The Liar

by Bobby Adair

  The sheriff spun Tommy roughly around. “Hands on the wall, stupid ass.”

  “What the hell?” Tommy’s anger found a release, and he pushed against the deputy’s insistence.

  The deputy shoved him so hard Tommy bumped his nose and it immediately started to bleed. He lost his balance and tried to catch himself.

  “He’s awake now,” somebody chuckled.

  As Tommy was trying to stand back up straight, he caught sight of a handful of people, women and men, sitting against a far wall, legs crossed, hands behind their backs, and heads hanging.

  “Taze him!” shouted somebody.

  Tommy looked back toward the deputy just in time to see the Taser coming at him.

  Chapter 4

  Hardheaded, that’s what people said about Tommy. More than once. Stubborn. Pain in the ass. He got it. He understood why. Tommy never had a problem with it. To him, those labels were jealous words for what he called persistence.

  Turned out, persistence wasn’t always a good thing.

  After losing his temper and struggling against the uniformed men in the locker room, Tommy had been Tazed so many times he could barely coordinate his muscles well enough to gasp a breath, let alone fight. They pulled his arms behind his back, cinched a zip tie tight on his wrists, and dropped him on his ass at the end of the row of detainees sitting on the floor by the lockers.

  Tommy had tried calling for help, and was Tazed again.

  And again.

  Until the volts jolting his bones helped him make the smart choice to finally shut up.

  Unable to maintain his balance by then, even in a sitting position, Tommy fell over.

  His fingers were tingling from Taser-fry, and his feet twitched like they’d made their choice to run for it, only the rest of his body hadn’t received the message. A river of snot was running out of his nose and oozing through a pool of drool puddling around his face.

  With his eyes closed, he resisted the urge to puke, and wondered what it felt like to die.

  He tried to guess if that’s what he was doing.

  And that’s how he lay for a long time, all the fight zapped out of him.

  On the wall above, a white-faced, dinner plate-sized clock hung, decaled around with plain black numerals, and loud old gears ticking the demise of each minute with the jerk of a bent hand. And it didn’t give one rat’s ass if Tommy took another breath or not.

  Did he have the strength for it?

  Could he coax another minute’s worth of beats out of his tired heart?

  Odd questions for a man in his forties who liked to hike up to the snowbound peaks in the summer and watch the sun rise over the world. At least when he wasn’t stuck in a discount hotel in Houston, sacrificing another weekend to his company’s inability to draw out a realistic project timeline or win an honest bid from a paying customer.

  But people don’t know how much abuse their bodies can take, because they seldom get a chance to learn.

  More minutes ticked past.

  A half hour went by.

  Tommy’s overloaded mental circuits slowly cooled off, and his body recalibrated itself.

  There’s a certain embarrassment that comes from having snot running down your face in public, and Tommy reached the point where he was able to feel that shame. So, he wrestled himself back into an upright position, and had to rest. His head was swimming. He leaned back against a cold, metal locker door.

  Once he was sure he could stay upright, he wiped his face first on one shoulder, and then the other.

  “Hey,” said one of the 704s guarding the detainees, “that pigheaded guy is sitting up.”

  A muffled voice and ominous steps echoed from the mouth of a nearby hallway. A camo-wearing man the size of a bear stepped out, leaned on the wall, and smiled like he and Tommy were old friends. He pointed a lazy finger at Tommy. “That one, then.”

  ***

  Tommy’s arms were restrained behind the back of a sturdy wooden chair. His ankles were zip-tied to the legs. The chair sat in the center of a smallish office. A desk overflowing with folders and scattered papers had been shoved to the side to make room for Tommy.

  A filing cabinet squatted in front of a wide window reinforced with chicken-wire mesh. Golden trophies crowned with plastic, action-posed running backs stood atop the cabinet. Football plaques fuzzed with old dust hung crookedly on the sheetrock.

