by David Gittlin

Created on: May 20, 2009

The words resounded against the dripping walls. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

Blood trickled from the corners of Trevor Hartigan's mouth. His awareness flickered from the pain coursing through his broken fingertips to the oppressive heat in the room, to the crooked expression on the interrogator's ugly face.

If you lie to me again, you'll beg me to kill you after what I do next, the Confessor snarled, baring his nicotine-stained teeth.

Trevor's spine ached from about a half-hour of confinement lashed to a straight-backed wooden chair. The duct tape wrapped tightly around his upper body dug into his back and chafed the skin on his abdomen. It seemed he had been sitting in this tiny dungeon for hours. He cursed himself for whatever carelessness had landed him in this predicament. He suspected it was the girl. He had let down his guard in a moment of weakness. Blanca had to be one of their spies. He worshipped her, had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had betrayed him.

He focused on the gap between his tormentor's chipped front teeth. The gap reminded him of a missing board in a white picket fence. He imagined crawling through the hole in the fence to freedom.

Save your energy and kill me now, Trevor said in a low voice.

The pain in his body only served to sharpen his mind and resolve. He carefully hid this fact with every word out of his mouth, every subtle gesture. He had to convince the Confessor he was telling the truth.

I'm a professional, Hartigan. I've seen every trick in the book. The Confessor picked up a scalpel from a row of surgical knives glinting on a steel tray next to Trevor. You'll tell me what I need to know or I'll cut out your eye. I want the names of your confederates.

Beads of sweat ran from Trevor's forehead. He blinked reflexively to keep the moisture from stinging his eyes.

I'm a loyal citizen of the Conglomerate, Brother Confessor. I've been falsely accused by inferior minds jealous of my position.

You are a traitor and a fool, Hartigan. You enjoyed wealth and privilege as the Conglomerate's Master Architect. You had the opportunity to design buildings that would have lasted for centuries. Your fame would have spread around the world. You threw it all away when the girl convinced you to join the resistance.

The Confessor ripped off his cowl. His head began to transform into the head of a Praying Mantis. Long, spindly legs sprouted underneath the Confessor's navy blue robe. The garment

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