The light was already on downstairs. Thomas Pierce had gotten everything ready. An old cot was set up in the center of the crowded basement room. He had cleared away stacks of survivalist and sci-fi books to make room for the cot.
He wasn’t sure, but he thought Conklin’s obsession had to do with the end of the human race. He hoarded books, journals, and newspaper stories that supported his pathological idea. The cover of a science journal was taped to the cellar wall. It read: “Sex Changes in Fish — A Look at Simultaneous and Sequential Hermaphrodites.”
“What the hell?” Simon Conklin yelled when he saw what Pierce had done.
“That’s what they all say,” Thomas Pierce said and shoved him. Conklin stumbled down a couple of stairs.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” Conklin whirled and snarled. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Pierce nodded his head once and cocked an eyebrow. “I hear you, and I’m gong to straighten that out right now.”
He shoved Conklin hard again and watched him tumble down the rest of the stairs. Pierce walked slowly down toward the heap. “You starting to get afraid of me now?” he asked.
He whacked Conklin with the side of the Magnum and watched as blood spit from Simon Conklin’s head. “You starting to get afraid now?”
He bent down and put his mouth close to Conklin’s hairy ear.
“You don’t understand very much about pain. I know that about you,” he whispered. “You don’t have much in the way of guts either. You were the one in the Cross house, but you couldn’t kill Alex Cross, could you? You couldn’t kill his family. You punked out at his house. You blew it. That’s what I already know.”
Thomas Pierce was enjoying the confrontation, the satisfaction of it. He was curious about what made Simon Conklin tick. He wanted to “study” Conklin, to understand his humanity. To know Simon Conklin was to know something about himself.
He stayed in Conklin’s face. “First, I want you to tell me that you’re the one who snuck into Alex Cross’s house. You did it! Now just tell me you did it. What you say here will not be held against you, and will not be used in a court of law. It’s just between us.”
Simon Conklin looked at him as if he were a complete madman. How perceptive.
“You’re crazy. You can’t do this. This won’t matter in court,” Conklin squealed.
Pierce’s eyes widened in disbelief. He looked at Conklin as if he were the madman. “Didn’t I just say precisely that? Weren’t you listening? Am I talking to myself here? No, it won’t matter in their court. This is my court. So far, you’re losing your case, Simple Simon. You’re smart, though. I’m confident you can do a much better job over the next few hours.”
Simon Conklin gasped. A shiny, stainless-steel scalpel was pointed at his chest.
Chapter 107
“LOOK AT ME! Would you focus on what I’m saying, Simon. I’m not another gray suit from the FBI — I have important questions to ask. I want you to answer them truthfully. You were the one at Cross’s house! You attacked Cross. Let’s proceed from there.”
With a swift move of his left arm, Pierce pulled Conklin roughly up off the cellar floor. His physical strength was a shock to Conklin.
Pierce put his scalpel down and hog-tied Conklin to the cot with rope.
Pierce leaned in close to Simon Conklin once he was tied down and helpless. “Here’s a news flash — I don’t like your superior attitude. Believe me, you ar
en’t superior. Somehow, and this amazes me, I don’t think I’ve made myself clear yet. You’re a specimen, Simon. Let me show you something creepy.”
“Don’t!” Conklin screeched. He was helpless as Pierce made a sudden incision in the upper chest. He couldn’t believe what was happening. Simon Conklin screamed.
“Can you concentrate better now, Simon? See what’s on the table here? It’s your tape recorder. I just want you to confess. Tell me what happened inside Dr. Cross’s house. I want to hear everything.”
“Leave me alone,” Conklin whispered weakly.
“No! That’s not going to happen. You will never be alone again. All right, forget the scalpel and the tape recorder. I want you to focus on this. Ordinary can of Coca-Cola. Your Coke, Simon.”
He shook the bright red can, shook it up good, and popped it open. Then he pulled Conklin’s head back. Grabbed a handful of long, greasy hair. Pierce pushed the harmless-looking can under Conklin’s nostrils.
The soda exploded upward, fizz, bubbles, sugary-brown water. It shot up Conklin’s nose and toward the brain. It was an army interrogator’s trick. Excruciatingly painful, and it always worked.
Simon Conklin choked horribly. He couldn’t stop coughing, gagging.
“I hope you appreciate the kind of resourcefulness I’m showing. I can work with any household object. Are you ready to confess? Or would you like some more Coke?”