By three thirty in the morning, she was up, dressed, and fed, still exhausted but ready to start. Daniel slept on, oblivious and peaceful. He would feel well rested when he woke up, but disoriented. He would have no idea what time or even what day it was. Discomfort was an important tool in her line of work.
She took his pillow and blanket away, acknowledging the regret this made her feel. But this was important; regardless of training, every subject felt great discomfort being naked and helpless in front of the enemy. Regret would be the last feeling she would allow herself for a few days. She closed off the rest. It had been more than three years, but she could feel things shutting down inside of her. Her body remembered how to do this. She knew she had the strength she would need.
Her hair was still wet from the quick color job, and the makeup felt thick on her face, though she wore very little, really. She didn’t know how to do anything complicated, so she’d just smeared on dark shadow, thick mascara, and oxblood-red lipstick. She hadn’t planned to adjust her hair color this soon, but black hair and the camouflage on her face were part of the new strategy. The white lab jacket and pale blue scrubs she’d brought lay crisply folded in her bag. Instead, she was in the tight black shirt again with black jeans. It was a good thing the farmhouse had a washer and dryer. The shirt was going to need a wash soon. Well, it needed one yesterday, actually.
It was strange how a little colored powder and grease could change an observer’s perception of you. She checked herself in the bathroom mirror and was pleased by how hard her face looked, how cold. She ran a comb through her hair, slicking it straight back, then walked through the barn to her interrogation room.
She’d set up floodlights that hung from the PVC structure overhead, but she left them off now, just turning on two portable work lights that stood waist-high. The black duct tape and gray egg foam looked the same color in the shadows. The air temperature had dropped as the night progressed. There were goose bumps on the subject’s arms and stomach. She ran the thermometer across his forehead again. Still within the normal range.
Finally, she turned on her computer and set up the protocols. It would go to screen saver after twenty minutes of inactivity. On the other side of her computer was a small black box with a keypad on top and a tiny red light on the side, but she ignored that now and went to work.
There was a feeling that struggled to break through to the surface as she injected the IV port with the chemical that would bring the subject around, but she suppressed it easily. Daniel Beach had two sides, and so did she. She was her other self now, the one the department called the Chemist, and the Chemist was a machine. Pitiless and relentless. Her monster was free now.
Hopefully his would come out to play.
The new drug trickled into his veins, and his breathing became less even. One long-fingered hand fisted and pulled against the restraint. Although he was still mostly unconscious, a frown touched his features as he tried to roll onto his side. His knees twisted, tugging against the fetters on his ankles, and suddenly his eyes flew open.
She stood quietly at the head of the table and watched him panic; his breathing spiked, his heart rate increased, his body thrashed against his bonds. He stared wildly into the darkness, trying to understand where he was, to find something familiar. He stopped suddenly, tense and listening.
“Hello?” he whispered.
She stood still, waiting for the right moment.
For ten minutes, he alternated between wildly yanking against the restraints and trying to listen around the harsh noise of his breathing.
“Help!” he finally called out loudly. “Is anyone there?”
“Hello, Daniel,” she answered in a quiet voice.
His head jerked back, stretching his throat, as he looked for where the voice was coming from. It wasn’t the instinct of a professional soldier, she noted, to expose the throat that way.
“Who’s there? Who is that?”
“It doesn’t really matter who I am, Daniel.”
“Where am I?”
“Also not relevant.”
“What do you want?” he half shouted.
“There you go—you got it. That’s the question that matters.”
She walked around the table so he could focus on her, though she was still lit from behind and her face would be mostly shadows.
“I don’t have anything,” he protested. “No money, no drugs. I can’t help you.”
“I don’t want things, Daniel. I want—no, I need information. And the only way you’re getting out of here is if you give it to me.”
“I don’t know anything—nothing important! Please—”
“Stop it,” she snapped loudly, and he sucked in a shocked breath.
“Are you listening to me now, Daniel? This part is really crucial.”