Interception

Jill kept her head down and her eyes away from the mirror on the far wall of the interview room. She had studied her reflection in it when she had first been shown into the room, and could not bear to see the weary circles ringing her eyes a second time, let alone the subtle fear in her own gaze.

She was alone in that sterile room. It was an established psychological tactic to leave both suspects and witnesses with time to think, to consider their words and options, and she had the idea that, given the gravity of the situation, they would make her wait for some time yet. She looked down at the cup of water she'd been given, and then just as quickly looked away. It was just one more unwanted reflection.

There were footsteps outside the door and she lifted her gaze, but they passed by the interview room and she closed her eyes once more and dropped her face into her hands, pressing her fingers into her eyelids so hard that she was left with a fleeting rainbow smear across her vision.

More footsteps; and, this time, the door clicked open.

Jill's heart leapt as Strahm walked into the room, but that eagerness quickly curdled and her smile floundered and sank altogether as she took in the expression on his face. His lips were pressed shut and his eyes wide. He was poised and tense, like a deer on the verge of flight, and even without words she understood that she was being warned to remain silent and seated.

Seconds later she understood why, as Perez brushed past him, closed the door behind her and dropped a slim file onto the table without ceremony. Jill looked the young woman up and down; she had about her a placid air that Jill strongly suspected glossed over a much sharper edge. Perez drew up a chair and sat on the far side of her table. Strahm stayed where he was, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded. He hadn't taken his eyes from Jill since he'd walked into the room and seemed as if he were hardly breathing.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Tuck,” said Perez. “Thanks for coming in at such short notice.” She paused to open the file in front of her and seemed to consult a piece of paper at some length, but Jill knew enough to recognise a mild intimidatory tactic when she saw one. Finally, Perez looked back up with a cool smile and laced her fingers in front of her.

“I know you've spoken with my partner,” she said, glancing up at Strahm, “but we need to get a few things on the record, so with your permission we'll be taping this interview.”

“That's not a problem,” said Jill, keeping her voice steady. She heard her own words and was aware that she sounded a trifle forced, but she was concentrating on keeping her eyes away from Strahm. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her, and that was distracting enough as it was.

“I wonder if you could tell me when your ex-husband last called you?”

Jill bit her lip, simultaneously stalling for time and trying to think of a plausible response. “That would have been about a week ago now,” she said, watching Perez make a cryptic note on her pad in some kind of plain shorthand that Jill didn't recognise.

“And what exactly did he discuss with you during that conversation?”

“John wants my help,” said Jill, calmly. “I don't know what kind of help he meant; the call was very brief and I told him I wanted nothing to do with the games he's playing. He asked whether I'd be willing to provide medical assistance and I told him I would think about it.”

“I understand,” said Perez, sitting back. “We'd like to put a tap on your phone in case he calls again.”

“I'm sure you would,” Jill replied, “but I'd rather not. In fact,” she went on, “I think I'd prefer it if my lawyer were here before I say anything else.” With this, she sat back and folded her arms across her chest with as much finality as she could muster.

“Ms. Tuck,” said Perez, placating, “there's no need for –”

“My lawyer, please? His name is Art Blank.”

All at once, Jill was aware of a significant shift in psychological pressure as the agents looked at one another, frowning. Finally, Strahm stepped forward and placed both hands on the table, leaning into her.

“Art Blank is your lawyer?” he asked, cocking his head. Jill nodded, puzzled.

“In that case, it seems we may have a little more to discuss,” said Perez smoothly. “He was reported missing yesterday and we strongly suspect John Kramer's involvement.” She stood up and touched Strahm's shoulder gently, addressing him now. “Can I talk to you outside for a moment?”

Jill curled up in her chair as they left the room, her mind racing.

--------------

“Where the fuck...hey?”

Amanda's head jerked up savagely. She scrubbed her face clean of tears with the heels of her hands, the action rough and desperate, and then drew her nails down her cheeks, leaving vivid stripes. She was kneeling on the floor, half slumped against the Rack, and now she realised her position, shied away from it and staggered and stumbled to her feet with no more grace than a newborn foal. She spun around once and then once more, fighting the feeling that she was being watched, but the room was empty. She swallowed a sob, the sound harsh and frustrated, and then collected herself as best she could.

Matthews was evidently wide awake. She heard him screaming obscenities all the way down the corridor, and by the time she got there her already frayed nerves were hanging in tatters and she lacked the equanimity to do anything but drive a fierce, echoing kick into the door and snarl at him to pipe down.

