Midas w-2

by Russell Andrews

  Justin sat up, the pain fully registering now, hot and searing. The soldier jabbed at him again with the butt, this time clipping Justin in the chin, knocking him flat. Justin rolled onto his side, used the motion to propel himself to his feet. He took a wobbly step toward the soldier, stopped short when he saw there was a second man in the room. That man was holding a pistol, pointing it at Justin. Standing now, Justin let his arms drop to his sides. The first soldier stepped forward, expressionless. His right hand moved quickly, too fast for Justin to react, slapping him across the face. The crack resonated throughout the room and Justin could feel his cheek redden. He swayed backward but didn’t lose his balance. The room fell silent again and all movement stopped.

  “Where am I?” Justin asked.

  The man’s hand moved a second time, just as quickly. Justin felt the slap again and staggered several steps back this time.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he said. “Or is that too tough a question for you?”

  This time, when the man’s right hand flew toward his face, Justin was ready for it. His own right hand intercepted it, but he was weak, his resistance was low. The soldier was strong enough to push Justin backward, and he lost his footing. As Justin’s hands went to his side, trying to give himself some balance, the man in fatigues threw a hard right to the gut and Justin went down. He sat on the floor, gasping for air.

  When he could speak, he said, “Just tell me what the hell you want from me.”

  Neither man answered. They glanced at each other, the man with the pistol nodded, then they both spun on their heels and left the room. Justin could hear the door bolt behind them.

  Sprawled on the floor, he fought back the strong feeling of panic that was rising from his stomach like the bitter taste of bile. He sat there for perhaps another hour, but it was getting harder and harder for him to count off the minutes in his head. All he really knew was that at some point his eyes began to close again, and he was once more overcome by exhaustion.

  He could not have been asleep for more than thirty seconds before the door burst open again. Justin didn’t need to be hit, he awakened at the sound of the two men thundering through the door and instinctively curled into a protective position to help shield the blows he was certain would follow. But he felt nothing. There was just silence. When he slowly turned his head, the same two men were standing above him. One of them had a bucket, and as soon as Justin moved, the soldier dumped its contents-ice-cold water-on top of his head, drenching him.

  Both men turned with military precision and headed for the door. Not a word had been spoken. Justin hurtled himself into the air and lunged for one of them, managing to grab him around his knees. He was able to do no more damage than slow the soldier down for one moment, because the other man was on him like a flash. The rifle butt crashed into the side of Justin’s head, then a thick, heavy boot thudded into his side, and Justin lost his hold. He slid helplessly to the dirt floor and made no further attempt to move until the two men had marched out the door.

  Justin lay on the dirt, wet and cold and aching and remembering how quickly strength can disappear. When Alicia died, so did his foundation. Faith and hope and optimism and joy all deserted him. He had thought he was not going to be able to go on, but it turned out he was left with something at his core that helped him survive. It took him years to understand that what was there was a certain toughness, a stubbornness, a meanness really, that wouldn’t let him give in to the agony that had become his life. To the unpleasant thing that, as he saw it, had become life itself. He had felt his strength fade then, and he remembered the feeling when he knew it was back. It was the moment he knew he was not going to join his wife and daughter in whatever world they’d gone to. Now, confined in the sweaty, foul-smelling cell, he felt that strength fading again, replaced by fear and uncertainty. But as he shivered, he thought, No, no, I won’t let it go that fast; this time they can’t take my life so quickly. So he shook off his exhaustion and the aches and pains and he climbed to his feet and stood at the door and, breathing heavily, just stared straight ahead, in case, somehow, they could see him, showing them that they had done their best and that he could take it.

  They were not going to take his strength away.

  Others had tried. The world had tried. No one had succeeded yet. And neither would they.

  Ten days later, Justin wasn’t so sure.

  That’s how long the torture had gone on. He’d had no sleep. It was the same routine: anytime his eyes closed, two men would jump into the cell. He’d be kicked or slapped or beaten. Ice water would be thrown on him. Sometimes there were electric shocks. Justin couldn’t tell exactly how they were being administered. There was some kind of box, he could feel clamps on his arms or on his feet, one time something clamped over his head. His body twitched and quivered when the waves swept through him. Once the shock was so bad, he could feel himself jerk and flop upwards off the ground and into the air. Once he smelled something burning and realized it was his flesh.

  Twice a day someone would come in to feed him. Never a real meal. Some bread. A piece of ham or some indeterminate piece of meat. And one small paper cup of water.

  Once, one of the men in fatigues spit in the cup before handing it to Justin. Justin drank it anyway.

  There was no toilet in the room. Justin picked out a corner closest to the door to shit and piss in. He had no way to clean himself off. At the beginning, he felt some revulsion and shame at his uncleanliness. But at some point, neither the smell nor the self-disgust nor the helplessness bothered him.

  For several days, he tried to resist. He forced himself to do sit-ups and push-ups and walk around the tiny room. But as the beatings went on and as his hunger grew and as he began to be dehydrated, he lost any desire to resist. He just wanted to tell them whatever they wanted to know. Anything they wanted to know.

