Jess Ripton squinted at him like he was mulling which of two shirts to buy. “You have it.”
Wolf set the satchel on the desk. “A little help?” He couldn’t manage the buckle one-handed, and Ripton gave him an assist. “Obliged.”
“You just read my article. If I had it, wouldn’t the information you want—whatever it is—be in there? How do you prove a negative?”
“I’ll tell you how, Mr. Rook.” Ripton touched his forefinger to his lips as he chose his words, and then continued. “In fact, I can prove you have it by negatives. One, actually. Ready?”
Rook didn’t answer. He just made a fast check of the Texan, who was placing his dental picks in a tidy row on the desktop.
“The negative is as follows. In all the time since my associate and I got here, you never asked one simple question.” The Firewall paused for effect. “You never once asked what I was doing here.” A burning sensation grew in Rook’s gut as the handler continued. “I never got a ‘Hey, Jess Ripton, I know this cowboy is involved in all this, but you? You’re Toby Mills’s guy. What the hell does Toby Mills have to do with all this?’ Am I right? You not asking that is what I call negative proof.”
Rook’s head raced to cover his omission. “That? Well, that’s simple. We talked to you a couple of times on this case, of course I wasn’t surprised.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Rook. When you and your lady cop checked out Toby, you were fishing with no bait. He was just a name on your list. And you certainly never had anything to connect Toby, ergo me, with Slim here.” He waited, but Rook said nothing. “So by not asking, that tells me you know damn well why I am here and what happened that night with Toby and Reed Wakefield. And I want to know where the chapter is that told you that story.”
“I already said I don’t have it.”
“Now, see, you think you’re being smart,” said Jess. “You think the only thing keeping you alive is that if we kill you, you can’t tell us where that chapter is. But, see, here’s the thing. In a couple minutes, my friend here is going to get you to tell us anyway. And in between . . . ? You’re going to wish you were dead.” He turned to Wolf. “Do your thing. I’ll go check the bedroom.” He went to the doorway and stopped. “Nothing personal, Rook. Given the choice, I don’t need to see this.”
When he left, Rook struggled against his bonds, bucking in the chair.
“Not gonna help, buddy,” said the Texan as he picked up one of his dental tools.
Rook felt something tear near his ankle. He pushed harder and succeeded in ripping one of his legs free of the duct tape. He slammed his foot onto the floor under his desk and shoved off, trying to jam the chair into Wolf. But the man was quick and snatched him in a choke hold with his left arm, trapping Rook’s neck in a vise grip between his jaw and his armpit. Wolf still held the dental tool in his left hand, and slowly, trying to keep it steady against Rook’s struggling and kicking, he began to curve his wrist inward toward Rook’s head. Just as Rook began to feel a sharp graze on the outer rim of his ear canal, he tried another tactic. Instead of pushing back against his assailant, he quickly reversed and threw his torso forward with desperate force.
The dental pick skittered across the blotter, and for the moment, Rook’s move worked. The momentum tossed Wolf forward onto the edge of the desk. He landed on his wounded right shoulder and cried out in pain, clutching his collarbone.