Here is my contribution to the blog short story project.
The Truth Hurts
by John DuMond
Allison was in and out of consciousness as she sat blindfolded and tied to a chair. She was exhausted, cold, and scared. Her arms still hurt from where they were burned multiple times with a cigarette. She didn’t know where she was, or how long she’d been there.
All she had was questions. Who were the men who kidnaped her? Why did they take her? What did they want? They were wearing masks when they grabbed her, and they blindfolded her almost immediately. All she knew was that there were three of them. And that one of them had blue eyes. The palest blue eyes she had ever seen.
She tried speaking to them. Begging them to stop. Crying for help. All to no avail. They just kept burning her arms. And then they stopped without a word and left her there tied to the chair.
After what seemed like an eternity, Allison heard the sound of footsteps and voices coming toward her. She thought about saying something to them, but decided to stay silent. There was the sound of something metal being dragged across the floor. She felt a hand on her head, then the blindfold was yanked off.
She was in some kind of warehouse, sitting in an old metal chair on wheels. The guy who had taken off her blindfold was a tall black man with braided hair and a goatee. The other man with her had sandy blond hair and cold blue eyes. He sat backwards on a chair with his arms resting on the chair back, smoking a cigarette.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, he finally said, “How’re you doing?”
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked.
“We need some answers, Allison,” he said.
“Here’s what we know. Your name is Allison Cornell. You’re from Bloomfield Hills, MI, and you graduated from George Mason University last year. You’re an intern for Senator Jason Caldwell. And you’re having an affair with his chief of staff, Vince Flanagan.”
“How did you know that?” Allison asked.
Blue Eyes took a drag on his cigarette, dropped it on the ground and said “I read your blog Allison. You go into a lot of detail. There’s a lot of embarrassing stuff posted there.”
“But I don’t have a blog,” Allison said.
Blue Eyes stood up, came out from behind his chair, and walked toward Allison. Goatee, who had been standing off to the side leaning against a large sink, reached over and turned on the faucet. Blue Eyes walked behind Allison, put his hands on her shoulders, and wheeled her toward the sink.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.
Both men remained silent as they watched the sink fill. After a few minutes, Goatee turned off the water. Blue Eyes looked at Allison and said, “You want to tell us about your blog now?”
“But I told you, I don’t have a blog!” she said.
Blue Eyes and Goatee looked at each other for a second, then they reached down and picked up Allison, chair and all. They turned her upside down and held her over the sink.
“Your blog, Allison?” Blue Eyes said.
They lowered Allison toward the sink until her head was under water.
Allison lost track of how many times they lowered her head into the water. They always seemed to pull her out just before she drowned. Then they lowered her back in just before she could catch her breath. They finally stopped to ask her about the blog again. Yes, she said, it was her blog.
After she confessed, the two men set the chair down and wheeled it into an office. Goatee took a seat at the room’s lone desk and started working on a laptop computer.
“Don’t worry Allison, we’re almost done. Then you can go home,” Blue Eyes said.
Goatee spun the laptop around so that Allison could see the screen. It displayed a page from a website called “DC Dalliances,” the header read “Depravity and debauchery in our nation’s capital.”
“We’ll need your username and password,” Goatee said.
“My what?” Allison said.
“Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be,” Blue Eyes said. “I think you know what’ll happen to you if you don’t tell us.”
Allison tried to speak, but couldn’t utter a word. She just sat there; terrified, wet, and tied to a chair.
Jimmy Fitzpatrick was sitting behind the desk in the warehouse office when Vince Flanagan walked in.
“Well?” Flanagan said.
“It wasn’t her,” Fitzpatrick said. “Are you sure the blog was about you?”
“I’m positive, there was too much detail about the things we did, the places we did them. How do you know it’s not her?”
“We questioned her hard.”
“And she denied it?”
“Oh, she admitted it, after a fashion,” Fitzpatrick said. “But she couldn’t give us the password.”
“Shit. Where is she now?”
“Malik and Ryan are disposing of the body now. Better if you didn’t know where.”
“Body? She’s dead?” Flanagan said.
“Like I said, we questioned her hard. But you have a more immediate concern. If it’s not Allison, we need to find out who it is. Rumor has it your boss is going to announce he’s running for President. If you want to ride his coattails to power, we need to delete that blog before the media gets wind of it.”
“I was so sure it was her.”
“How many more are there?” Fitzpatrick asked.
After a long pause, Flanagan said “Three. Christ, this is getting out of control.”
“You want to be the next president’s chief of staff, or you want to be the next tabloid cover-boy?”
Fitzpatrick took a pad and pen from the top drawer of the desk and set them in front of Flanagan and said, “I’ll need their names, addresses, descriptions, and vehicles. And don’t leave anything out, I’d hate to grab the wrong girl.”
Note: Gerald has links to the stories of other participants in the project.