Midas

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.”

“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?”

The Middle Eastern man patted him gently on the arm, a sign that Justin didn’t have to speak.

“I’m here because a guard was bribed,” he said. And when Justin’s eyes narrowed questioningly, the man continued, “No, not by me. I am just the messenger.”

“Who. .?” Justin’s voice was still raspy. But it definitely sounded like a word this time.

“The message is from someone named Pecozzi.”

Justin’s eyes widened. “Bruno. .”

“Yes. Bruno Pecozzi. Please, let me speak. I don’t know how much time we will have.”

Justin nodded. The man’s whisper continued.

“The message is, ‘We know where you are. They know that we know. So they won’t kill you.’ Does that make sense?”

“More?” Justin breathed.

“The woman is okay. I was told to say that, also.”

“Which woman?”

“The one who was with you.”

Justin closed his eyes, a moment of thanks. The weight that had been pressing down his chest, suffocating him whenever he thought of Reggie, shot, lying on the bed, disappeared. No word about Wanda, though, and the weight was replaced with another sensation, a tightening around his heart. “Whole. . message?” he rasped again.

“Yes. It is very hard to communicate, so that is all. But it makes sense?”

Justin closed his eyes. Bruno had let him know that Reggie was alive. That was to provide comfort and satisfaction. But Bruno was also telling him that whatever they did to him down here, however brutal it got, he didn’t have to be afraid. They wouldn’t kill him. Justin wasn’t sure how Bruno could know that, but this was an area in which he trusted the big man completely. So all he had to do was tolerate the pain. Torture only worked when there was the thought of no end in sight-or an end that no one would ever want. That was not going to be the case. So Justin opened his eyes and nodded. It made sense.

“How?” he now asked the man crouching down next to him. “How. .”

“I will tell you everything I know. I don’t know who this man Pecozzi is, or how he was able to do this, but I have a lawyer. I believe she once represented him.”

“Lawyer. .?” Justin managed to say.

“A very good woman. Shirley Greene.”

“Read. . about. . her. Terrorists.”

“She represents Arabs. And people think all Arabs are terrorists.”

“You. .?”

“I am not a terrorist. And my brothers are not terrorists. But we are being treated as such. And I believe we will be deported as such. If we live to be deported.” He hesitated and shook his head sadly. “We are not being treated as terribly as you. We are not in isolations. This is very bad.”

“Where. . am I?”

“You don’t know?”

Justin shook his head.

“Guantanamo Bay,” the man said.

Justin managed a long exhale. “You. .,” he said, “. . how long. .?”

“My brothers and I have been here for several weeks. Many weeks. I don’t know exactly. Some men have been here for two, three years.”

The slit in the cell’s door slid open and a quick, quiet whistle came from the other side.

“I would have brought you water if I had known. I’m sorry.”

Another whistle.

“I’ve got to go,” the man said. “If I can, I will come again.”

“Thank you,” Justin whispered.

“Go with God,” the man answered.

And as he left, Justin closed his eyes. Better to go with the devil, he thought. Much more useful when you’re in hell.