Interrogation (A Short Story) Read online

trite.  Did it ever occur to you to just ask me for the information you want?”

  “You’re insane,” I manage dumbly.

  “Please,” he says shaking his head with pity.  He just sits there looking at me like he’s scolding an ignorant child. “You want the combination for that vault.  I’ll tell you a secret.”  He looks at me conspiratorially, his mouth contorting into a bemused smirk.  “You don’t even need one.  I’ve already given the bank instructions that should someone come there claiming to be Vincent Malick, they are to let him into the vault immediately without checking identification or any other credentials.  I did this because I know there’s nothing your employer can do with it anyway.  Knowledge is true power, Vincent, not brute strength and killing.  I’m so many steps ahead of you, you'll never catch up.”

  Something deep inside me rebels against the mockery of his tone, and I draw on it, a feeling of refreshing coming from the powerful drive deep inside me to kill. Hatred and blood lust swirl in my chest, pushing back against the fear and humiliation of cowering from this man.  I draw on everything I've ever been, ever done, to empower myself to do what I must. Suddenly, I realize I’ve had just about enough of this smarmy little toad.  He’s going down, so help me, or I’ll die trying.

  “You would, you know?” he says.  “Die trying I mean.”

  My temporary bravado crashes to the ground.  Oh God!  What is this guy?  He’s superhumanly strong and now he can read minds?

  “I feel for you Vincent, I really do," he says, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a flick of something in his hand. He takes a long drag of it before speaking again.  "Your real enemy is yourself, and you don’t even know it.  You were so overconfident, so sure of yourself.  But you've completely missed the point.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say.  I know that I’m coming to my end and I’m ready to get it over with.  “And what point is that?”

  The smile fades from his lips and he stands and walks forward, leaning in until his face is nearly touching mine, his breath musky and hot, as he exhales smoke into my face.  I’m going to die.  I know it without a doubt.  But instead of striking, he reaches up and pats my head like a puppy.

  “The point is, Vincent…there is no you.”

   

   

  I wake, and the first thought I have is that I’m not dead, but any relief I feel is quickly washed away.  I'm engulfed in darkness.  My whole body aches.  Above me, a lone light bulb glows dully to life, casting an eerie light on my predicament.

  I'm lying on a stretcher, my hands and feet shackled to it.  The room I'm in smells moldy, earthy.  I'm a prisoner.  He’s got me!  The Texan has me and he’s probably going to torture me to death.  Why else would I be in this setup?

  “Welcome back, Mr. Crowe,” a soft, feminine voice says from the corner of the room.  I turn my head to find the source.  The woman sits on a folding chair wearing dark gray slacks, high heels, and a red blouse.  I get the hint of blonde hair, but her face is barely visible in the low lighting.

  Mr. Crowe?  What the…?

  “Who are you?” I say.  My voice comes out as a whispery rasp and I notice for the first time how dry my mouth and throat are.  Speaking hurts.

  “Who I am is irrelevant, Mr. Crowe.”

  That again.  “Where’s the Texan, and why do you keep calling me by his name.  My name is…” I stop myself before going further.  Few people know my real name and it’s best to keep it that way.  Besides, I'm already in way over my head as it is.

  “Vincent Malick?” she finishes for me.  She chuckles to herself.  “I must say, Mr. Crowe, you’re very creative.  It's been very entertaining having you here.  You're the most fun I've had in years of doing this.”

  Something’s wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.  Nothing makes sense.  I grasp at anything to ground myself, frantically searching for solid purchase.  My panic level kicks into overdrive and I try to pull against the restraints holding my limbs in place, but gasp at the extreme effort it takes just to lift my hands off of the bed, much less pull against the bonds.  I feel weak and spent.

  “Just relax,” the woman says.  “Your muscles have atrophied.”

  Atrophied!?  How could my muscles be atrophied?  What does she mean?  I struggle to understand.

  “Where am I?” I croak.  “How long have I been here?”

  “Where you are isn't important.  You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you.  How long you've been here, well you’ve been lying in that exact spot for the past six months, Mr. Crowe.”

  I struggle to process what she’s saying.  “Why do you keep calling me that?  I’m not Sam Crowe!”

  She crosses her legs and runs a hand through her hair.  “Oh, I can assure you, you are Sam Crowe.  I know you must be scared right now, but personality disorientation is a common side effect of the process.  It will pass in time.”

  I curse wildly.  "What process?" I scream, the effort sending razors of pain slicing through my raw throat.  I'm going to have a mental breakdown. I can't take anymore of this.  I'm losing my grip on reality.

  “Easy now, there’s no need to be rude,” she says.  She takes a deep breath and continues.  “You’ve been here for the last six months as part of your interrogation.  You had information that we needed, Mr. Crowe.  So you were placed into a hyper-sleep state where you lived the past months in a fantasy world of your own making.  Vincent Malick, the vile assassin," she says wryly, "was a persona, a portion of your psyche, shall we say?  He's what we used to obtain what we needed from you, but in truth, you created him.  We just used the pieces you gave us.”

  No, this can’t be real!  That’s absurd.  I have years of memories of being Vincent Malick.  My mind rebels against the thought, and yet there’s a pinpoint of awareness dawning deep inside of me, a terrible realization of the truth, that I am Sam Crowe. Vincent was never real, I was never real, I am the Texan!  Details of my real life begin to slowly creep back into my memories.  I suddenly feel the urge to puke, and I’m surprised when I realize tears are burning down my face.

  “Why?” is all I can say.

  “Like I said, you had something we needed.”  She rises, but doesn’t leave.

  “I didn’t give up the combination to the vault,” I say, clinging to the hope that they had failed to get what they wanted.

  She laughs lightly.  “The vault was just your version of Pandora’s box, Mr. Crowe.  I can promise you, we got all the information we wanted.  The mind is a complicated machine.  Sometimes the best way to find out a secret is to use distraction.  You were so busy playing your little role, that your subconscious gave us everything we were after.”

  “Then what did you want from me?  What did you get?”  I can’t imagine what I would have that anyone would need.

  “You don't really expect me to show you all my cards do you, Mr. Crowe?  Anyway, it doesn’t matter.  In a week, you will have forgotten the truth.  You will believe you survived a ski accident where you hit your head and suffered from amnesia for the time you’ve actually been with us.  Your family will be ecstatic to learn their missing family member is alive and well, and you’ll all live happily ever after in ignorant bliss.”

  My stomach churns.  “Why would you do all that?  If you wanted something, why not just torture me and make it quick?”  Please God, don’t let this be real.

  She cocks her head to the side.  “Because, Mr. Crowe, we’re not barbarians," she says with obvious distaste.

  She walks slowly to the door, her face still hidden.  The light goes out, plunging the room into total darkness.  The door opens and she enters a hallway that is only slightly less dark than the room, her silhouette temporarily visible again.  Without turning she says, “My suggestion for now, is that you try to rest, Mr. Crowe.  You've had a long ordeal, and you’ll need all your strength for your recovery.”

  She starts to walk out then stops, as if remembering something.  She turns
around, and my breath catches.  In the darkness, her eyes glow a deep, iridescent blue, giving her an inhuman, otherworldly appearance.  She makes an odd noise, something between a hiss and a growl.

  "Thank you for your cooperation," she says.  And with that, she closes the door.

   

   

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  Thank you for reading Interrogation.  If you enjoyed this short story, please check out my full-length debut novel, The Night Sweeper,

  Available where e-books are sold. Sample included at the end of this book.

   

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