  A second chair filled the space between the file cabinet and the desk. The guy sitting there looked like he’d spent many o’ long workday hunched over a computer, plugging in numbers, responding to emails, and gossiping about his boss over a messenger app. Of course, that didn't disqualify him from wearing a uniform of army-surplus camo with a crisp Battalion 704 patch on his arm.

  Another 704 man stood in the doorway with a deadly-looking rifle hanging from his shoulder. He fidgeted with a Taser he seemed anxious to use.

  “You have lots of credit cards,” said the bear-sized man, as he sat with one leg halfway on the desk, thumbing through the contents of Tommy’s billfold.

  “I’ll need those back.” Tommy kept his tone conversational. The Taser had taught him the value of good manners.

  “You should give me your PIN numbers,” said The Bear, glancing at Computer Guy.

  “I don’t know what this is and I don’t care.” Tommy looked around the office for effect. “I need to report my daughter missing. That’s all I came down here for.”

  “Do you like terrorists?” asked The Bear.

  Tommy’s temper flared despite his high-voltage etiquette lessons. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Taser Boy stepped in, device ready.

  "That won't be necessary right now," said The Bear. He looked back at Tommy as Taser Boy returned to his place in the doorway. "I can help you with a hint. Would you like a hint, Mr. Joss?"

  Tommy glared.

  “‘No’ is the answer. It’s an easy one. Nobody likes terrorist.” The Bear caught himself, surprised by a thought. “‘No’ was your answer, wasn’t it?”

  “My daughter is not a terrorist,” said Tommy. “I’m not—”

  “Who said Emma was a terrorist?” asked The Bear. “Emma, that’s who you’re talking about, right?”

  “We’re not terrorists,” said Tommy. “We had nothing to—”

  “I saw her speak last weekend,” said The Bear.

  Tommy hadn’t expected that.

  The Bear waved a hand. “Love your enemy. Turn the other cheek. Don’t believe the propaganda. You know the kind of stuff, right? Maybe you think she’s helping our country, but she’s not. People like her invite the enemy in, cook them a meal, make them a bed, and watch while they burn everything to the ground. The NonCons love her.”

  “None of that’s true,” said Tommy.

  “What do you know about national security?” asked The Bear, offended. “You don’t even bother to vote.”

  “I told—”

  “Yes,” said The Bear. “You’re an Apathist. Too busy with work to do your duty.”

  “Look,” said Tommy, “I don’t know what this is, but—”

  The Bear raised one of his big palms. “You said that already. Three times since we came in here.”

  Tommy huffed. “Why are you holding me?”

  “National security,” said The Bear. “But feel free to leave anytime you like.” The Bear’s compatriots laughed like it was actually funny.

  Tommy tried another tack. “Forgive me. I don’t know your name.”

  The Bear smiled down at him, but did not reply.

  Tommy gave it a few uncomfortable moments. “Would you care to introduce yourself?”

  The Bear started pulling credit cards out of Tommy’s billfold and stacking them in one of his big paws. “I’ll bet you have a lot of money.” He chuckled and his eyes twinkled just enough. “Do you mind giving me your PIN numbers?”

  “Yes, I mind,” Tommy told him.

  “Just one, then.” The Bear picked a nicely worn de
bit card and showed it to Tommy. “How about this one?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “How about the password you use for online banking?” asked The Bear.

  “No,” said Tommy. “You have no authority to snoop through—”

  “National security,” said The Bear. “This is an emergency. A time of grave danger. We have all the authority we need.”

  Computer Guy turned his screen so that both Tommy and The Bear could see it. It showed an aerial view of Tommy’s house.

  “You see, Mr. Joss, while you were screwing working people out of enough money to pay for that mansion up on the mountain, me and my associates were protecting America from all enemies foreign and domestic. And right now, we need to be sure your money comes from a real job and not a nefarious political faction.”

  Computer Guy went back to work on the laptop.

  “You need a warrant,” said Tommy.

  “Warrants are for embezzlers and mobsters,” said The Bear, “not for terrorists.”

  “I’m no terrorist,” argued Tommy.

  “The house belongs to an LLC,” said Computer Guy.

