Disruption (23 page)

Butler shook his head, and that mysterious hand gripped my head from behind, jabbed the needle into my neck, and then, again, the world went black.

Chapter 35

Four times I woke up, and four times, Butler was there. Sometimes he was smiling and talking to me as though we were old friends. Then he’d suddenly turn into a raging lunatic and pound on me some more. Each time he asked me about the camp.

“Tell me about the camp.”

“What do they teach you at the camp?”

“Who runs the camp?”

“What made you join?”

“What is your real name?”

I answered his questions as honestly as any camper would do if they really were a camper and not a CIA operative.

“It’s a stupid summer camp.”

“They teach us arts and crafts and archery.”

“Mr. Smith and Mr. Dalson.”

“My dad made me join. My dad put me in this stupid camp.”

“My name is Matt. Matt Cambridge.”

I cried a lot. I wish I hadn’t. I hated looking like such a baby. But I couldn’t help it. This guy was nuts, and he was about to use my skin to make a new pair of boots or something. I cursed myself for getting caught. I cursed the camp for not having better security, and I cursed the CIA for not getting their butts in gear and getting me out of here.

If the curtains had been drawn, I wouldn’t have had a clue about how long I was in there, but twice when I woke up, it was night, and twice, it was day. Each time, a pit of despair sank deeper into my stomach. The CIA wasn’t coming for me. No one was coming for me. It didn’t make sense, except maybe they couldn’t find me. Or maybe they had that rule of disavowing all knowledge of captured agents, like they did on
Mission Impossible
.

That’s just a movie, Matt. Keep it together.

They’re coming . . . aren’t they? If they could find me, they would’ve by now. My mouth opened as if my mind had split and one half of me, the half that controlled motor skills, wanted to talk. To tell Butler everything he wanted to know. The other half of me, the half that handled speech, refused. Barely. It was a thread of resistance that could be snapped with one more strong word.

I wasn’t going to make it.

I swore. And when I did, Butler smiled and injected me with whatever it was that kept knocking me out.

*****

“Well, kid,” Butler said when I groggily woke up for the fifth time, “you’ve done a good job. Been real convincing. But time’s a-wasting. Why don’t we just cut to the chase? I don’t like hurting kids.” He smiled and shook his head. “Okay, I guess I do kind of like it. But it doesn’t have to be kids. I like hurting adults, too.”

And small animals, I bet. I hadn’t noticed at first, but my feet felt cold, and I glanced down. My pant legs had been rolled up to my knees, and my feet were in a very large mixing bowl, like you’d find at a family reunion where your aunt makes enough potato salad for forty people.

“W-what’s going on?” I glanced up at the crazy man, and then back down at my bare feet, and then back up. Now I knew what a true psychopath looked like. “What is this?”

Butler stretched out his back and frowned. Then he nodded and walked across the room to a small closet and pulled out a metal trolley, the kind you see at school dances with the plates of brownies. It had a greasy blanket draped over the top, and the grin Butler wore as he pushed it across the floor made me want to puke. He was going to show me severed body parts and then tell me how he was going to add mine to his collection. That didn’t explain the bare feet in the mixing bowl, but who knew what kind of crazy stuff this guy could think up?

My breath came in quick, shallow rasps.

“Sure you don’t have another name?” he asked. “Absolutely certain you want to stick with Matt Cambridge? And you’re sure there’s not something else going on at that camp of yours? Something you’d like to tell me?”

“Please, whatever you’re about to do, don’t. Please. I’ll tell you anything, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“I know you will,” he said. Then, with the flourish of a magician, Butler pulled the blanket off the trolley, revealing three very well-worn automobile batteries. Wires ran from the terminals of each battery and disappeared into the end of a fist-sized box with a switch. Three long wires emerged on the other side of the box, each with an alligator clip on the end. Butler looked up at me and smiled.

“This is a real treat for me,” he said. “I don’t get to do this nearly enough.” He attached each clip to the metal bowl and then pulled a large jug from the bottom of the trolley and poured water over my feet, filling the bowl enough to cover my ankles. Then he stood back to examine his work and smiled. “Do you know what it feels like to be electrocuted?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s like your insides are on fire. It actually cooks you. Did you know that?” He wrinkled his nose. “Burning flesh is one of those smells that takes a long time to get used to. I’d say it’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve started to like the scent, and I’ve been doing this for years and years.”

