The Innocents by Nathan Senthil (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

Shuddering uncontrollably, she said, “C-come closer.”

The wheelchair rolled and stopped near her. “Yes?” Bugsy said, expectantly.

She lurched her head forward and spat forcefully.

“Goddamn it!” Bugsy’s wheelchair rolled back. “Rome! Get it off! Get it off!”

A few moments of dubious silence. Then he barked, “Again!”

She instinctively flinched, and the wet cloth smothered her once more. As water was poured above the cloth, she lost control of her convulsing body. It was on autopilot now, evolution mistakenly making her believe that she was drowning, forcing her arms and legs to thrash about.

For some reason, she thought of the time she had to deliver Ryatt, unassisted, during what was practically a battlefield. This dry-drowning was painful, but not nearly as bad as giving birth alone. Not even close.

As she recalled that day, other thoughts scrambled. Everything spun out of angle. Her sinewy arms and legs became flaccid, and Iris entered into a world that was bright. The deprivation of oxygen did not seem so bad anymore. She ascended into the void, her body relaxed, and the last of her earthly afflictions vanished.

It is… peaceful…

The cloth was removed. The air, now an unwelcome guest, rushed to her lungs like hot steam, scalding its way down. A bout of coughs knocked the air out just as quickly.

“You changed your mind yet?” Bugsy asked.

Her throat had swollen from the violent coughs, so her voice would be very raspy if she spoke. But her answer did not require words.

She turned towards Bugsy and spat again, though it wasn’t nearly as forceful as the first time. She heard the spit land on the table beside her.

“You fucking bitch!” Bugsy screamed again. “Once more!”

Smiling crookedly for egging him, she didn’t even flinch when the wet cloth hugged her face. There were two things she was certain of. One, this was not the most overwhelming experience she ever had, because she was a single parent. Two, she would never let Bugsy near Ryatt.

The water came rushing into her nose. Though her limbs tried to splay, she did not do it willingly. And she visited that serene place between life and death once again.

When the cloth was removed, she neither coughed nor heaved.

It was getting old now. Definitely not a masochist, she was ready for this little game of theirs. Let them do it a thousand times; still they wouldn’t be able to squeeze a word out of her.

“Boss,” the man holding Iris said. “She’ll die if we keep at it.”

“Damn it,” Bugsy sighed. “I didn’t think we’d be able to crack her anyway. Couldn’t do it the first time.”

“We even broke wise guys who were ex-Marines by waterboarding,” he said. “What’s this grandma made of?”

“Grit of headstrong women,” Bugsy said vehemently. “We’re gonna have to figure out a different approach.”

“Should we let her live?”

“I guess the Feds are watching the house. If she dies, it’ll be a problem for us.”

The hands around her wrists and ankles unclasped. She slid backwards and crashed down onto the floor.

“Do me a favor?” Bugsy said. “Just call that Florida cock or wherever your son said he was working.”

The wheelchair rolled away from her, out of the kitchen, so did the scuffing of the shoes. When they left, the house was quiet. She shot up to her feet and marched out, dragging a wooden chair behind. Once she closed the front door, she wedged the backrest under the doorknob.

Sure that the entrance was as secure as it could be, she made her way to the bathroom. She toweled her hair and face dry, then plugged in the dryer and evaporated the dampness out of her hair.

Should she report the incident to the authorities? Then she would be required to live through the ordeal again, and tell them that Bugsy thought Ryatt was some bank robber. Which might make the police want to question Ryatt. Her son didn’t need to see that side of life, no, thank you.

She went to the dresser and changed into a set of crisp fresh clothes. Sleep now a distant dream, she returned to the living room and sat on the couch, picking up Tuesdays with Morrie.

But before she touched the first word, she whispered, her voice raspy, “My son is not a murderer.”

When saying that sentence out loud, the absurdity of it sank in. Ryatt never even used expletives, he attended church on Sundays, and donated hundreds of thousands to charities.

Really absurd.

Shaking her head, she began tracing the indentations on the paper with her fingertips.

However, calling Floridan Crocs in the morning wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Chapter 39

May 12, 2019. 02:02 A.M.

Gabriel and Morgan watched the feed from the cameras the tactical team had installed around Iris’s house. The black Land Rover and white Chrysler were parked up front. A Rolls Royce stood between them, which Gabriel assumed was Bugsy’s. Morgan, the computer wizard, looked it up and confirmed his suspicion.

Gabriel called Conor. “We have the armed response unit around Iris’s house?”

“Watching it like hawks.”

“So you know that Bugsy and his men are inside the house?”

Conor did not speak.

“Mobilize them and save Iris,” Gabriel said.

“Sorry,” Conor said. “Bugsy’s men will have weapons. If we try to save her, it might escalate into a gunfight and hit the news, tipping off Ryatt.”

Gabriel did not care. He would not sacrifice Iris for his revenge. Just when he began to insist strongly, Morgan pointed at the video feed.

There was movement in front of Iris’s house. Six men came out, one of them in a wheelchair. Then they got into the cars and left.

A few seconds later, Iris appeared at the door and Gabriel could breathe easily again. She closed it and went back inside.

Gabriel wanted to know if she