“Don’t insult me!” the interrogator shouted. “Admit it! You lie.”
“No,” Buchanan murmured. “Your witness is lying.” He trembled. “If there is a witness. How could there be? I didn’t kill anybody. I don’t know anything about. .”
Each time the interrogator struck him, it gave Buchanan a chance to steal opportunities, to wince, to breathe deeply and rest. Because the police had already taken his watch and wallet, he didn’t have anything with which to try to bribe them. Not that he thought a bribe would have worked in this case. Indeed, if he did try to bribe them, under the circumstances his gesture would be the same as an admission of guilt. His only course of action was to play his role, to insist indignantly that he was innocent.
The interrogator held up Buchanan’s passport, repeating with the same contemptuous tone, “Victor Grant.”
“Yes.”
“Even your passport photograph resembles this sketch.”
“That sketch is worthless,” Buchanan said. “It looks like a ten-year-old did it.”
The interrogator tapped the rubber hose against the bandage that covered the wound on Buchanan’s shoulder. “What is your occupation?”
Wincing, Buchanan told him the cover story.
The interrogator tapped harder against the wound. “And what were you doing in Mexico?”
Wincing more severely, Buchanan gave the name of the client he supposedly had come here to see. He felt his wound swell under the bandage. Every time the interrogator tapped it, the injury’s painful pressure increased, as if it might explode.
“Then you claim you were here on business, not pleasure?”
“Hey, it’s always a pleasure to be in Mexico, isn’t it?” Buchanan squinted toward the rubber hose that the interrogator tapped even harder against his wound. From pain, his consciousness swirled. He would soon pass out again.
“Then why didn’t you have a business visa?”
Buchanan tasted stomach acid. “Because I only found out a couple of days ahead of time that my client wanted me to come down here. Getting a business visa takes time. I got a tourist card instead. It’s a whole lot easier.”
The interrogator jammed the tip of the hose beneath Buchanan’s chin. “You entered Mexico illegally.” He stared deeply into Buchanan’s eyes, then released the hose so Buchanan could speak.
Buchanan’s voice thickened, affected by the swelling in his throat that the hose had caused. “First you accuse me of killing three men.” Breathing became more difficult. “Now you blame me for failing to have a business visa. What’s next? Are you going to charge me with pissing on your floor? Because that’s what I’m going to have to do if I’m not allowed to use a bathroom soon.”
The man behind Buchanan yanked his hair again, forcing tears from Buchanan’s eyes. “You do not seem to believe that this is serious.”
“Not true. Take my word, I think this is very serious.”
“But you do not act afraid.”
“Oh, I’m afraid. In fact, I’m terrified.”
The interrogator glowered with satisfaction.
“But because I haven’t done what you claim I did, I’m also furious.” Buchanan forced himself to continue. “I’ve had enough of this.” Each word was an effort. “I want to see a lawyer.”
The interrogator stared in disbelief, then bellowed with laughter, his huge stomach heaving. “Lawyer?”
The guard behind Buchanan laughed as well.
“Un jurisconsulto?” the interrogator asked with derision. “Que tu necesitas esta un sacerdote.” He whacked the rubber hose across Buchanan’s shins. “What do you think about that?”
“I told you, I hardly know any Spanish.”
“What I said is, you don’t need a lawyer, you need a priest. Because all that will help you now, Victor Grant, is prayers.”
“I’m a U.S. citizen. I have a right to. .” Buchanan couldn’t help it. His bladder was swollen beyond tolerance. He had to let go.
Urinating in his pants, he felt the hot liquid stream over the seat of the chair and dribble onto the floor.
“Cochino! Pig!” The interrogator whacked Buchanan’s wounded shoulder.
Any second now, Buchanan thought. Dear God, let me faint.
The interrogator grabbed Buchanan’s shirt and yanked him forward, overturning the chair, toppling him to the floor.
Buchanan’s face struck the concrete. He heard the interrogator shout in Spanish to someone about bringing rags, about forcing the gringo to clean up his filth. But Buchanan doubted he’d be conscious by the time the rags arrived. Still, although his vision dimmed, it didn’t do so quickly enough to prevent him from seeing with shock that his urine was tinted red. They broke something inside me. I’m pissing blood.
“You know what I think, gringo?” the interrogator asked.
Buchanan wasn’t capable of responding.
“I think you are involved with drugs. I think that you and the men you killed had an argument about drug money. I think. .”
The interrogator’s voice dimmed, echoing. Buchanan fainted.
6
He found himself sitting upright once more, still tied to the chair. It took several moments for his vision to focus, for his mind to become alert. Pain definitely helped him sharpen his consciousness. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been out. The room had no windows. The fat interrogator seemed to be wearing the same sweaty uniform. But Buchanan noticed that the blood-tinted urine had disappeared from the floor. Not even a damp spot. Considerable time must have passed, he concluded. Then he noticed something else-that his pants remained wet. Hell, all they did was move me to a different room. They’re trying to screw with my mind.
“We have brought a friend to see you.”
“Good.” Buchanan’s voice broke. He fought not to lose his strength. “My client can vouch for me. We can clear up this mistake.”
“Client? Did I say anything about a client?” The interrogator opened the door.
A man, an American, stood flanked by guards in a dim hallway. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair in a brush cut. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a too-small green T-shirt, the same clothes he’d been wearing when he’d come into the restaurant at Club Internacional in Cancun. The clothes were rumpled, and the man looked exhausted, his face still red but less from sun and alcohol than from strain. He hadn’t shaved. Big Bob Bailey.
Yeah, I bet you’re sorry now that you didn’t stay away from me at the restaurant, Buchanan thought.
The interrogator gestured sharply, and the guards nudged Bailey into the room, guiding him with a firm hand on each of his elbows. He walked unsteadily.
Sure, they’ve been questioning you since they caught you on the beach, Buchanan thought. They’ve been pumping you for every speck of information they can get, and the pressure they put on you encourages you to stick to your story. If they get what they want, they’ll apologize and treat you royally to make certain you don’t change your mind.
The guards stopped Bailey directly in front of Buchanan.
The interrogator used the tip of the rubber hose to raise Buchanan’s face. “Is this the man you saw in Cancun?”
Bailey hesitated.
“Answer,” the interrogator said.
“I. .” Bailey drew a shaky hand across his brush cut. “It could be the man.” He stank of cigarettes. His voice was gravelly.
“Could be?” The interrogator scowled and showed him the police sketch. “When you helped the artist prepare this sketch, I am told that you were definite in your description.”
“Well, yeah, but. .”
“But?”