“Now that's some funny shit,” he said, unexpectedly, his voice rasping. It was the first time, since he'd been brought in, that she'd heard him speak like a rational human being. It was vaguely unsettling, and though she'd been about to walk away, Amanda was taken far enough aback that she stayed put.

“Oh yeah – what's that?” she asked, aiming for cynicism but falling a little short; she heard the exhausted, uneasy quaver in her own voice quite clearly. If he heard it too, however, Matthews evidently elected to ignore it. A series of small sounds from the other side of the door suggested that he'd sat down and slumped against it before continuing to speak.

“Well, call me crazy,” he rasped, “but it sounds to me as if you think you're having a bad day. Am I right?”

Amanda jabbed an aggressive finger at him. Madness, she knew; he couldn't see the gesture.

“Why don't you mind your own business and shut the fuck up?” she snapped. “You don't know shit about what I've been through.”

“Oh, you're right, I'm sorry,” retorted Matthews, and she was struck by the change in his voice, which was now clear and sharp and decorated with the sarcasm for which she'd been trying. “I really don't know anything about your day and I totally apologise for my presumption. How about I tell you about my day so we can compare notes, huh?”

She remained silent, and simply backed to the far wall of the corridor where she rested her weight on her shoulders, thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans and stared at the cell door, her gaze sullen.

“Well, I woke up this morning when I pissed myself again,” said Matthews, venomously. “That'd be one of those nifty little side effects of whatever shit you're shovelling into my food, and hey, it's not like I'm ungrateful. It keeps me warm, after all.

“After I spent a few hours staring at the ceiling while I dried out, some asshole in a mask came in and – you're gonna love this part – knocked out two of my teeth! Ain't that special? I have one right here if you don't believe me. I think I swallowed the other one, but the blood washed it down easy enough so that's all right, and I should get it back in ten to twelve hours.

“I think I went out cold after that, but when I woke up dinner was served. By the way, did I mention that I'm not getting enough nutrition from the watered down crap you're feeding me on a semi-regular basis so I've had to find my own? Yeah, I bet you wondered what the deal was with the rats, huh? On that subject, I'll give you a little tip in case you ever need it: squeeze 'em first. You get a lot more of the juice out.

“Anyway,” he finished, his tone now almost conversational, “that about brings me up to date. It's not a complicated schedule, as you can see, and in some ways I'm kinda looking forward to the day when you finally get bored, drag me out of here and kill me. At least it'll be a change of scene.”

Amanda had been pacing the corridor throughout this litany, five steps up and five steps down in a tight, unhappy little pavane. Now she stopped and lunged, slamming her palm against the steel hard enough to bruise.

“What the fuck do you want me to tell you?” she yelled. “You got yourself into this, you son of a bitch. Nobody asked you to fucking frame me, did they? John tested you and you failed, so deal with it!”

For several seconds there was silence on the far side of the door; hot, festering silence that blistered the air. It left her time to wonder just how high her moral high ground really was, and then to bite back the whole question as hard as she could.

“The game was rigged,” spat Matthews.

Amanda bridled. “You had a chance like everyone else!” she said. “If you'd followed the rules, if you'd just done as he asked you...Daniel was safe!”

“I didn't know that, you jacked-up cunt!” Matthews screamed, and then stopped. Incredibly, she could hear him laughing, the sound low and hoarse and desperate. Finally, the chuckling died away and he issued a choked sigh.

“He's not going to kill you,” said Amanda, her voice breaking a little. “That's against the rules.”

“It doesn't matter what the rules are,” he told her, flatly. “John's not in charge any more. Shit, even I can tell that and I've been locked in this fucking toilet for months. Who's your big friend, by the way? I suppose I should have seen that one coming. There's no way a cancer patient and a junkie were running this show alone, I mean, you had to have some hired muscle, right?”

Hired muscle. Amanda considered the phrase and laughed bitterly to herself. Not too long ago she'd thought little else of Mark Hoffman herself. A catastrophic underestimation, and one for which she'd been savagely burned. She lifted her arm and studied the bruises around her wrist, some of which were so clearly outlined that she could make out the shape of the chain's links. Beneath them, much paler in contrast, were her self-inflicted scars. Beneath that, though? She grinned, although the expression was far from humorous. Beneath the bruises and the scars were the usual suspects: pain, loneliness, doubt and betrayal.

“You don't want to know about him,” she said, bringing her face closer to the door so that she could hiss through the crack. “Trust me on this.”