That did it.

I totally lost it.

I screamed and thrashed against my straps. I threw my head back against the headrest of my chair, hoping to somehow nudge the chair enough to get my feet out of the water. My screams turned to shrieks, the kind you’d hear from a girl at a haunted house, only a hundred times worse. It felt like the screech was coming from deep within my chest. Like my whole body was begging for its life.

Butler’s fist struck the side of my face and silenced me completely. The world flickered for a moment.

“Shut. Up,” he said. “Got it? Shut. Your. Mouth.”

I blinked until my vision cleared and licked at the blood I felt oozing over my lip.

“Tell me your name,” he said. “It’s the easiest question I can ask. You’ll tell me your name, and I’ll check it out. If it’s true, we’ll have a little talk, and I’ll let you go.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “I am a man of my word.”

I spat a mouthful of blood onto the carpet and blinked away the tears that were once again streaming down my cheeks. “Y-you d-don’t understand. You have the wr-wrong kid.” I sniffed. “I am Matt Cambridge. That’s really who I am. I swear.”

Butler rubbed his nose and put his hand on the switch.

“One.”

“Please,” I begged. “Please don’t.”

“Two.”

I couldn’t go on. The idea of having this crazy psychopath cook me from the inside out was too much to handle. “Okay, okay!” I said quickly, “I’ll tell you what you want to know. I will. I’m a spy. Well, not yet. I will be. I will be a spy. For the CIA. That’s what the camp is. It’s a training camp for the CIA where they train kids. It’s a spy camp.”

He raised an eyebrow.

He wanted a name. He didn’t think I was Matt, and he certainly didn’t believe I was Gunnar. I blurted the first name that came to my mind.

“I’m Chase. Chase Erickson. I’m just some punk wannabe. A real loser. I’m not the kid you want. But that’s the truth. Please. I’ll tell you everything.”

Butler’s smile widened. I thought he was going to let me go now that I was telling the truth . . . well, except for the name. But instead he looked at me and said, “Two and a half.”

“What? No!” I shouted and thrashed in my chair, “Please, Butler, no! I told you, the camp is run by the CIA. Please!”

“Three!”

He flicked the switch.

Chapter 36

Sparks burst from the ends of the alligator clips on the metal bowl. I screamed and thrashed, and screamed and thrashed again, and then . . . I stopped thrashing and stopped screaming. There was no pain. No massive jolt of electricity coursing through my body. No smell of burning flesh as Butler had suggested. The sparks were shooting to my knees, but I didn’t feel anything. I wiggled my toes. There was no electricity at all.

Butler flicked off the switch, and the sparks stopped. “Well done, Cambridge. Well done.”

What was going on? I breathed quick heavy breaths and felt my head lighten.

“All right, take it easy,” he said. “Breathe slower. Purse your lips. You’ll hyperventilate if you keep that up.”

This was another trick. Wasn’t it?

He took a small remote control and pointed it at the ceiling. A small red light that I hadn’t noticed before blinked twice and then stayed off.

My head swam, and I forced myself to take slower breaths until I started feeling more . . . present. Butler strolled casually into the kitchen and returned with a wooden chair.

“All right, look . . .” He sat down and rubbed his hands together. “I’m supposed to go over the interrogation with you. Now that it’s over, I mean. Crucible Learning Protocols, CLPs, and all that nonsense. You know the drill.”

“C-crucible?” That was the training I was supposed to get, wasn’t it?

“But honestly, kid,” Butler continued, “you did great.” He rocked back in his chair. “I gave you my A-game too. I mean, I was all over the place. Happy, angry, nice, mean.” He smiled. “You took it on the chin, son. Well done.” He rubbed his hands again. “Right up until the end, I thought you’d figured out it was a Delta challenge. Right up to the end. But those were real screams at the end.” He nodded. “I know screams, Cambridge, and those were real.”

I tried to clear my throat. “Delta challenge?”

