She shook her head back and forth. “I don’t know anything,” she said softly.
Powell tightened his grip around her throat. “Make a wrong move and I’ll snap your arm in two,” he hissed.
Maybe now was the time for Caroline to test whether Powell spoke the truth, because if this was how Murdock was getting started, she hated to think of how far he would eventually go. She closed her eyes again. She could get through this. She’d fractured bones before. Hell, half her ribs were probably broken along with most of her face. She’d suffered any number of undiagnosed concussions, been unconscious for hours or maybe even days at a time, and now had a constant headache. What was one more injury to add to the tally? She tried to quell her fear. The men in the room probably knew full well that she was terrified but damn it, she wasn’t going to give them a grand performance.
Fischer had let up his grip but held her arm down again, pressing her elbow and wrist to the table. She couldn’t move her hand out of the way if she tried.
“All right, sir?” he asked.
“Fantastic,” Murdock said.
Caroline had never fully appreciated just how creepy he was before. She attributed his goonish qualities to his thirst for power, his desire to get ahead. She erroneously assumed that some of it had to be an act. But it was obvious he was getting off on this. He was a sadist. No nuance. No redeeming qualities. No human behind the mask.
Murdock tapped absently on the table with the hammer. “Last chance. Tell us what you know.”
God help me. Please. “I know nothing.”
He slammed the hammer down next to her hand and she flinched again. “Just a warmup,” he said, before immediately bringing it down onto her middle and ring fingers.
Caroline screamed. Jesus Christ, it hurt. Worse than being shot, worse than being in labor, worse than the now dull pain in her cheek and nose and ribs. Murdock swung the hammer again, and she swore she could hear her bones disintegrating. She retched, bile traveling up her throat. Powell released his grip on her and she rested her forehead on the table, trying not to pass out.
Murdock pulled her up by her hair. “Tomorrow I do the other hand,” he said. “Unless you somehow regain your memory.” He shoved her head down again. “Take her back to her cell, gentlemen.”
* * * * *
She involuntarily shook from the pain. She would have passed out, she hoped to pass out, but Powell purposely jostled her hand with every step they took down the hall. He and Fischer didn’t bother escorting her inside her cell, just shoved her past the door before locking her in.
Caroline stumbled over to the sink before they turned the lights off, running her left hand under the cold water. The skin was puffy, stretched to almost beyond its limits. Her middle and ring fingers were shapeless masses. She didn’t want to try to move them. The marks from her wedding and engagement rings were gone.
Don’t cry. Don’t. Once you start you won’t be able to stop.
Impassiveness sure as hell wasn’t an option, despite her thoughts to the contrary. She pressed her head against the wall as big angry tears seeped out, and slammed her good hand against the concrete. The pain was unnatural. But at least they hadn’t cuffed her to the bed. She was free to move around.
The cell went dark, which was just about the cherry on her shit sundae for the day. She heaved a giant sob and fumbled her way to the bed. Her thoughts blended together, blurring the line between reality and fantasy, her mind racing with dark illusions of what she would do to her captors if she were armed.
She’d shoot Murdock in the shoulder first. Just to watch him bleed before deciding where to focus her attention next. Maybe pistol whip him so he knew what it felt like. The guards were big on that particular technique. Oh, and she’d need a stiletto heel to grind into the wound. She liked that idea. A lot. It was dripping with irony, the kind he’d never appreciate.
She’d gouge Fischer’s eyes out with her fingernails. Kick him in the groin, over and over. Hit him with his own goddamn baton. Call him a motherfucking sweetheart while she did it. He’d hate that.
She’d cut off Powell’s balls with a knife. No, a dull, rusty razor blade. Snap his