“You two angle the chair back,” I instruct while placing the thin white pillowcase over her head. “Let’s get started.” I’m handed the garden hose, which is pouring a steady trickle of water. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck you,” she spits through gritted teeth.
“Alright, Fuck You. Who paid you to kill Terina?” I don’t actually give a flying fuck what her name is. What I need is for her fear to hit override levels so that her Amygdala takes over. The fight or flight part of the brain will easily deem answering a question a better option than letting herself drown. Drawing out the dread amplifies her fear and gets me where I want to be that much faster.
I’ve studied these things not because I love torture, but for the opposite reason. I taught myself so that I could be effective at getting what I want with minimum damage because no sane human enjoys inflicting pain.
I do it because it’s necessary.
“I told you, I can’t give names.”
“Wrong,” I say matter-of-factly, then hold the hose over her face. She tries to escape the water by turning her head from one side to the other as it soaks the fabric and trickles into her nose and mouth, but she’s fighting a losing battle. She coughs and sputters, her arms and legs straining against the zip ties rendering her helpless.
I don’t leave the water over her for long. It doesn’t take long to feel like you’re drowning. After she has a second to catch her breath, I return to my questioning.
“Who paid you to kill Terina?” I ask again evenly.
Her answering scream is feral with rage.
“Wrong.” I return the water to her face, this time continuing for a few seconds longer than before. When she starts to gag, I allow her to breathe again.
“Protecting him isn’t worth it, trust me. Tell me who paid you to kill Terina, and we can all go home.”
“You won’t let me leave here alive.”
“Then you might as well end it quickly rather than prolong the inevitable.”
“Agree to let me go, and I’ll tell you.”
“Or, you can just tell mewho the fuck paid you to kill Terina!” I roar the final words, dousing her head in water yet again. This time, I let it continue twice as long as before.
When I turn the hose away, she begins to vomit inside her waterlogged cocoon.
“Pasha … it was Pasha Mikhailov,” she sputters hoarsely.
“You part of his outfit?”
“No,” she snaps adamantly.
“And where is he hiding?”
“I don’t know, okay?”
I give her the hose again. Her body jerks away from the seat of the chair, her wrists beginning to bleed beneath the zip ties. When I remove the water, she shudders from head to toe as she coughs and sputters.
“Dead … animals. That’s all I know. There were dead animals … everywhere.”
I’m not sure what to make of this revelation. “You mean like a crematorium?”
She shakes her head. “Stuffed. I forget what they call it.”
I envision the Modern Museum of History with all its animal exhibits. “Taxidermy.”
“Yeah.” Her head lists forward in defeat. “That’s it. Don’t know where. We only talked on video conference, but there were dead animals all in the background.”
I can tell we’ve gotten all we’re going to get from her. I take out my gun from its holster in the back of my pants and release the safety. I don’t drag it out, nor can she see the gun with the pillowcase still over her head. My gift to her. One quick bullet to the head, and it’s over.
“Take care of that,” I instruct the guys before walking back to my car. I call Renzo on the way.