“I knew it,” he said. “Wow. I’m really impressed, kid.” He pulled out a clipboard from behind his chair. “Right, I’m supposed to impart some wisdom, so here it is.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “Interrogators are like vintners.”

I felt my brow furrow, and Butler must’ve seen it, because he added, “Vintners. You know, winemakers.”

I blew out a breath. “I don’t get it. This . . . this was a test?”

“Delta event, Cambridge. C’mon, let your mind catch up. Don’t fight it.” He tapped his pen on his clipboard.

My mouth gaped. This had all been a test? This was the Delta event and this psychopath worked for the camp? He worked for the CIA? No, it’s not possible. It can’t be that. It’s another trick. My heart pounded in my ears, and all I could think about was escape.

“Anyway,” he continued, “a vintner is a winemaker, and every winemaker thinks their wine is the best. They say it’s because they have better grapes or a better process. Let’s be honest: grapes are grapes. But process, that’s something that has effect. Same goes for interrogations.” He tapped his index finger to his temple. “It’s all about the method. As you might have guessed, I employ the keep-’em-guessing method. I give you the opposite of what you expect, and in return, you become mentally fatigued.”

He smacked his lips. “Point is, when you’re getting interrogated, take your mind off what you’re feeling and focus on sorting out the methods of the interrogator. Each one is different, and each one has their own unique method. Their own brands of wine, as it were.” He shook a finger at me. “For example, and this is a funny story, my mentor used to start every high-level interrogation by breaking one finger of the suspect.” He smiled. “No questions. He just walked into the room, and before a single word, he’d break the finger.”

I felt my eyes widen, and I started breathing heavy again.

“I know, it seems harsh,” he said, “but when you’re talking about high-profile political targets, you need to know who you’re dealing with, right?”

The door at the end of the room opened, and Mr. Smith and Mr. Dalson walked in as casually as if they were entering a coffee house to order their daily latte. I wanted to shout out for help, but they appeared entirely at ease and not shocked in the least to see me bound to a chair. I made a quick decision to keep quiet.

“Let him up,” Dalson said.

Oh, thank goodness!

Butler put a hand on my shoulder and smiled again. He leaned over and untied my legs, then my arms, and then reached around me. I heard a click
,
and the straps holding me to the chair fell away. I jumped. The top of my head struck Butler’s chin, and he stumbled back. I shoved his cart after him, and it smacked into his legs. He cursed and grabbed his shins. I sprinted for the balcony door, but my feet were wet, and I slipped as soon as I stepped off the rug. I scrambled to my feet again and, this time, managed to stay upright and get to the door. I heaved on it, but it didn’t budge. I moved the lock and pulled again.

“It doesn’t open,” Mr. Dalson said. His voice was as calm as a hypnotist’s. “Adrenaline is ripping through you right now, Matt. I need you to get it under control.”

I whirled around and pressed my back against the glass and raised my fists. Butler was rubbing his chin and limping, and Mr. Smith was as stone-faced as ever.

Dalson took a step forward. “This was your Crucible Training, Matt. It was also a Delta competition.” He gestured to Butler. “Butler is a pro. He’s been the head CIA interrogator for fifteen years; we’re lucky he agreed to help us out.”

Butler dabbed a Kleenex to his bloody lip and nodded at me.

“Butler’s done a couple others tonight. You’re only the second one not to crack.”

My teeth clenched, and my hands shook. “You dragged me to this place and kept me strapped to a chair for . . . for . . .” My mind raced. How long had I been there? I’d seen the sun come up and go down at least twice. “Days,” I said. “You kept me tied to a chair for days just for a stupid . . . freaking . . . competition?”

“Crucible Training,” Dalson said, without a hint of being put off by my tone. “Crucible, by definition, means
occasion of extreme trial
. Besides, I’m sure if you give it some thought, you’ll realize you haven’t been in a chair for days.”

I blinked. “I haven’t?”

Dalson smiled. “It’s only been . . .” He glanced at his watch and muttered, “Let’s see, dinner was at five . . .” He looked up. “It’s been five hours.”

“Wh-what? It’s only been hours? Not days?” I shook my head and nodded toward Butler. “It was night when he snatched me. Then daylight when I woke up. Then night again, then daylight . . .” I shook my head. This was another trick. Another test.