54

They strapped Finney into something that looked like a cross between a dentist’s chair and an electric chair. He was in a stuffy windowless room in the main building on Paradise Island, the same building that housed the library. Finney, like the other contestants, had been shown this room and others like it two days ago, presumably to increase his anxiety. The room smelled like the turkey sandwiches the setup crew had eaten before they threw the wrappers in the trash. Finney wondered if the smell of food was part of the torture.

Tight iron wrist and ankle shackles bound him to the chair. He wiggled and felt the shackles rub uncomfortably against his skin. They fastened a seat belt contraption tightly around his waist and tilted the seat back. Last, they clamped a thick shackle over his neck so that he couldn’t move his head more than a few inches.

“You okay?” McCormack asked.

“Do I get a last cigar?” Finney asked.

“Seems like you’ve already had a few too many of those,” McCormack replied.

They tilted the chair back even farther so that Finney was nearly horizontal, looking straight up at the ceiling. The end of a small hose hung about four feet above his forehead. On the wall he could see the digital clock, the figures set at zero hours, zero minutes, and zero seconds.

“As we explained before, there’s a panic button at the bottom of the armrest about two inches from your thumb,” McCormack said. Finney wiggled his thumb until he found the button. “That’s the one,” McCormack confirmed. “If you push that at any time, the water torture will stop immediately and you will be out of this round of the competition. Dr. Andrews, the gentleman who examined you earlier this week, will be checking periodically to monitor your vital signs. We also have a clinical psychologist, Dr. Hargraves, who will be making rounds as well. The camera on this tripod will be taping the entire time, and our control center will monitor the footage. Anything you say will be heard in the control center.”

“What about room service?” Finney asked.

“Okay,” Bryce McCormack said, “amateur hour’s over. Let’s get this started so I can set up the next contestant. Any final words or predictions before we start, Judge Finney?”

Finney rolled his eyes toward the camera. “I would say myself and the Swami are the ones to watch,” he predicted. “We’re the only ones who know the key to outlasting this thing.”

“We’ll see.” McCormack turned from Finney and spoke into the air. “Let’s get it started.”

On cue, a drop of water from the plastic hose that ran from the ceiling to its point of suspension just above Finney fell on his forehead, close to his nose. As the digital clock ticked off the first two seconds, another drop fell. They moved the chair just a little so that the next one plunked right in the middle of Finney’s forehead. He watched the next drop form . . . drip . . . and blinked just before it hit his forehead . . . splat.

Drip . . . splat. Drip . . . splat. This could be a long day. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

A few days ago, Finney had done his Internet research on what he was about to experience. The ordeal would not be physically painful. Even now, the dripping water was more an annoyance than anything else. After some period of time, different durations for different people, a victim would begin dreading the next relentless drip. Increased anxiety, caused by the helplessness of not being able to avoid the next drip, would ratchet up the psychological pressure exponentially. If a person was held in place long enough, the unremitting drips would literally drive the victim mad.

Not that far of a drive for some of us, Finney thought. He was trying hard to keep a sense of humor about this.

Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat. Though he no longer watched the drips forming, he still felt himself flinching just before each drop hit his forehead. Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat. Relentless. Like your son when he’s just learning to play the drums.

Tyler. Finney thought about Tyler for a few moments but quickly forced himself to dwell on something else. Finney decided to spend his first few hours refining his plan for ensuring that all the contestants, including himself, escaped Paradise Island unharmed. Small rivulets of water started running through his hair and down the side of his head. Splat . . . splat . . . splat. He assumed that by now Nikki and Wellington had solved his last message and procured the help of the FBI, though he would have no way of knowing for sure with his Internet access cut off. Although the code for chapter 4 was unconventional, Wellington was the best cryptanalyst Finney had ever seen.

Splat . . . splat . . . splat. The drops made it nearly impossible to focus on anything but the next drop of water ready to hit his forehead. Think!