  “A tax shelter?” asked The Bear. “Or a safe house?”

  “It belongs to my father-in-law.” Tommy nodded at Computer Guy. “The LLC documents were filed. It’s public record. You don’t need a warrant to see it.” Tommy looked at his credit cards, most all of them were still in The Bear’s hands. “I want my phone call. I want to talk to my attorney.”

  The 704s laughed.

  “Now,” Tommy demanded.

  The Bear laid Tommy’s credit cards on the desk and picked up Tommy’s phone. He reached it out. “Go ahead, call.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Tommy snapped, feeling like he’d maybe found the beginning of a trail out of the bullshit. “Free one of my hands.”

  “Can’t,” said The Bear. “Orders. Everybody’s got to do what the boss says.”

  “Why are you playing these games?” Tommy pushed.

  The Bear put on a pained expression. "I respect your rights, Mr. Joss. This is America, after all. Give me your phone’s passcode, and I'll dial for you."

  Tommy tilted his head toward a landline on the desk. “Dial that one.”

  "Lines are down.” The Bear thumbed the screen on Tommy's phone, and it came to life.

  “I’m not giving you my passcode.”

  The Bear’s eyes were on the device. “Who’s Summer?”

  “Nobody. A stripper I met in Houston last week.”

  “That’s funny,” said The Bear, showing Tommy the partial message displaying on the locked phone. “Looks like she has some nasty things to say about us. What’s your passcode?”

  “Summer Corrigan,” said Computer Guy, eyes intent on his screen. “A-lister.”

  “We missed another one?” asked The Bear.

  “It’s still the first day,” said Computer Guy.

  “We started at midnight,” said Taser Boy. “Still the first day.”

  The Bear turned his attention back to Tommy. “You need to give me your passcode.”

  Tommy shook his head. “Free one of my hands and leave the room so I can make my call in private.”

  “We’re going to get into your phone,” said The Bear, facing the screen at Tommy to see whether facial recognition might work and unlock the phone without further hassle.

  Luckily Tommy’s device wasn’t new enough for that feature to work. “You have no right to access my phone.”

  “We need to get in,” said The Bear, all humor gone, “so we can see who you’ve been talking to. If you’re not a terrorist, then you have nothing to hide, right?”

  “Goddammit.” Tommy’s anger got away from him again. “I live next door to the mayor. He and I are friends. I don’t know anything about any bombing, and nobody I know knows anything about it. I’m not a terrorist.”

  “Yet here you are, ” said The Bear, “taking your turn to talk to me, just like all the other liars.”

  “That doesn’t make any logical sense,” Tommy told him.

  “I don’t put the canaries in the cage, Mr. Joss. I just teach them to sing.”

  Tommy didn’t like the sound of that at all. “I demand my call to my lawyer.”

  “Give me your passcode,” The Bear told him. “I can find your attorney’s number in your contacts?”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “If you get in, look under Joe Go Fuck Yourself. Now free my hands and let—”

  The Bear’s big fist smashed Tommy’s face.

  ***

  There’s the picture people have of themselves, that one they develop when they’re in their teens, sitting on the hood of a car at the local hangout, talking hypotheticals and making claims about how they’d do this or do that.

  If you could go back in time and kill Hitler, blah, blah, blah.

  If you found a billfold with a thousand dollars inside, would you do this blah or that blah?

  If somebody paid you a million dollars to suck on Hazelton’s wrinkly little pecker, would you?

  If you were ever captured and tortured, would you give up the goods or hold out ‘til the end?

  When it was all just words and stories, Tommy had been certain he’d hold out. His friends were willing to place bets that Tommy would die before giving away the big secrets. Such was Tommy’s reputation back when he was sixteen, a tough kid, living in a place where tough kids who made bad choices were locked up by the State.

  Tommy didn’t know how long The Bear and Taser Boy spent punching and electrifying him. The longer it went on, though, the harder Tommy tried to reason his way into making it end.

