Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [84]
“I already told you … I don’t know anything…”
“I wish I could believe you,” Swain said. “Truly. But I suppose there’s one way to find out.” He paused. “Do you ever watch films, Jack? Go to the cinema?”
The question was so random that Jack didn’t have a response, but Swain didn’t seem to expect one.
“When I was a child,” he continued, “I saw a little English film on the telly about a man who hunted witches. Vincent Price roaming the countryside in search of demonic evil. Very traumatizing for a six-year-old. Witchfinder General, it was called.”
“Is that you?” Jack asked, trying to buy more time as he worked the ropes. “Shouldn’t that … be … Spookfinder General?”
“Cute,” Swain said. “I’ll always remember a scene where Price trussed up a woman who vehemently denied practicing witchcraft, and unceremoniously threw her into the river. Told his men, if she survives, she’s a witch. If she drowns, we’ll know she’s telling the truth.” He paused. “Typical British irony, don’t you think?”
“That’s not the word I’d use,” Jack replied.
Swain stood, smiling down at him. “No matter. I’m going to take a page from Price’s book. I’m going to stand here, and let my associate do what he does best. And if you die without telling me exactly what I need to know, I’ll have to assume you aren’t a liar after all. So apologies in advance if I’m mistaken. But if I’m not, do be sure to let me know.”
He stepped back now, leaning against the wall as he nodded to the ape. But then a cell phone rang and Swain put up a finger, stopping him. After all, he couldn’t let Jack’s screams interrupt his call.
Swain took the phone from his pocket and answered it. “Yes?”
He listened a moment, then murmured a response and clicked off.
“Seems I’m being called away,” he told Jack. “Which is a shame, because I felt we were about to come to an understanding. If nothing else, I would have enjoyed the show.”
He turned to his man and gestured, and the two of them moved to the door and spoke quietly. Jack kept working on the ropes, ignoring the burn in his wrists, and finally, thankfully, felt them give again, offering him even more room. Whether or not it was enough to get a hand free was another question.
As he continued to work, the two men broke from their huddle and the ape stepped over to him again. With a self-satisfied look, Swain was out the door and gone.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, mate,” said the ape. “And I’m not nearly as agreeable as Mr. Swain.”
He flicked the switch on the baton.
“They say these things never leave marks, but if you know how to use them you can cause quite a lot of painful scarring.” His smile widened. “I think most people are put off by the smell of burning flesh, but I’ve always found it invigorating.”
Events happened quickly. As the baton was lowered toward his crotch this time, Jack screamed and pulled and managed to rip his right wrist free of the rope. His arm swung up, slamming the thug in the side of the head. His muscle coordination was a mess and the blow didn’t land with nearly the power he hoped. But it was enough to throw the guy momentarily off balance.
Jack was still tied to one of the armrests. That worked in his favor. He got up and swung the chair around hard, and the ape went down like a sack of grain. He lost the baton when he hit the concrete floor. Jack raised the chair high and smashed it down on the bastard’s shoulder, shattering it and freeing his other arm. While the man lay there moaning, Jack recovered the baton.
He stopped himself from using it. The baton was the ape’s way, it was Swain’s way. He didn’t want to be like them. He threw it down, kicked the ape in the head to make sure he would stay put—that was Jack’s way. Then he crouched and went through the thug’s pockets. He found car keys, a handkerchief, a cell phone, his Hamilton Gilbert, and a wad of folded pound notes—his money, no doubt, taken from him along with the watch while he was passed out. There was no wallet or ID, a sign that someone didn’t want to be identified. If these