I looked back at the dock to see if there was anybody making chase, but we'd gotten away clean. Maggie aimed us for deeper water. I stayed silent, letting him sweat it out, and by the looks of it, he was sweating plenty. We rode out into the gray water, the dimness of sunset draining the color out of everything. Maggie navigated us away from the shore, away from all the other riverboats, finding a nice, private expanse of river for us to carry out our interrogation. Maggie gave the motor one last throttle and shut it off. All was silence except for the rain rattling on the tin roof.
I watched him in the light of the single bulb that hung naked from the roof, waiting for him to quit his struggles. His body jerked a couple more times, but he couldn't pry loose. He was stuck between the seats like a giant lump of bread dough that had been left to rise far too long.
When he finally quit, I said, “Remember me?”
“I know who you are,” he responded more calmly than I'd expected.
“How about Detective Orzo? You know her?”
“Heard of her.”
“From who?”
“Screw you. I'm not talking to you.”
“You'll talk. You have no choice.”
“The hell I don't,” he said as defiantly as a man in his position could.
I was still standing on the side, and I leaned back, pulling the roof with me, tipping the skiff to one side. I stood straight up, letting the boat return to normal, then leaned back again, this time tipping back a little further. “You know what the problem is with these skiffs?” I said as I kept rocking the boat from side to side. “They're so shallow. Catch a little wave and you take on water.” I leaned back again, pulling hard enough that the boat's rail dipped below the waterline. Cool water ran in and soaked the zookeeper's clothes.
He was scared. I could see it on his face, in his eyes. But he was keeping a lid on it, probably telling himself I wouldn't really do it. I rocked back again, this time taking on twice as much water as before. Water sloshed over his face and pooled around his shoulders.
I kept the boat rocking like we were in heavy surf. “Ready to talk yet?”
“No,” he said.
Another dip.
And another.
And another.
The boat was already hanging heavy in the water. All I had to do now was tilt my body, and I could run water over the edge in a steady stream. “You know how to swim, right, Maggie?”
“Sure do,” she said. She had her feet pulled up onto the seat to keep them out of the water. She was playing along this time, not trying to calm me down like she did when I braced Raj. Those pictures of Adela had her worked up. An innocent girl, framed for her parents' murder, and now forced to demean herself by posing naked. Maggie knew that if we had any chance of saving her, we couldn't be worried about procedure. There was no more time. Adela's execution was scheduled for tomorrow.
I kept tipping back, letting the water trickle over the lip, watching him watch the water. “This is it,” I said, and I meant it. “I'm not going to ask you again.”
He looked me in the eye, searching for any sign that I'd stop. I kept up my cold-blooded stare. If this dumbass had any idea whom he was playing chicken with…
The water kept trickling in. It wouldn't be long before the river grabbed permanent hold and sucked this skiff down for good. He was really beginning to piss me off. This guy was going to make me swim back to shore. He was still looking at me, wrongly thinking I'd flinch first. I wished he was a cop. Then he'd know my rep. I was the undefeated champ of chicken.
Nothing to do but wait him out. If the boat went under, it would be his own fault for doubting me. The water was gathering around his head. He looked at Maggie, who was standing upright, getting ready to dive. His desperate eyes turned back on me. I met them with my own. I wasn't afraid to look him in the eye. He wouldn't be the first man I'd killed.
The water was creeping up his face diagonally. He turned his head away from me, toward the high side of the tilted boat, keeping his mouth and nose out of the rising water. Maybe we wouldn't have to swim after all, I thought. He might just drown before the boat went under.
He turned his head to look at me again, but his face went under when he did. He sputtered as water ran up his nose. He went into a choking fit and turned away again, straining to hold his head up out of the water. He let out such a violent cough that his head jerked back into the water, and he caught another gagging mouthful.
Maggie turned away, and she covered her ears. I kept the water coming, no longer caring much if he talked or not.
“Okay!” he choked. “Okay!”
I kept the water trickling in, punishing him for making it take so long.
“I'll talk,” he spluttered. “Stop! Make him stop!”
I leveled the boat, and the water went from diagonal to horizontal, his head now fully under. I reached into the water and pulled it up by the hair.
His body wracked as he fought to clear his lungs. “Crazy motherfucker!”
Maggie tossed him a cup. “Start bailing or we still might go under.”
He took hold of the cup with his free hand and dunked it full of water then tossed the contents toward the river, half the water hitting the side and rolling back down into the boat.
I gave him a minute to get his breathing under control. “What's your name?”
“Wozniak. George Wozniak.”
“Okay, George, tell me about Adela Juarez. Somebody's been making her do smut pics.”
“My arm hurts. You gonna pull me up?”
“No.”
“C'mon, man, just pull me up.”
I let go of his hair. His head dropped under like a stone. His free hand swiped at me but caught nothing but air. He tried to lift his head over the waterline, but all that surfaced was his forehead. He kicked with his legs, found some wiggle room, and managed to get his eyes up out of the water, but his nose and his mouth, they were still under. His face looked like it was about to blow from the pressure. I waited as his head fell back all the way under. I grabbed hold of his hair again and pulled him up.
His mouth sprayed water like it was a blowhole, then he went into another round of choking and coughing.
I used my foot to push the bailing cup back into his reach. “You were telling us about Adela Juarez.”
“Yeah, Adela Juarez,” he said, defeated. “That was Ian who took those pics. He brought some photographer with him.”
“Who?”
“I don't know the guy's name.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was fat, a real porker, if you know what I mean.”
Looking at George, seeing his thigh-sized arm working the bailing cup, I said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. Was his name Yuri?”
“Could be. I told you I don't know his name. Ian said I didn't need to know his name.”