  He decided that the 704 guys had to be a group of out-of-control contractors for a government agency that had been Johnny-on-the-spot in response to the terrorist attack. They didn’t mind jumping to fast conclusions, whether it was about this group they called the NonCons, or even Tommy. They meant to find answers, and seemed to have no scruples over their methods.

  The question Tommy asked himself after each time The Bear’s knuckles pounded his face, was how far were these guys willing to go?

  Would they kill him?

  They certainly didn’t seem to mind risking it.

  Tommy knew nothing incriminating was hiding in his bank records. Nothing on social media. He didn’t have links to any questionable people. No terrorists, that was for sure. His email accounts were boring, nothing but work correspondence with personal notes from Emma and Faith asking if he'd be coming home for the weekend.

  Sadly, that question was there for too many weekends.

  With nothing to hide, Tommy didn’t see the sense of risking further injury to keep it secret.

  His biggest risk, he decided, would be that they’d use one of those obscure federal laws to seize the money in his accounts. He concluded that was no big deal, either. If they illegally cleaned him out, there’d be a paper trail. It might take six months, or a year, or two, but his attorney would get it all back.

  Once this night ended, and calmer nerves settled over Spring Creek, the FBI would come in. They'd be rational. They'd see there was no evidence of any wrongdoing. Tommy would be set free long before the bruises on his face healed. If anything, he’d been stupid not to tell The Bear and his toadies everything they’d wanted right from the start.

  And that’s how the problem found its solution in Tommy’s mind, as The Bear coaxed Tommy’s principles into a more and more malleable state.

  Tommy gave them everything, his PINs, his online banking information, email password, and the passcode to his phone.

  Magic words.

  The beating stopped.

  They detached Tommy from the chair, dragged him out of Coach Football’s office, down the hall, and back to the locker room where they dropped him with the other detainees.

  He promptly fell over and started to drool another bloody puddle on the cold tile floor. And as much as his ribs ached, and his mouth stung from where his teeth cut into his cheeks, no matter how m
uch his face throbbed and his head pounded, the humiliation of being powerless under the fists of cruel men felt the worst.

  No, what felt the worst was that he gave in.

  ***

  Strong hands beneath each of his arms were carrying Tommy and dragging his toes across the floor when he came to. Tommy struggled to get his feet beneath him, but in his groggy state, he did little more than anger the men hauling him.

  They passed through a double door and into the night. The air bit Tommy’s skin with a familiar chill, and the moon glowed down through a clear sky. The weather had turned and blown the smoke from the Poncha Springs fire back south again.

  And for a fleeting second, the world felt normal.

  But just for that one moment.

  Things were busy behind the school, and not with anything that fit the normalcy bill.

  Tommy coughed a gob of clumpy red spit onto the sidewalk, and he tried to sniff the crud out of his nose. He tasted blood flowing into his mouth, but his nose didn't clear. It looked like he was going to be out of the sniffing business for a few days.

  Loud pops sounded, not close, but not far. Tommy couldn’t tell for sure what they were. Maybe a car full of teens was marauding through town tossing firecrackers out, one or two at a time, and in strings.

  He knew that wasn’t true. No way it could be. Not on a night like this.

  Sirens wailed from somewhere.

  God, would they ever stop?

  Tommy heard the familiar sound of a pickup's rusty tailgate folding open, and he lifted his throbbing head to see where his helpers were taking him. The truck stood there in the parking lot, a jacked-up 4-wheel-drive beast that had lost the last gloss from its oxidized paint before Tommy had graduated high school. The sheet metal behind the wheels was holed with rust, and the bed was a mess of dirt and wood chips clinging to gummy motor oil.

  Tommy’s handlers stopped dragging him when the truck’s open tailgate bumped Tommy’s ribs. He didn’t need to be told what to do next. With his arms still bound behind him, he lifted a leg and tried to roll into the truck. He knew he couldn’t do it, but with the buzz of that damn Taser still freshly burned through his nerves, he kept at it, until his assistants lifted him by the legs and heaved him up.