Page 71 of Skin Deep

I stepped back, and as I did, I hit the button on the floor with my foot. The table whirred to life, the top end lifting up enough to give Bowen a full view of the situation.

I had to give it to the Laskins. Their little murder funhouse was genius. It was an old meat packing facility tucked away in a mostly abandoned industrial complex. Just getting into the heart of the building had taken some careful navigation on our part. War said the whole place was laced with traps and one wrong step could kill us both. Thankfully, he knew his way around and brought us to a series of rooms in the northeast corner of the basement that he called his workspace.

One room held three refrigerated drawers the perfect size for storing bodies. On the opposite wall was a window that looked into the room where we stood, which was set up like an operating room with a big mechanical table in the center and adjustable bright overhead lights. A wide array of medical equipment sat around, all cataloged and labeled clearly. For a room in an abandoned factory, the place was surprisingly pristine and dirt free. Impressive.

While Bowen was still out, War had stripped him and hooked him up to a bunch of equipment, including putting an IV in his arm. I didn’t bother to ask what he was pumping into the guy.

War left the sink where he’d been scrubbing his hands and stepped up to the table, pulling on his surgical gloves. “Hello, Bowen.”

Bowen scowled. “If it isn’t the little Laskin-Volkov boy.”

“It’s just Laskin now,” War informed him as he prepared an injection. “DoctorLaskin.”

Bowen’s eyes focused on the needle in War’s hand. “I’m not impressed or afraid.”

“No? Then why is your heart rate so damn high?” War grabbed one of the monitors and spun it so Bowen could see. “And your blood pressure, too. Funny thing about lying. You can fool me, but you can’t fool the numbers.” War started squeezing the bag of clear fluid he’d been pumping into Bowen’s veins for the last half hour.

“What the fuck is in that?” Bowen asked, squirming.

“Oh this?” he said, adjusting something on the machine. “Just a harmless saline solution. Just in case.”

Bowen’s eyes flared wide briefly and he clenched his jaw. It took me a minute to realize that he was trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Feeling cold? Don’t worry,” War said. “That’s normal with as much of the solution as I’m pumping into you. It’s going in fast. If I did this at work, I’d lose my license. Good thing no medical board in the country gives one damn what happens to assholes like you.”

“Y-y-you will get n-nothing from me,” Bowen stuttered. “I would rather die than tell you anything.”

“Oh, you’ll talk,” War said. “Everyone talks. It’s just a matter of finding the right tool for the job. What do you think, Bowen? How many parts can you live without?” When Bowen didn’t answer him, he turned to me. “Care to place a wager?”

I crossed my arms and smirked. “He looks like a tough nut to crack. Bet he holds out until you get all his fingernails off.”

“F-f-fuck you!” Bowen spat. “Is this about that faggot I killed all those years ago?”

War snatched up a scalpel and sliced across Bowen’s bicep, making him grimace and hiss. “His name was Brandon.”

Bowen’s hiss turned to bitter laughter as blood poured from the gash. “All these years and that’s what you’re still pissed about? Boy, killing me won’t bring your fag boyfriend back.”

I watched War carefully. Bowen was trying hard to piss him off, probably hoping that War would lose his temper and kill him quicker than he meant to, but War wasn’t taking the bait.

“You know,” War said, bringing out a briefcase from the bottom of a cabinet, “I’ve met a lot of homophobic assholes in my time. You’re everywhere, like cockroaches, and like roaches, you run whenever the light’s cast on you.”

“I’m not a fucking faggot,” Bowen insisted.

“In my experience, the ones who cry that the loudest are the most likely to be in the closet,” he said and turned back to Bowen holding a scalpel. “Here are the rules. You get one chance to answer each of my questions. For each of your refusals, I get ten minutes to make any modifications to your body that I want, and I see lots of room for improvement, Bowen.”

“Fuck you!” Bowen spat.

War grabbed his chin tightly, waving the scalpel in front of his eyes. “Lie to me and I’ll take twenty minutes. For every helpful answer you give me, you get pain relief. How’s that sound?”

“Fuck you!” he shouted again.

War sighed. “Not very creative, are you? Let’s start with an easy one. Who is the ripper?”

He spat something in Russian at War, who didn’t seem moved by what he’d said.

War released him and stepped away, going to pick up a remote he’d placed on the surgical tray. He pressed a button and a LED timer on the wall started counting down. He closed his eyes, pulled up his surgical mask, and rolled his neck as music started blaring over the speakers set in the corners of the room. I smirked when I recognized the opening bars of “I Think We’re Alone Now.” Typical War choice.

Bowen’s eyes widened as War leaned over him, and he grimaced. To his credit, Bowen lasted almost fifteen seconds before he started screaming. He fought against his restraints, but it didn’t do him any good. War was in another world, wholly focused on the task at hand. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was mouthing the words to the song under his mask.

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