  Only no one seemed to want to know anything.

  Justin was not frightened by the isolation or even, strangely enough, the beatings. What was beginning to terrify him was the lack of boundaries, the fact that there seemed to be no limit to the torture. No one had spoken to him, no one had asked him a question, no one seemed remotely interested in ending the process. It was the endlessness that was getting to him. The fact that he was beginning to think it might never end.

  It was the endlessness that was taking his strength away.

  At one point-he didn’t know if it was day or night; with no sleep, it made no difference anyway-two soldiers entered. He’d seen one of them before but not the other. One of them had a thick piece of rope. In front of Justin the soldier tied one end into a noose and, using a stepladder he’d brought into the room, attached it to a rusty metal hook that had long ago been driven into the wall.

  The second soldier looped the noose around Justin’s neck and led him up the ladder. The noose pulled taut-and then the first soldier kicked the ladder out from under Justin’s feet. He felt the rope tighten and he thought he was dead, really dead, but the rope broke and Justin tumbled to the ground, more or less unhurt, the noose still tight around his neck. Still, his captors said nothing. When the two men left the room, Justin removed the noose, felt the rope at the point where it had fallen apart, and realized it had been cut. Their intention had not been to hang him. It had been to terrify him.

  It had worked.

  Justin cared deeply about staying alive now. He didn’t know if he could but he suddenly had a deep and desperate thirst for life. He wanted-no, needed-to find out who was doing this to him. Find out who it was, find out where they were, and stay alive until he could kill them.

  Holding the rope strands, he smiled through cracked lips. Life suddenly seemed good again. He had a reason to live.

  They hadn’t taken his strength yet.

  Some time after the mock hanging-Justin had no idea when; it could have been hours, it could have been days-another man in fatigues came through the door and into Justin’s cell. It was the first time someone had come in alone.
Justin waited for the backup but no one else came. Just this one guy. His light brown hair was slightly longer than the others, not a buzz cut. His skin wasn’t as tan as most of the other men who’d come in. His clothes seemed crisper, as if they were newer or had been recently starched.

  Justin was sprawled on the floor and made no attempt to stand. The man had his back to the wall with the door and he leaned casually against it. Watching him, Justin realized he was going to hear the first words he’d heard since he’d been there. This soldier wasn’t just a thug. Justin made a silent bet with himself that this was an officer. And that this was his interrogator.

  “The explosion at Harper’s Restaurant,” the soldier said. His voice was calm. Whatever anger lurked behind them wasn’t detectable. Nor was it visible in his eyes, which were slate gray and as blank as eyes could be. “Tell me what happened.”

  Justin didn’t answer. He had no response that could remotely be seen as satisfying.

  “How long have I been here?” he said instead, and was surprised to hear his own voice-harsh and dry and cracked. It hurt his throat to expel the words and he didn’t know if the man would even understand the words.

  “Not long enough,” the man answered. “You should try answering the questions that I ask.”

  Justin tried licking his lips before speaking this time. It didn’t do much good. He couldn’t conjure up any moisture.

  “How much longer?”

  “Tell me what you know about the Harper’s bombing.”

  “How much longer. . will I be here?”

  “You’ll be here until you tell us what you know.”

  “And then?”

  “It depends on what you tell us.”

  “Where?”

  “Are you asking where you are?” And when Justin nodded, because he was almost out of energy and that was the best he could do, the man in fatigues said, “You’re in hell, pal.”

  Justin knew he’d lost the guy, that he was going to turn and leave the tiny cell, so he quickly spit out the word, “Why?” And when the officer hesitated, didn’t leave, just stared at Justin, a look of disbelief on his face, Justin said it again quickly, as loud as he could: “Why?”

  “You’re being held as an enemy combatant.”

  Justin raised his head. He hoped his eyes were registering the disbelief he felt. “You think I’m a terrorist?”

  “We know you have knowledge of terrorist activities. And that you may be aiding and abetting the enemy.”

  “Fucking crazy.”

  “I couldn’t understand that. You’re not speaking clearly.”

  Justin coughed out some of the hurt in his throat and forced the words out: “You’re fucking crazy.”

  The man didn’t answer. This time he just turned and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” Justin said. And when the man turned back, Justin, doing his best to be understood, added, “Want to call a lawyer.”

  The man actually smiled. A thin, cruel, delighted smile. “You don’t have the right,” he said.

  “Bullshit.” It was the clearest word Justin had yet uttered.

  The man took two steps forward now, leaned down to get closer to him. Justin could see the man recoil slightly at the smell. The proximity to this kind of filth seemed to finally anger him. The grin was gone, as was the calm civility. Both were replaced only by cruelty. “Listen, you little fuck. You don’t have the right to an attorney, you don’t have the right to remain silent, you don’t have the right to shit. Not anymore. Guys like me, we can finally do our fucking jobs. I can keep you here for the rest of your natural fucking life and no one can do a fucking thing about it, do you understand that?”

