Russell Andrews - Midas

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.

No one showed up in the cell after that for some time. Justin had several hours of relative peace. During that time, he made a decision. Bruno’s message had had its desired effect. All they could do was hurt him, and he could survive that. There was no way to fight back, not in these circumstances, not in the condition he was in. There was only one thing he could do that would help him survive, or at least help keep him from going crazy.

He could use his brain. He could spend every moment sifting through information and putting the pieces together. He remembered Billy DiPezio, his onetime mentor in Providence, talking about the power brokers up there, saying, “You can only take what they give you.” Well, they were only giving him one thing: time.

So Justin decided he’d take it. And use it to try to figure out the puzzle.

He began by placing his finger in the dirt he was sitting on and slowly scratching out a series of names. To the left he put the dead men: Collins, Cooke, Heffernan, Billings, and Lockhardt. Below them, he dug out the name Theresa Cooke and under that wrote “Reysa” and “Hannah.” Hannah was still alive, but she more than counted as a victim. He moved his finger slowly, somehow drawing some importance from the texture of the visual in the dirt. To the right, he began tracing the names of the people he believed were connected to the deaths. Stuller and Dandridge.

To their right he put a new column. Justin listed every name he could think of in conjunction with the case. First, he tried to remember every person he’d spoken to: Martha Peck, Colonel Zanesworth, Hubbell Schrader, the son of a bitch. He hoped that someday he’d get a chance to get his hands on Schrader. Justin forced himself to stop thinking of revenge, then he calmly drew all those last names in the dirt. Then he added one more column. He tried to visualize all the names he’d come across in Roger Mallone’s reports and lawsuits, some of which he’d read, some of which Reggie had encapsulated for him. He did better than he thought: writing down the last names of the Yale attendees: President Thomas Anderson; the head of the EPA, Stephanie Ingles; Stuller and Dandridge again. He added Elliot Brown, the New York City comptroller. And he tried to think of the name of the Saudi, the one who was so connected to EGenco, but he could only recall the first name: Mishari. He remembered that it was followed by “al” something. . but he couldn’t come up with it. He knew he had all the time in the world, let himself relax, trying to visualize the name on Mallone’s report, but it wouldn’t come. So he just scratched out “Mishari” in the dirt. He was reasonably sure that Arabs didn’t go by their last names anyway, it was the first name that mattered, so he decided that was good enough.

And then he added one more word. They seemed so concerned with Midas. It was definitely worth adding. He gave it its own separate column.

He looked at the hastily drawn names as he’d laid them out:

Collins Peck Stuller Anderson Brown MIDASCookeZanesworth Dandridge InglesMishari Heffernan Schrader Stuller Billings Dandridge Lockhardt T. Cooke Reysa Hannah

He stared at them, not trying to make sense of anything, not trying to form any patterns, just memorizing them. Putting them into groupings inside his head so he could call them up at will. In his current state, it had taken him over an hour just to put the list together. He wanted to be able to do it in seconds, without having to think. So he burned them into his memory, until he felt himself falling asleep again, and before he conked out, he ran his hands through all the names, erasing them, leaving no trace, and then he fell asleep. Immediately the door burst open, two men came rushing in, and the torture began again.