“I still say you’re full of it,” McKay muttered with an effort. He still could not believe that all this was happening to him, that he was in custody on suspicion of murder, that these grim, determined men were fully set on beating a confession out of him. It was like a dream, a fantasy that came out of a bottle. It was the kind of dream you had when you drank too much 50¢-a-gallon wine. Only you woke up out of those dreams. The only awakening out of this one would come in the gas chamber.

“You killed her,” Hendricks said.

“Like hell I did.”

“You’re lying,” Harrison said, as if to give himself some justification for what he was about to do. As McKay turned to face this new accuser, something descended on his naked belly with a dull thud. A horrible pain went through his viscera, his chest felt as if it were cracking open, and his limbs from the groin down stung as though they were being pricked with thousands of needles.

Through gritted teeth he muttered, “No—I didn’t—I didn’t touch her—”

Another blow descended. This one was three times as agonizing as the first. McKay slumped down in the chair, his eyes closed and his mouth open, giving himself over to the pain with short, moaning gasps. A hand on his shoulder jerked him roughly back into an upright position.

“That goes on, McKay,” he heard Hendricks’ voice saying as though from a great distance. “That keeps on happening to you until you learn not to lie to us. Now tell us why you did it.”

“I didn’t—”

“You aren’t very smart, McKay. You’re only asking for more of the same. More and more and more. We’ll break you down, though. We’ve broken stronger men than you. You’re just a weakling. A punk who’s been on the skids so long he doesn’t know which way is up anymore, and you think you’re going to hold out against us. Well, think again, McKay.”

McKay said nothing, simply continued to gasp for breath.

Harrison waited for another signal. Brady looked on placidly. Hendricks kicked McKay sharply on the shin. The fresh sting of pain caused McKay’s heart to contract so that he was sure he was going to die, hoped for it as an escape from the ache of his entire body.

They hemmed him in, with their cold menacing faces. The bright light blazed down. “Talk, McKay.”

“You can’t hold out against us, McKay.”

“We’ll turn you into pulp, McKay.”

“Talk, McKay.”

“Talk.”

“Talk.”

“Talk.”

The door opened and an officer put his head in through the doorway.

“That doctor’s here,” he said.