for news of Patrick before drifting away. She was tired and scared. She wanted to go home but knew she couldn’t.
Patrick was alive. He had promised her a hundred times they would never kill him if and when they found him. For the first time, she believed him.
How much had he told them? That was the question.
How badly was he hurt? How much did they get from him?
She whispered a short prayer and thanked God that Patrick was still alive. Then she made a checklist.
Under the indifferent gaze of two uniformed guards, and with the feeble assistance of Luis, his ancient Puerto Rican orderly, Patrick shuffled down the hallway in his bare feet and baggy white military boxer shorts. His wounds needed air—no clothing or bandages now. Just ointments and oxygen. His calves and thighs were painfully tender, and his knees and ankles quivered with each step.
He wanted to clear his head, dammit. He welcomed the pain from the open burns because it sharpened his brain. Only God knew what vile blend of chemicalshad been pumped into his blood during the past three days.
The torture was a dense, horrible fog, but it was lifting now. As the chemicals broke down and dissolved and were flushed out, he began to hear his anguished screams. How much had he told them about the money?
He leaned on the windowsill in the empty canteen while the orderly fetched a soft drink. The ocean was a mile away, with rows of barracks in between. He was on some type of military base.
Yes, he’d admitted the money still existed, he remembered that because the shocks had ceased for a moment when this came out. Then he’d passed out, it seemed now, because there was a long break before he was awakened with cold water splashed in his face. He remembered how soothing the water felt, but they wouldn’t allow him a drink. They had kept poking him with needles.
Banks. He’d almost given his life for the names of some lousy banks. With hot current running through his body, he had tracked the money for them from the moment he stole it from the United Bank of Wales in the Bahamas, onward to a bank in Malta, then to Panama, where no one could find it.
He didn’t know where the money was once they’d snatched him. It still existed, all of it plus interest and earnings, he had most certainly told them that, he remembered now, remembered quite clearly because he had figured what the hell—they know I stole it, know I’ve got it, know it would be impossible to blow ninety million in four years—but he honestly didn’tknow precisely where the money was as his flesh melted.
The orderly handed him a soda and he said, “ Obrigado .” Thanks in Portuguese. Why was he speaking Portuguese?
There had been a blackout then, after the money trail stopped. “Stop!” someone had yelled from the corner of the room, someone he never saw. They thought they’d killed him with the current.
He had no idea how long he was unconscious. At one point he woke up blind; the sweat and drugs and the horrific screaming had blinded him. Or was it a blindfold? He remembered that now—thinking that maybe it was a blindfold because maybe they were about to implement some new, even more hideous means of torture. Amputation of body parts, maybe. And he lay there naked.
Another shot in the arm, and suddenly his heart raced away and his skin jumped. His buddy was back with his little play toy. Patrick could see again. So who’s got the money? he asked.
Patrick sipped his soda. The orderly loitered nearby, smiling pleasantly, the way he did for every patient. Patrick was suddenly nauseous, though he’d eaten little. He was light-headed and dizzy, but determined to remain on his feet so the blood would move and maybe he could think. He focused on a fishing boat, far on the horizon.
They’d blasted him a few times, wanting names. He had screamed his denials. They taped an electrode to his testicles, and the pain soared to a different level. Then there were blackouts.
Patrick
Patrick was alive. He had promised her a hundred times they would never kill him if and when they found him. For the first time, she believed him.
How much had he told them? That was the question.
How badly was he hurt? How much did they get from him?
She whispered a short prayer and thanked God that Patrick was still alive. Then she made a checklist.
Under the indifferent gaze of two uniformed guards, and with the feeble assistance of Luis, his ancient Puerto Rican orderly, Patrick shuffled down the hallway in his bare feet and baggy white military boxer shorts. His wounds needed air—no clothing or bandages now. Just ointments and oxygen. His calves and thighs were painfully tender, and his knees and ankles quivered with each step.
He wanted to clear his head, dammit. He welcomed the pain from the open burns because it sharpened his brain. Only God knew what vile blend of chemicalshad been pumped into his blood during the past three days.
The torture was a dense, horrible fog, but it was lifting now. As the chemicals broke down and dissolved and were flushed out, he began to hear his anguished screams. How much had he told them about the money?
He leaned on the windowsill in the empty canteen while the orderly fetched a soft drink. The ocean was a mile away, with rows of barracks in between. He was on some type of military base.
Yes, he’d admitted the money still existed, he remembered that because the shocks had ceased for a moment when this came out. Then he’d passed out, it seemed now, because there was a long break before he was awakened with cold water splashed in his face. He remembered how soothing the water felt, but they wouldn’t allow him a drink. They had kept poking him with needles.
Banks. He’d almost given his life for the names of some lousy banks. With hot current running through his body, he had tracked the money for them from the moment he stole it from the United Bank of Wales in the Bahamas, onward to a bank in Malta, then to Panama, where no one could find it.
He didn’t know where the money was once they’d snatched him. It still existed, all of it plus interest and earnings, he had most certainly told them that, he remembered now, remembered quite clearly because he had figured what the hell—they know I stole it, know I’ve got it, know it would be impossible to blow ninety million in four years—but he honestly didn’tknow precisely where the money was as his flesh melted.
The orderly handed him a soda and he said, “ Obrigado .” Thanks in Portuguese. Why was he speaking Portuguese?
There had been a blackout then, after the money trail stopped. “Stop!” someone had yelled from the corner of the room, someone he never saw. They thought they’d killed him with the current.
He had no idea how long he was unconscious. At one point he woke up blind; the sweat and drugs and the horrific screaming had blinded him. Or was it a blindfold? He remembered that now—thinking that maybe it was a blindfold because maybe they were about to implement some new, even more hideous means of torture. Amputation of body parts, maybe. And he lay there naked.
Another shot in the arm, and suddenly his heart raced away and his skin jumped. His buddy was back with his little play toy. Patrick could see again. So who’s got the money? he asked.
Patrick sipped his soda. The orderly loitered nearby, smiling pleasantly, the way he did for every patient. Patrick was suddenly nauseous, though he’d eaten little. He was light-headed and dizzy, but determined to remain on his feet so the blood would move and maybe he could think. He focused on a fishing boat, far on the horizon.
They’d blasted him a few times, wanting names. He had screamed his denials. They taped an electrode to his testicles, and the pain soared to a different level. Then there were blackouts.
Patrick
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