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Bloody hell.This is no good to me. I need to find a new approach.
I stride to the door and bang on it with the side of my fist.
Moses opens it, and I issue my new instructions to him.
“Bring me a bottle of water. And a couple of doses of sodium thiopental.”
He glances past me, to the unconscious girl on the bench, nods, and hurries away. A few minutes later he’s back, with the items I requested.
My prisoner is just beginning to come round.
I lift her head and shoulders and lay them on my lap, then smooth back the tangles of hair from her face. “Ruth, it’s time to wake up now.”
She frowns and murmurs something incomprehensible.
I lean over her. “Open your eyes, Ruth.”
She shakes her head.
“Do as I say,” I insist, though I keep my tone low and gentle. The last thing I need is for her to panic and faint again. An unconscious prisoner is no use to me.
Her eyelids flutter. She squints up at me, then lets out a startled cry.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She shakes her head. “The…the cane…”
“Gone,” I reply. “We won’t be using that.”
She appears bewildered, and I can’t say I blame her. But there’s more than one way to extract the truth from someone, and I’ve decided on a more subtle approach.
“Here, take a drink.” I help her to sit up, then unscrew the cap on the bottle of water. I place it by her lips.
She shakes her head and tries to shove it away, but I’m not allowing that. She needs to get used to doing as I say, and it starts here.
“Just a few sips,” I insist. “You’ll feel better.”
“I… I don’t…”
I press the bottle to her mouth and tip it up slightly. Water trickles down her chin, but she does swallow a few drops.
“See, it’s not poisoned.” I offer it to her again.
This time she accepts it and takes several long gulps.
“Good girl.” I ease out from under her and set her down on the bench, then take the medical supplies from Moses who has been hovering at the door. “Keep an eye on her.”
I measure out a fifty milligram dose and draw that into the syringe provided with the drug. Ruth weighs around a hundred and twenty pounds, I’d estimate, so that should be the right amount. Possibly a little on the low side, but I can give her more if I need to.
She regards me warily when I return to sit beside her, the syringe concealed in my hand, behind my back.
“How are you feeling now?” I wrap my spare arm around her shoulders. “You were out of it for a few minutes there.”
She tries to shrug me off. “Don’t touch me. You need to let me go.”
“Not yet, Ruth. We need to talk first.”
“I’ve nothing more to say to you. I answered your questions. I—”