Hopefully, the FBI would raid the island and make arrests soon. Finney’s job would be to keep everyone alive until they did. Splat . . . splat . . . splat. If the FBI didn’t show up before the finalists were announced, Finney would have to take matters into his own hands. The darker possibilities tried to torment him, like the water dripping on his forehead. What if Wellington couldn’t crack the code? What if Finney had done the unthinkable—put Nikki in danger too? The thoughts made the shackles seem tighter, accentuating his own feelings of helplessness.

Splat . . . splat . . . splat. He ran through all the possibilities and gradually reassured himself. Wellington was a genius. How many times had the kid proved that? And nobody but Wellington, and possibly the Feds, would even know that Nikki was communicating with Finney. Finney’s instructions had been clear about that.

Splat . . . splat . . . splat.

Eventually he began to calm down again. He realized that the lack of food and the constant dripping of water had sent his mind spiraling into dark realms where it did no good to dwell. He had a plan and a backup plan. And right now the plan required that he endure this water torture. Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat.

He needed something to help him relax, not make him more tense. He could pray. He could use some relaxation techniques he had learned from the Swami. He could think about simpler times with his family—vacations, amusement parks, holidays. He could think of nothing at all. Splat . . . splat . . . splat. He could try to fall asleep . . . splat. Nope, that definitely wasn’t going to happen.

Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat. Finney focused on his breathing. Deep, relaxing breaths.

Splat. “Are we done yet?” he asked the camera.

Splat. The stillness in the room was his reply. Splat. More water ran down the sides of his head. Splat. Some trickled into his eye even though it was closed. He couldn’t reach up and wipe the water. The shackles started playing games with his mind, chafing his wrists as he squirmed to get more comfortable. Splat. The quietness exaggerated the slight noise caused by the water drop hitting his forehead. He could tell that after a few hours it would seem like a sledgehammer. Splat. Or maybe an atom bomb.

Splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . splat . . . He resisted the urge to count.

The Assassin thought the Chinese water torture was a pitiful joke. The Assassin had seen torture. This didn’t qualify.

The real water torture, the Assassin knew, would come in a few days. The victim would be bound with these same shackles so that any rub marks would not be suspicious. The victim would be forced underwater and held there until he started swallowing large quantities of water, distending his stomach. Just short of death, the victim would be allowed to resurface so that the Assassin’s client could taunt the victim and order him submerged again. Five times. Ten times. It all depended on how long the Assassin held the victim under.

It would look like an accidental drowning, though the Assassin and the Client had a much better name for it in their coded messages. Baptism. What was it the Christian churches said? The Assassin had looked it up on the Internet. “Buried with Christ in baptism . . .”

A holy saying turned into a taunt.

The Assassin liked the religious overtones. It’s why he had selected his own code name for this assignment: Azrael. How clever. Too bad the secretive nature of the assignment prevented others from appreciating the Assassin’s creativity.

Her flight ran late. She ended up in a middle seat. Plus, the taxi smelled like somebody threw up in the backseat last night and the air conditioner didn’t work. She rolled down her window and let the wind frizz her hair. She gave the cabbie a twenty, and he claimed he didn’t have enough ones to make change. She settled for two dollars in quarters.

By the time Nikki made it to Preston Randolph’s office on Connecticut Avenue, she was hot, sticky, and more than an hour late. She spent a few minutes in the ladies’ room to freshen up before the receptionist ushered her into the conference room. Two men in blue blazers drank coffee and huddled over thick files. They flashed FBI credentials and introduced themselves. Agent Rafferty was a bit old for the FBI—thin body and thin, dark hair. He had leathery skin so wrinkled that it seemed like somebody had left him on the spin cycle too long. His partner, Flynn, was a shorter man with prematurely gray hair and black-rimmed glasses. Nikki could tell right away that Flynn had a Napoleon complex.

“We understand you have some suspicions about what’s happening on the set of Faith on Trial,” Flynn said. He took his seat after shaking hands and immediately began scrutinizing Nikki. He placed a voice recorder in the middle of the table. “You mind if we tape this?”

Nikki gave him a puzzled look. “We aren’t going to wait for Mr. Randolph?”

“He had to leave for court about ten minutes ago,” Flynn said. “He didn’t know we’d be running so late.”

It sounded like an accusation, and Nikki began wondering whose side Flynn was on. “Neither did I,” she shot back.

