August 22, 2007
By J.D. Cook
Chapter V Mr. Underhill & the House of the Dominican
The car stopped again, and he heard a car door open. Wellington couldn’t deny his stomach’s aches for food much longer. He had not eaten since the night before he was caught. Then the zipper went down, and he was face to face with Mr. Underhill. Wellington tried to speak, but couldn’t. He noticed a bandage around his neck, and then surveyed Underhill who wore an old tattered black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was cut shirt, and looked like it had recently been died black, but the dye was fading leaving large gray spots.
Underhill pulled the tape off of Wellington, and held half of a sandwich of some kind up for him to see. Underhill moved what Wellington now saw to be a bag that contained his body into a sitting position.
“If you can behave I’ll feed you this. Got it?” asked Underhill. Wellington nodded in acknowledgment. Underhill moved the sandwich into biting distance for him, and after what seemed like seconds the sandwich was gone. It had contained mustard which Wellington detested, but he wasn’t in a position to complain. Underhill lifted up some tape, and this time he made sure it was on good, surrounding Wellington’s mouth twice. Then the zipper went back up, and he felt himself pushed down again.
His ears popped, and he knew they were ascending in altitude. After another few minutes the car stopped, and shut off. A door opened, and Wellington heard a knock.
“Hello,” said a man with a Dominican accent.
“I have him,” said Underhill.
“With you now?” asked the man with the Dominican accent.
“Yes. But first I want my money!” demanded Underhill. Silence echoed for a few minutes before words were spoken again.
“Right this way,” said Underhill as what sounded like a screen door opened. After a few tense moments in the darkness the screen door could be heard opening again, and then the car door closest to Wellington’s head opened. Two large hands grabbed him by the shoulders, and then after he was pulled a bit another pair of hands gripped his feet.
“Where do you want him?” asked Underhill.
“Right down here, it’s all prepared.” said the Dominican. Wellington felt his head lower, and his feet rise, as foot steps sounded on stairs.
“In that seat is where I want him,” said the Dominican.
“That looks unpleasant!” said Underhill.
Wellington felt his feet touch the ground for the first time in days. The zipper went down all the way this time, and he fell out of the bag onto a hard stone floor. Upon opening his eyes he could see remarkably well considering how little light he had received during the time in the bag the dimly lit room seemed like a park in midday to Wellington. He looked around, and saw nothing, but a chair, and a hose in front of him. He couldn’t stand because his ankles were bound and weak after not being used over the past days. His wrists were also bound together against the stone floor.
“C’mon help me get him into the chair already!” yelled the Dominican. Wellington felt himself lifted by hands on either side. The chair he had paid little attention to at first glance now frightened him. It was bolted to the floor, and had many belts to restrain who ever sat there. He was placed there, and before he could think about putting up a fight, Underhill removed his revolver, and pointed it at him.
“Don’t try nothin stupid,” said Underhill.
In a sudden moment of clarity Wellington remembered where he had heard the accent before. It was the same as the gay man in Philly. The Dominican cut what bound his wrists a kind of plastic safety tape. Then he strapped Wellington’s arms to the arms of the chair by built in belts before strapping down his chest, and waist. After doing the same with his ankles, and legs the two men turned off the dim light, and left Wellington alone.