by Brian Cotton
Chapter .05
USR Agent Travis Forte threw another cigarette down onto the tile floor. He used the heel of his polished black shoe to put it out. His eyes moved forward to the suspect sitting in a chair before him. The suspect, a sixty-eight year old man who needed a cane to walk, began to shake without control when Forte began his approach.
The Agent couldn’t help but feel a little bit of sympathy for his suspect, but he shook his head the more he thought about it. This was not a real man he would be dealing with today. Forte looked to the suspect’s hands, each individual finger separated by silver duct tape. He would have fun with this one.
Forte moved his gaze to the terrified man’s eyes while he reached for his pocket knife. He pulled it out then waved the sharp, fresh blade in front of the leftover. It was almost getting too easy for Forte, one of the lead detectives in the hunt for the resistance. He caught him another one and only one question filled his mind: can I get anything useful out of him? Forte wiped the sweat off of his red freckled brow which matched his fiery red hair.
“We have the letters, Mr. Roberts,” Forte said. “We know that you are working for them. We just want to know who else is involved.”
“I told you already, I have no idea. I only found those letters in my mailbox.” Mr. Roberts replied.
“You think that’s going to fly in the face of the judge?”
“What judge? I’m heading straight for the noose.”
The Agent shook his head. Forte didn’t want to do this the hard way, but this little man gave him no choice. The blade moved in close to the right index finger. Mr. Roberts’s eyes widened with fear. It moved Forte to press further.
“We all know you are going to die for your treachery. The only thing you should concern yourself with right now is how much pain you go through.”
He pressed firm on Mr. Roberts’s right index finger, holding it in place. With a quick jab motion, the blade entered underneath the nail bed. The screams from the old man were ignored as the Agent kept digging. Once at the end, he flicked the knife upwards. Forte let the nail remain upright. The suspect’s pant leg was used to wipe the blood from the blade.
“Now, who sent you the letter?” Forte demanded.
“I don’t know!” Mr. Roberts cried. “I only received it!”
“Then why didn’t you contact the authorities?”
“Look at me now, that’s why.”
“Come on, you know that’s bullshit.”
Next up was the middle finger. Forte used the edge of the blade to tickle the end of that finger. He inserted the blade and took his time with this one. A yell of inaudible words stopped him. He pulled the knife back out and looked up into Mr. Roberts’s eyes.
“Yes?” Forte asked.
“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you…”
“Go on.”
The sweat on the suspect’s brow increased. The intense pain in his fingers, the heat of the room, all added to the stress of having to sell out one of his friends. Mr. Roberts panted in pain as his lips moved with no discernible words.
“I can’t hear you.” Forte said. He waved the knife around in air.
“It’s just…some guy. Lives by himself in an old apartment on the outskirts of the city. Doug Miller. But, that’s all I know.”
“You got an address?”
Mr. Roberts waited for Forte to pull out a small legal pad before he gave the address. Forte jotted it down and placed it back into the pocket on the inside of his coat. He stood up from his knelt position; a smile revealed his tobacco stained teeth. He looked at the suspect’s scared eyes as he reveled in his handiwork.
“Okay, friend, we’ll see if this checks out.” Forte said.
“What now? What happens to me?”
“I hate to say it,” Forte said, he looked down at the blood stained blade. “But, you lied to me.”
“You haven’t even checked the address, yet.”
“I’m not talking about that. When I asked you at the beginning, you said that you knew nothing. Now, after a little coercion, you all of a sudden remember.”
“But,” Mr. Roberts cried, “I gave you what you wanted to know.”
“You let us be the judge of that,” Forte said, his eyes never left the blade in his hand. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”
Without warning, Forte knelt back down and reinserted the blade into the suspect’s middle finger. Through the wails of pain and orders for him to stop, Forte finished it off. He left the nail standing straight up; it matched that of Mr. Roberts’s index. He sat the blade down on the table next to Mr. Roberts.
“You think about that knife while I’m gone,” Forte said. “And you think long and hard about ever lying to my face again.”
