‘Not on the bridge,’ Garcia replied through gritted teeth, his voice whizzing. The pain was so intense it distorted his vision and sucked the air right out of his lungs. ‘Under it, you sanctimonious prick. Two LASAN workers were cleaning theconcrete channel that evening. They were the ones who spotted your truck.’
Russell studied Garcia’s face once again, but there was nothing else there other than the expression of pure agony and pain.
He didn’t like that answer either.
‘More bullshit.’
This time, Russell brought the fire to the center of Garcia’s chest and, in a slow, up–down movement, scorched a three-inch patch of skin right between his pectoral muscles. He kept the flame there for at least three seconds longer than he did when burning at Garcia’s ribs.
White-hot pain exploded from that spot, traveling at lightning speed through every nerve in Garcia’s body before meeting up again in his brain, where it blew up like a nuclear bomb. He let out another feral scream that sounded alien. This one was enveloped in spit, which flew off Garcia’s mouth in every direction. Every muscle in his body tensed so tightly he began getting cramps in his shins and forearms. He convulsed, and carried on convulsing for seconds, even after Russell had dragged the flame away from Garcia’s blistered and charcoal-black skin – the flesh beneath it red-raw and moist.
The disgusting, almost putrid smell of scorched flesh hit Garcia’s nostrils in no time, traveling even faster into his stomach, where it collected whatever it could find there before erupting back up his esophagus.
Garcia’s vision blurred and he puked.
Russell knew that that was coming and moved out of the way in time.
Vomit spilled down Garcia’s chin and down to his chest, where it found the freshly burned piece of moist flesh. As acrid bile came into contact with the open wound, a new, gigantic octopus of pain spread its tentacles up, down, and sideways, grabbing and squeezing every nerve it touched. The room began spinning around Garcia.
‘There’s no way that anyone standing on the concrete channel under the 7th Street Bridge could have identified my truck to that degree. The night before I had blown out a lamppost on the bridge. That’s where I stopped. There just wasn’t enough light. Superman himself couldn’t have spotted a black Dodge RAM 3500 up on the bridge from that distance.’
Garcia felt as if his whole body was on fire. Cold and hot sweat spilled out of his pores, making his skin glisten as if he’d just come out of a shower.
‘One of the workers,’ Garcia finally replied, his breath catching on his throat, ‘is a truck aficionado. Can tell a truck just by its silhouette.’ He managed to regain his breath, but not his balance. The room was still spinning around him. ‘The 2500 and 3500 have a very distinct design.’
Garcia knew that he couldn’t take another burn. He would pass out if he did.
Russell paused, analyzing Garcia’s words one more time.Too plausible a reply for someone to come up with on the spot and under so much pain like Garcia was.He decided to accept it.
‘All right, how about the fingers? How did you find out about that? And think before you reply, Detective, because if I suspect that you’re lying, the next thing that I’ll burn…’ This time Russell paused for dramatic effect. ‘Will be one of your fucking eyeballs. Are we clear, Detective?’
That was when Russell heard a voice come from where his parents were sitting.
‘Somehow… I really don’t fucking think so.’
Sixty-Two
Despite the unidentified voice catching him completely by surprise, Russell’s reaction was a combination of being startled and prepared in equal measures. He did jump in place, but at the same time, in one smooth and quick movement, he dropped the handheld blowtorch that he was holding, swung his body around and reached for the surgical scalpel that he had placed in his back pocket.
The scalpel ended up at Garcia’s neck and Russell ended up directly behind the chair that Garcia was in. The whole move took just a second, as if Russell had rehearsed it many times before.
His eyes quickly found the uninvited guest.
Hunter had his weapon trained on Russell, but as he finally stepped into that crazy torture chamber, his eyes caught sight of yet another person in that room besides Garcia, the perp and the old couple in the wheelchairs, who he had already spotted from the door, before entering the room.
Across from where Hunter was standing, level with the perp and Garcia, but a few feet to their left, Hunter saw another figure that, just like the almost mummified couple to his right, didn’t seem human – a woman, on the floor, inside an animal cage. She was nothing but skin and bones, her feet were a bloody mess, and she wasn’t moving.
Hunter’s aim moved to her for a split second before he decided that she wasn’t a threat.
Weapon back to the perp.
‘Easy there,’ the man with the scalpel to Garcia’s neck said, surprise and anger burning inside his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t want me to slice your friend’s neck open like a turkey on Thanksgiving, would you?’
Hunter blinked at him. Whoever he was, he looked a little alien, with a completely shaved head and no eyebrows.
This cellar,Hunter thought,is proving to be a complete freakshow.
‘Carlos,’ Hunter called, his aim unflinching. ‘You good?’
