^{"Imagine that," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"When he reached to take the coffee cup from her, Debbie noticed the fresh bandage on his wrist. The man with the knife had cut him."}

^{"Imagine that," Rutherford said.}

^{"So they became friends," Jamie continued. "He kept treating her with respect, never making a romantic move, although she wished he would. Eventually, he told her he needed to leave the farm for a while. He was a construction worker, but because of the cold weather, he'd been unemployed for a while, and now he'd learned that his father, who lived in Miami, was sick with emphysema, so he was going to Florida to find work and take care of his dad."}

^{"But would she please watch the farm for him, forward his mail, little things like that? He'd be glad to pay her," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"After all, it was the least she could do," Rutherford added.}

^{"So you get the picture?" Jamie asked.}

^{"Classic recruitment," Rutherford concluded.}

^{"Almost makes me proud of him," Cavanaugh said bitterly. "The guy's a natural."}

^{"Does she realize it was all a set-up?" Rutherford asked Jamie. "Duran scouted the West Liberty area, spotted her, found out she was single, followed her, learned her habits, and then paid those three guys to pretend to attack her."}

^{"She hasn't the faintest idea."}

^{"Nice to be innocent," Cavanaugh said.}

^{"I wrote down the Miami address where she forwards the mail." Jamie handed Rutherford a piece of paper.}

^{"And from where a drug courier probably forwarded the mail to Colombia," Rutherford said. "The question is, where is Duran's mail being forwarded now." He pulled out his cell phone, pressed numbers, and began reading the address to someone.}

^{"The woman says Duran came back here yesterday," Jamie said. "He told her he needed to leave something for a friend."}

^{Cavanaugh stared up the lane toward the building next to the barn. For several moments, he didn't seem to breathe.}

^{Chapter 17.}

^{Brockman's legs and arms were racked with pain, his left calf muscle feeling torn, his right rotator cuff about to snap. The pain combined with his nausea and the heat from the unshielded lamps made him sweat so much that his shirt and suit coat were drenched. The strap that attached his neck to the spine of the flex machine made him feel increasingly strangled. The glaring lights hurt his eyes, but no matter how often he blinked, he couldn't get rid of the spots that the lights seared into his vision.}

^{Abruptly, the spots turned gray.}

^{They swirled and wavered.}

^{Ali slapped both cheeks with his leather gloves. "Wake up, Gerald! It's not polite to pass out when you've got company. Conversation, Gerald. That's what a guest wants. Stimulation. What I wouldn't give for an intelligent discussion about . . . oh . . . say . . . Rome four years ago. That Russian oil tycoon who was assassinated. Now that would be interesting."}

^{Despite how sick Brockman felt, he desperately needed water to soothe his parched lips, to clear the taste of bile from his mouth.}

^{"I bet I can read your mind. I bet you're thirsty. Right, Gerald?"}

^{Brockman closed his eyes.}

^{Ali peeled their lids upward. "Thirsty?"}

^{Hang tough, Brockman thought. Take it a moment at a time. Hope for somebody to break in and rescue me. Make Ali believe I'd rather die than tell him anything.}

^{But what if it comes to that? I might in fact die.}

^{Stop thinking like that.}

^{Ali held up a pitcher filled with water and ice cubes. He swirled the cubes, making them clink against the pitcher. On the outside, moisture beaded, trickling down like rain on a window.}

^{"Gerald, I'm getting tired of asking if you're thirsty."}

^{Brockman tried to nod, but the straps kept his head in place. "Yes." His voice reminded him of the sound of a boot breaking crusted mud.}

^{"That's all you needed to say." Ali poured ice cubes and water into a glass, inserted a straw, and raised it to Brockman's lips. "Easy. Only a little at a time. You don't want to get sick."}

^{Brockman sucked on the straw, feeling the delicious, cold water fill his mouth. Ali took the glass away as Brockman swallowed and ran his wet tongue over his crusted lips. He had thought that the crust was from dried bile. But now he tasted the copper of blood.}

^{Ali dipped a cloth into a basin of water. He twisted the excess from it and pressed the cloth against Brockman's forehead. He stroked Brockman's cheeks with it. The cloth felt wonderfully cool.}

^{"The Russian, Gerald. Tell me about the Russian. This doesn't need to be difficult. The Russian was long ago. Four years ago. I don't want you to talk about what's happening now. Four years ago. It's safe to talk about that. It's safe to talk about the Russian."}

^{Through his groggy, nausea-and-pain-filled thoughts, Brockman tried to decide what to do. Stay silent; suffer more pain. Or try to string Ali along. Seem to give him information but not really tell him anything. Stop him from . . .}

^{"Have more water, Gerald." Ali lifted the glass, extending the straw.}

^{Brockman opened his mouth. At once, Ali shoved the rag into it, then yanked the handles on the flex machine, thrusting Brockman's legs up, propelling his arms inward.}

^{Brockman's rotator cuff ripped. He could hear it give, like a zipper being yanked open. In the blazing lights, his mind went black. Fire filled his throat. He fought to breathe.}

^{Coughing. Mouth open. Rag gone.}

^{Water streaming over his head. Dripping. Cooling.}

^Shadows.

^{"Have more water, Gerald."}

^{Brockman blearily opened his eyes and saw that Ali had turned off most of the lamps. The one that stayed lit had its shade adjusted properly, shielding the bulb's glare. His parched, burned skin felt refreshingly cool.}

^{Ali took away the basin, part of the contents of which he had poured over Brockman's head. Again, Ali extended the glass and the straw. Desperately thirsty, Brockman studied it, afraid that, when he opened his mouth, Ali would again yank away the straw and shove the rag between his lips. He was conscious of his wet hair clinging to his scalp.}

^{"Drink, Gerald."}