “Is there a group that meets at City Hall?”
“Yes. People leave in groups between seven and eight. I’ll be all right.”
He unbolted the door and looked into the small hallway, then turned back to Katherine. “Take a taxi to City Hall.”
“Of course.” She stood and looked at him. “Tony… you know, I’m starting to feel guilty about dragging you into this.”
He smiled. “I had no plans for the long weekend anyway.”
She didn’t respond.
Abrams looked at her. “Where do you think we might meet Peter Thorpe?”
She stared back at him, then replied, “Anywhere along the route.”
“Well, we’ll keep a sharp eye out for him.”
She nodded.
Abrams pulled the door closed behind him, drew his revolver, and began walking down the four flights of stairs.
32
Peter Thorpe walked the length of the long, dimly lit garret and stood beside the hospital gurney. He looked down at Nicholas West, who lay naked on the table, bathed in bright light, a black strap securing his legs, another across his chest and arms.
Beside the table were two intravenous stands, a heart monitor, a rolling cabinet that held medical instruments, and two electrical consoles. There were tubes and wires running from West’s body. Anyone coming onto the scene would think they were seeing a terminal patient; in fact, they were.
Thorpe put on a pair of black wraparound sunglasses and regarded West for a few seconds, then asked, “How are you, Nicko?”
West managed to nod his head as he squinted into the blinding spotlight.
“Good.” Thorpe bent closer to West. “Could be worse, you know.”
Thorpe’s head cast a shadow over West, and West was able to open his eyes for the first time in many hours. He stared up at the face hovering over him and focused on the black, curved sunglasses, trying to recall, in his drug-clouded mind, the name of an animal, then mumbled, “A mole… you’re a mole… ”
Thorpe laughed, then said, “When I was a boy, Nick, I used to follow those raised mole tunnels across the lawn. Sometimes I’d be rewarded at the end of a tunnel. I would see some slight movement… I’d carry a spade with me, and I’d drive that spade into the sod where the mole was burrowed, and cut the little guy in half.”
West said nothing.
Thorpe smiled. “The image of that blind, stupid mole, thinking he was safe in his pathetic tunnel, eating his grubs, but leaving an unmistakable trail, always stayed with me, Nick. And when that spade severed him in half, I wondered what passed through his feeble brain. Why did nature provide so inadequately for his survival? Is there a spade poised above my head? We’ll discuss that.”
Thorpe moved back, and the blinding spotlight fell full on West’s face again, forcing him to shut his eyes. Thorpe smiled, then turned to Eva. “How are his vital signs?”
The big Polish woman nodded. “He is a healthy man. Good blood pressure, heart rate, breathing.” Eva checked the catheter inserted in West’s penis, then stooped down and pointed to the urine-holding bag. “His water is clear.”
Thorpe glanced at the lower shelf of the gurney. There was also a jar for collecting aspirated fluids from the lungs, and a rectal tube running through a hole in the gurney. Eva said, “There is no more solid waste.”
Thorpe reached up and snapped off the spotlight. West opened his eyes and the two men stared at each other for some time. Finally, Thorpe spoke. “Poor Nick. But you always knew, didn’t you, that you were doomed to wind up naked on a table like this?”
West nodded. “… knew…”
Thorpe leaned closer to West. “Did you ever think it would be my table?”
West opened his mouth and his words came out in slow, labored syllables. “Peter… please… don’t do this to me… ”
“Why not?” snapped Thorpe. “I’ve done it to people who deserved it less than you.” Thorpe added, “To people I’ve respected more than you.”
“Peter… for God’s sake… I’ll tell you whatever you want to know… please, this is not necessary… ”
Thorpe looked at the red digital LCD readout. “The voice-stress analyzer says that was a lie, Nick.” He looked at the polygraph paper. “And the lie detector says the same thing. You know what happens when you fib.”
West shook his head violently. “No! No! No!”
“Yes, yes yes.” Thorpe nodded to Eva, who was waiting expectantly with two alligator clips in her hands. She attached the clips to West’s scrotum.
Thorpe moved the dial of the direct-current transformer.
“No! No! N—” West’s face suddenly contorted into an agonized grimace and he screamed as his body convulsed. “Ahhh… Ahhh!”
Thorpe turned off the transformer. He said to West, “You know, Nick, it was I who perfected this method of interrogation. It’s unofficially called the Thorpe Method. I always wanted something sinister named after me. Like Monsieur Guillotine’s little gadget, or Lynch’s law… ”
West’s eyes were rolled back and saliva ran from the corners of his mouth.
Thorpe went on, “It’s a combination of mild drug doses, coupled with electric shock. I combine this with physical restraint to give the subject a feeling of helplessness.” He yawned, “God, I’m tired.”
“… Ooooh…”
Thorpe seemed not to hear. “Also, you’re given a balanced diet of sugars, vitamins, and protein so your brain won’t start shorting out. Do you realize that starved prisoners can’t remember things they’re being asked about, even if they wanted to talk? I also use some experimental memory drugs. Very advanced technique.” Thorpe put his hand in his pocket and jingled some change. “And, of course, I have the voice and polygraph analyses so that you only get a jolt when you’re lying. ‘The professional interrogator must suppress his natural sadistic tendencies. To inflict pain for its own sake is counterproductive. It builds resentment and resistance on the part of the prisoner.’ You only get it when you deserve it.” He looked at Eva, then at West. “We must be modern. Agreed?”