Page 120 of Too Old for This
Junior stares at me.
“Not a bad poker face,” I say. “But you can stop now. I know Norma went to your father, trying to figure out why her daughter was making a docuseries about me. Your dad decided I was guilty of making her disappear. Yes? I’m getting warm here? So he’s been ‘helping’ Norma—and I use that term loosely—to try and put me in prison.” I sigh. “Because he failed to do it forty years ago.”
The look on Junior’s face throws me off. Genuine confusion.
“He didn’t tell you all of this, did he?” I say. “You have no idea what’s going on.”
Junior blinks. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m really not.”
“Youhave no idea what’s going on.”
The tone of his voice makes my confidence falter. Hedoesn’t sound like he’s catching up. Junior sounds like he is ahead of me.
“Then tell me,” I say.
He smiles and jerks his arm. “Untie me.”
“No.”
“Then I guess you’ll never know.”
I hold up the stun gun, hoping there’s enough juice left in it for one more good zap.
He keeps smiling.
I walk over to the corner, near the door, and pick up the knife that fell out of my hand. Next, I grab the hammer out of the elastic waistband on my slacks. I set both down on the table, line them up side by side, and look at Junior.
CHAPTER 65
Torture has never been a predilection of mine. Inflicting pain for enjoyment is distasteful. And as a means of extracting information, sometimes the threat of pain is enough.
Not for Junior. He doesn’t say a word.
The other thing about torture is how much time it takes. Break a finger or two. Yank off a few fingernails. Pull a few teeth. If none of that works, you’ve painted yourself into a corner. No choice but to go further.
Chop a finger. Cut off an ear. Flay some skin from an arm or a leg or even a cheek. After that, the burning.
Eventually, they break and say something. Maybe the truth, maybe not.
I refuse to play that game. Nor do I want to draw this out. Burke has caused enough trouble. He changed my life once, when I had to move and become someone else. He changed it a second time by sending Plum to my house.
And now, this time, his son.
I grab a handkerchief out of my bag and shove it into Junior’s mouth. No sense in making more noise than necessary.
Next, I remove the plastic liner from one of the garbage bins and slip it around Junior’s right foot. He’s too confused to react immediately. Otherwise, he would try to move his foot around. He seems a little mesmerized, wondering what I’m going to do next.
I pick up the knife and bend down again, ignoring the pain in my knees and my arm, and I position the knife behind his foot.
One slice across the Achilles tendon.
Yes, the skin pops. I hear it right before he screams into the handkerchief.
Too much blood, too much pain. Everything about torture and knives is too much. Junior bucks against the chair, damn near breaking his back against it, but he doesn’t get free. He doesn’t pull the chair apart. I wait until he tires out, which doesn’t take nearly as long as I thought.
I pull the handkerchief out of his mouth.