“You mind?” Flynn asked again, nodding at the recorder.

This was not a good start. Nikki sensed a been-there-done-that skepticism in Flynn’s voice. She had expected Randolph and the agents to be fully engaged. This was, after all, a national reality show scandal with the life of a sitting state court judge at stake. Instead, Randolph was off to court on some other case, and these guys were acting like she was reporting a missing hubcap.

“Did Mr. Randolph say when he would be back?”

Both agents sighed in unison, like a choir of bored Feds. “In an hour or so,” Rafferty said.

“Could you state your name for the record?” Flynn asked, turning on the recorder. “And give your verbal consent to our taping?”

“I could,” Nikki said. “But I’d prefer to wait until Mr. Randolph returns.”

Flynn shoved the pile of documents in front of him a few inches toward Nikki. “This pile right here is a case we’ve been working on for several months. We start grand jury proceedings on Friday. I’ve got four more just as urgent at the office. We’re here as a favor to Mr. Randolph. If there’s anything illegal happening on the Faith on Trial set, we’ll get to the bottom of it. But frankly, Ms. Moreno, we don’t have time for games.

“Now, please state your name for the record and your consent to the taping of this interview.”

“My name is Nikki Moreno,” she sputtered. “My tax dollars pay your salaries. The life of a state court judge may be in danger, and you guys are worried about shuffling paperwork. And no, I don’t mind if you tape this stuff as long as I get a copy of the tape.”

“Are you done?” Flynn asked.

“I’m just getting started,” Nikki said.

For the next sixty minutes, the agents asked questions and Nikki provided answers, the level of skepticism growing by the minute. They filled up two tapes with Nikki’s sarcasm and the agents’ cynicism. Nikki offered several times to get Wellington on the phone so he could explain some of the codes in more detail, but the agents said it wouldn’t be necessary.

Nikki was about ready to throw in the towel when the door blew open and Randolph breezed into the room. “Make any arrests yet?” he asked, smiling. He shook hands with Nikki and apologized for getting caught in court.

Flynn and Rafferty both gave Randolph a skeptical look. “This isn’t exactly what you described on the phone,” Flynn said, his voice a combination of boredom and frustration. “Secret messages from a game show contestant who expects us to get a search warrant just because he tells us to—”

“A judge,” Nikki interrupted. “Not a game show contestant.”

“A judge,” Flynn repeated, “who ought to know we need more than this.”

“Oh,” Nikki said, “why didn’t you say so. I’ll just call Judge Finney and see if he can get a taped confession on national TV instead.”

Flynn extended a palm toward Nikki as if to say, “See what I’ve been putting up with?”

“If it were easy, we wouldn’t need the FBI,” Randolph said, his voice still pleasant. Rafferty rolled his eyes.

“Can’t you guys at least go to the island and shake them up a little?” Randolph asked. “If they know we’re onto them, they won’t dare try anything.”

“The Galápagos aren’t exactly our jurisdiction,” Flynn claimed.

“And that’s stopped you before?” Randolph grabbed a bottled water and took a seat. Nikki was grateful for the reinforcements as he continued. “They’re taping a show that airs all over the United States. The production crew is entirely American. The contestants are Americans. They send the show by satellite uplink to their studios in New York City. This case has FBI written all over it.”

Thus began the Moreno-Randolph tag-team combination. Randolph reminded the agents of a few favors they owed him. Nikki told them again that Finney knew what he was doing and would never cry wolf. She detailed the information about Murphy’s religious bias. The tag team eventually wore the agents down and extracted a promise that the agents would visit the island and ask a few questions.

“We won’t be able to get down there until Friday,” Rafferty said. But Nikki and Randolph both agreed that Friday would be too late. Somebody could get killed in the meantime. By the time the agents escaped the meeting, they had agreed to head to the island the very next day.

“Are you hungry?” Randolph asked after the agents left. It was midafternoon and Nikki suddenly remembered that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Starving.”

“Me too,” Randolph said. “Begging always does that to me.” He flashed Nikki a billion-dollar smile. “And I know just the place.”