Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

He worked his wrists urgently, trying to loosen the damn rope. Ironically, the blood from the wounds that caused was helping to soften them. The wriggling was subtle, would look to the other men like anxiety, like panic-if they bothered to look. The room was poorly lit and their eyes were on his face, his pain. It helped that the chair was worn from repeated sessions like this one. Jack guessed that people had fallen over, taking the chair with them. The wood was slightly splintered, the armrests rough, providing an abrasive surface for his purposes. Whether it would be enough to cut through in time, or at all, was another matter.

“Here’s something that might interest you,” Swain said. “Something you learn by trial and error. You know why we tied you to the armrests?”

“To keep me from punching you in the balls?”

“That, yes,” Swain said. “We found that when we tied peoples’ hands behind the chair, they arched their backs and fell over. This way, they kind of crumple in on themselves.”

“Thanks for sharing…”

“You’re welcome.”

“… but you’re wasting your time,” he said to Swain, panic rising in his chest. His rapid breathing helped to cover the tactical back-and-forth, side-to-side motion of his wrists. “I swear to you, I don’t know any-”

The ape touched the tip of the baton to Jack’s abdomen, letting loose a wave of agony that swept through every bone, every muscle, every blood vessel and nerve ending in his body. It caused his legs to twitch, not kick, an involuntary muscular reaction. He had no control over them, over his bowels, over anything. The closest he had ever come to feeling anything like this was when he accidentally touched the exposed prongs of a plug in the wall. But that had only been an instant of pain. This didn’t stop. This burned every piece of him without letup.

He gritted his teeth against it; that lasted no more than a second or two.

Then he began to scream.

The ape withdrew the baton and Jack’s body went slack, the relief so sweet he wanted to kiss the guy for being merciful.

He felt strangely weightless. He could barely breathe and his abdomen throbbed. He felt as if a hole had been burned right through it.

“Operation Roadshow,” Swain said. “Tell me what you know.”

“… Nothing,” Jack managed, spewing strings of saliva. “Just the name…”

“You’ll have to do better than that. I’m told Mr. Copeland called you the morning he died. And I can imagine he was quite talkative.”

Jack shook his head. “He was drunk… drugged… He wasn’t making any sense… talked about a shoe.”

He added any useless information he could remember, trying to buy time.

Swain nodded, but clearly didn’t believe him. “Who else did you tell about it? Who are you working with?”

“No one…”

“Not even your friend from the yacht harbor? Or the black bird with the nice big neddies? You spend a lot of time with those two. Not that I can blame you in her case.”

Jack thought of Tony and Max and felt panic rising. “… They’re just friends,” he murmured. “She takes video… he watches my dog… they don’t know anything…”

“I really wish you’d be more forthcoming.”

Swain flicked two fingers at the thug and the baton touched Jack’s belly again. Jack wailed, pride gone, dignity evaporated, his body stiffening against the pain as it raced through him. And just when he thought his skin might rupture, the ape pulled the baton away, well-being immediately flowing through him.

Jack didn’t know how much more of this he could take. Two hits and he was about ready to sign over all of his real estate. His body ached from head to toe, his muscles twitching uncontrollably. He’d completely forgotten about loosening the ropes at his wrists.

He thought about that poor woman in the other cell, how this was a strangely bonding experience. He realized that if she wasn’t dead, it was a miracle.

“Anything else you want to share?” Swain asked.

“I swear to you…” he wheezed, “I don’t know anything…” Jack didn’t even recognize his own damn voice.

“Then what are you doing in England, Jack?”

“A fishing expedition… That’s all… I was… I was…” He thought for a moment he was going to pass out.

“You were-”

“Following al-Fida…”

Swain nodded then flicked his fingers again. Jack tried to brace himself for the impact but there was no preparing for something like this. The baton touched his neck now, and a whole new level of pain shot through him. Flaming fingers reached into his brain, his lungs, rammed down to his stomach. He swore he could feel the shape of his own navel, ringed by fire. He felt himself slipping into darkness, running away to escape this agony.

Then it was done and a hand slapped his face, keeping him from passing out. He jerked his eyes open and, through the smear of tears, found Swain crouched in front of him.

“Not as easy as you thought, is it? Playing the crusading journalist. You’d think all those years, working all those wars, would’ve toughened you for this. But all I’m seeing is a weak little wanker about to piss his trousers.”

“I think… I already… did…” Jack gasped.

His arms felt like putty but the cockiness of this son of a bitch pushed the right button. Jack rallied himself and started working his wrists again. If he could just get a hand free, he’d slap this prick so hard it would take a brain surgeon to repair the damage.

“Last chance, Jack,” Swain said. “Tell me what you know and who you’re working with or my associate here will see to it that your last hour of life on this planet is filled with more pain than you can possibly imagine.”

“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.”