  When Justin didn’t answer, the man kicked him. Hard. Justin didn’t feel any real pain but he realized he must have blacked out, because suddenly his eyes were open and he’d missed some time, and the man was standing over him.

  “What do you want to know?” Justin said.

  “Right now, all I want to know is if you understand what the fuck I just told you. ’Cause the stink in here is making me sick and I don’t want to have to spend one second more than I have to talking to scum like you.”

  “I understand what you told me.”

  “Good. Now you think about it until I come back. That might be tomorrow, it might be a few months from now, it might be never. You think about that, too.”

  Justin felt the panic rising up again. The idea of going back into the endless isolation, no conversation, no communication, more beatings, it was the feeling he imagined would come with being buried alive. The feeling he had when he dreamed about Alicia and Lili. The fear was suffocating but he refused to show it, did his best to keep his breath smooth and steady. The man turned and left.

  Justin Westwood curled up on the floor. He didn’t know if he could stay awake, exhaustion had consumed his entire body. But he didn’t think he could fall asleep, so deep was his dread of being beaten and humiliated, his usual punishment for drifting away from consciousness. So he lay there, doing his best to keep his thoughts coherent and his fear too deeply embedded to emerge.

  They didn’t have his strength. They hadn’t taken it away. That’s what he told himself over and over and over again.

  And then he began to weep.

  28

  The beatings and sleep deprivation resumed soon afterward. Justin estimated they went on for three more days, although he knew his sense of time had little proportion to it. That was as close as he could get and it was preferable to no guideline at all.

  On what he thought was the fourth day, the man-the only one who had thus far spoken to him-returned. He offered a small paper cup full of water, which Justin grabbed and downed in one gulp. The cold liquid hurt his throat; the coldness was jarring enough that it made him drop the cup on the floor. He watched sadly as a tiny stream of water dropped onto the dirt and formed a moist bubble of a puddle.

  “Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s,” the man asked. No lead-in, no attempt at banter or good cop tactics. Just, “Tell me about the bombing at Harper’s.”

  Justin nodded slowly. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about the bombing at La Cucina.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  The man’s voice didn’t change. “Tell me about the McDonald’s bombing.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I know. Ask me questions I can answer.”

  “Tell me about Midas.”

  “Midas?” Justin was surprised. “I don’t know anything about Midas. All I know is they paid Hutchinson Cooke to work for them.”

  “Tell me what you know about Midas.”

  Speaking was still difficult and his throat was so raw it felt as if it had been scraped to the bone with a sharp blade. “It’s a company.”

  “What kind of a company?”

  “I don’t know. The kind you should be fucking investigating instead of talking to me, you fucking asshole.”

  Justin had no memory of the blow. He also had no idea how long he was out. All he knew is that when he came to, the man was gone and he was, as usual, all alone in his cell.

  The next time the man came, Justin estimated it was two days later.

  “Tell me about the bombings,” the man said.

  “I need some real food,” Justin said. “And my gums won’t stop bleeding.”

  “The bombings. Start with Harper’s.”

  “Just tell me what you want to know. I swear to God, I’ll tell you.”

  “What happened at Harper’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were there.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Afterwards,” the man in fatigues said. “An FBI agent brought you there.”

  “Right,” Justin nodded. “He showed me what happened.”

  “Why?”

  “I asked him to.”

  “Why?”

  “I know someone who was killed there. In the explosion. I wanted to see.�
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  “What was the agent’s name?”

  “Billings. Chuck Billings.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “But you think someone did.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What about Hutchinson Cooke?”

  “He’s dead, too.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know.” Justin’s voice was just about gone now. His throat felt like it was going to close up.

  “Why are you looking into his death?”

  “I’m a fucking policeman, you fucking moron.”

  When Justin woke up, he decided he must have been hit in the mouth this time. One of his front teeth was loose.

  Justin saw no one, after that, for what he estimated to be two full days. Sometime during the third day, the door to his cell opened. Justin didn’t respond because he’d learned that response was meaningless. He got no points for being passive, nor was there an advantage to any resistance. So he just lay still. He’d taken to estimating the time of day and he decided it was the middle of the night.

  When the door opened, only one man stepped through. Through his half-closed eyes, Justin saw that the man looked Middle Eastern. He had dark skin and deep-set, equally dark eyes. His hair was black and, though cut very short, was very straight. He walked slowly over to Justin’s prone body. When Justin stirred, the man jumped back, startled. He looked frightened. More frightened than Justin.

  “It smells terrible in here,” the man said in a whisper. When Justin didn’t respond, he raised his voice just slightly to say, “Can you hear me?”

  Justin tried speaking but no words came out. So he nodded.

  “I am not going to hurt you,” the man said, and Justin could definitely hear the Middle Eastern accent. “I’m just here to tell you something.”

  Justin nodded again.

  “I am not a guard, I am not a soldier. I am a prisoner here, like you.”

  Justin held up his hand for the man to stop. He tried to speak, but only a cough-like croak came out. He hoped the words sounded like what they were supposed to be: “Why. . here?”