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Home > Indigo

Part I: Cardiac

Chapter 1: Stale

April 11 at 3:00 PM

Interrogation Room - Photo by Snowshot (Flickr)

Photo by Snowshot (Flickr.com)

My heart races
When I think of you

The song came over the radio.

Your smile
Is like the sun
Rising in my soul
I lie here
Whispering
You're in me now
And I'll never let you go

A wiry man in a sharp gray suit and mirrored sunglasses ticked the volume down. "Please, remove the cuffs," he motioned to a second man in a beige jacket and matching tie.

Fire burned through my wrists as he peeled off the handcuffs.

"Sorry about that," he pointed to the laceration in my wrist. "The boys were a little rough bringing you in. It didn't help that you resisted arrest, but I think we've got that all sorted out now. I'm Special Agent Hicks and this is my partner, Agent Wilfork," he extended his hand. It hung in the stale air for several awkward moments.

"What are you, FBI?" I said.

"Something like that."

"Shit," I squirmed. "CIA?"

"Relax, Mr. Dennings, we're not CIA. We just want to pick your brain for a few moments. Then you are free to go."

"On what grounds are you detaining me? There are laws about these things, you know."

"Mr. Dennings," a hint of a southern drawl slipped out. "May I call you Miles?"

I did not respond.

"Miles, let's not play that card. Besides, we already know what you do for a living."

"I want my phone call. Now," I pounded my fist on the table.

Special Agent Hicks leaned back in his chair. "Alright." He ran his fingers through his feathered-back hair. Hicks was rail thin, like a starving George Michael impersonator without the talent.  He fished a cell phone from his pocket, turned it on and slid it across the table.

I snatched it up and pondered for a moment. Of all the times, I couldn't remember my own damned attorney's number. Cell phones made it easy to store and forget; few of us actually got by on rote memorization anymore. Still there was a special number just in case but I couldn't use it here.

"Should I get a telephone book, Mr. Dennings?" Hicks crossed his arms.

Then I remembered. My brother's best friend was a defense attorney. A ballsy little bastard whose last 7 digits of his toll free number spelled out 'K-I-C-K A-S-S.' With a number like that, how could you forget?

I punched in the number and pressed send. The phone struggled to find the network and then died. Although the battery was full, I couldn't get a single bar of reception. "Where in the hell are we?" I said.

"In the interrogation room, sir," Hicks took a sip from his bottled water.

"Yeah, where?"

"Guantanamo Bay," he got to his feet. "Or perhaps Paris, France. Iraq. Hell, maybe even the North Pole. What difference does it make?"

I cracked my neck. This was getting fucking old. "Remind me again why you brought me here."

Hicks exhaled. "Alright." He pulled out a file and laid several pictures across the table. They were of a young woman lying in the middle of the street. Judging from how her body was contorted, she had been shot in the back. And there was something vaguely familiar about her. I looked closer. "My God, Indigo!"

Special Agent Hicks leaned over. "Now do I have your attention?"

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