Knots

A missing scene from #3 The Gatehouse Mystery

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"I must fling myself down and writhe; I must strive with every piece of force I possess; I bruise and batter myself against the floor, the walls; I strain and sob and exhaust myself, and begin again, and exhaust myself again; but do I feel pain? Never. How can I feel pain? There is no place for it." – Harry Houdini

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The rap on the back of his head came without warning and rendered him momentarily senseless. As he fought against the pain, he could hear the back door open and the chauffeur get out, then felt the man's hard hands pulling him out of the driver's seat. Jim tried to resist but only managed to knock his head against the doorframe, hard. The last thing he heard was Dick's cold laugh and snarky comment: "Brilliant move, kid. Couldn't have done it better myself."

When he regained consciousness, Jim was first aware of dry prickly slivers and sharp sticks poking his face. He could smell the dirt and its resinous covering of pine needles, guessing Dick must have dumped him somewhere off Hoyt Lane. When Jim tried to push himself up, he realized the thief hadn't merely knocked him on the head and stashed him in the bushes while he made a quick getaway. Dick had also put a narrow, foul-tasting gag in his mouth to keep him quiet – and bound his hands and feet with rope to keep him immobile.

And for one awful moment, James Winthrop Frayne III was back in his stepfather's home, … tied hand and foot to that bed again, … hungry, thirsty, lying in his own filth, … awaiting his daily encounter with the man's sharp tongue, cruel hands, and heavy leather strap ….

A surge of adrenaline raced through his body, igniting a sudden panic. He struggled wildly, yanking at the ropes, trying to rid himself of the bonds. Eventually, the sweet smell of pine needles bruised beneath his face pulled him back to the present. Jim panted through the gag and tried to get his fear under control so he could take stock of his situation – his present situation – and think.

Once his breathing had calmed, he began his inventory at the top. Head hurts. Face in dirt. Gag in mouth. Arms tied behind the back. Ankles and knees tied. One shoe gone. Any good news, Frayne? No hog-tie. And I still have my knife. At least I feel something pressing into my hip.

Now the question is, Jim thought wryly, what would Houdini do?

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Back when his father was still alive, Jim had read a book on magic tricks after an illusionist had performed at his elementary school. His father had helped him master a few of the simpler tricks and they'd staged an impromptu magic show for his mother, who'd been delighted with the sleight-of-hand demonstration. After his father died, young Jim continued to occasionally brighten his mother's day by causing something to appear or disappear from his already strong, freckled hands, reminding her of both better days and his love.

After her death, Jonesy had unleashed his grief and anger on the boy. His first attempt to stand up for himself had been met with a backhand that had knocked him to the dirt, bloodying his nose and causing his head to ring for hours afterward. Jim had longed to escape, to disappear, to hide from his own grief as well as the physical punishment his stepfather dished out so readily now. Running away had seemed the obvious solution.

He'd learned the hard way about the drawbacks of an unsuccessful escape.

When he'd been able to return to school – after three days of 'being sick in bed, unable to move' and two more days of 'being almost too weak to stand, poor boy' from an unidentified illness – a classmate's book report on the famous escape artist Harry Houdini had taken on great significance to the newly defeated teenager. The school librarian had been pleased to help the husky redhead locate books on Houdini and his amazing feats, going so far as to discretely pay the postage for books sent from other libraries, knowing the boy's stepfather was extremely tight with his money and suspecting the boy had more than a casual interest in getting out of ropes and other tough spots.

A few weeks later, when Jonesy suspected Jim was planning to bolt again, he tied him up and left him in the barn for the few hours it took him to run some errands in town. Jim had been able to use the knowledge he'd gleaned from the books and the knot-tying he'd learned from his father to loosen his bonds. He considered working free completely but heard the rumble of Jonesy's return and knew he didn't have time to make his break. So he'd subsided, carefully adjusting the ropes to appear tight again and controlling his expression as best he could when Jonesy yanked open the barn door, sneer on his face.

"Still here, boy? Glad you could stick around." The look of cold triumph on the man's face had only fueled Jim's resolve to get free – of the ropes, of the situation and of Jonesy.

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Now, under a pine tree off Hoyt Road, Jim called up that resolve and set to work. With the gag in his mouth, he couldn't call for help, not that there was anyone likely to be nearby. Which is why this makes a good place to learn to drive. With his hands behind his back, he couldn't use his fingers to remove the gag which would allow him to use his teeth to work on the knots. With his legs tied above and below the knee, his ability to move any distance was questionable. What he'd first taken for a knife in his front pocket seemed more likely to be a pack of gum now, neither of which he could reach despite his attempts to twist his arms around to his front.

All of which boiled down to the need to get his hands in front of him. Up and over? Or down and under? He heaved himself into an upright position, nearly toppling himself over to his other side before regaining his balance. He felt the rough bark of the tree behind him and decided to try levering his arms up and over his head.

Grabbing the tree as tightly as he could with his closely-bound hands, Jim slowly began to slide down. He tried to relax, to keep his arms loose, his shoulder joints flexible. He paused when the discomfort in both shoulders increased and, after a moment, attempted to ease his arms over one shoulder at a time instead of both at once. A searing pain dissuaded him and he released the tree, letting his sore arms fall back to the ground. Not as easy as it looks, with a tight rope. Of course, Houdini was used to dislocating his shoulders. It didn't pose much of a problem for him. I guess that means it's down and under.

Which posed its own problems.

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For the next hour and more, Jim was Houdini. He wiggled. He scooted. He twisted. He strained. He scraped his skin. He bruised his limbs. He bumped his head.

He ignored the pain.

And, when it became too hard to breathe, he rested, panting and letting his mind go over everything they, or rather Trixie, had discovered about Dick the Dip. What's his next move? Where will he go? The mantra tumbled through his mind, and he concluded the criminal's only move would be to go for the diamond. Each time his breathing eased, Jim turned from Dick's next move to his own.

He wasn't able to slide his bound hands under his hips and legs because the ropes were too tight and positioned too high up his arms. There simply wasn't enough space for his growing body to get through. So Jim had worked on loosening the ropes, testing each one methodically, and hoping to slide the cording down his arms. When his arms and wrists – bent back at unnatural angles to permit his fingers to claw at the ropes – began to burn, he turned to work on freeing his feet and legs.

Removing his second shoe was easy enough; simply dragging his heel along the ground was sufficient to slide his sneakers off, leaving him sock-footed. One of the slender tree roots broke the surface of the ground and after pounding on it with his unshod joined feet, Jim was able to splinter it just enough to maneuver one strand of the rope over the resulting hook. Scrunching along the dirt like a strange red-headed worm, he adjusted the placement of the ropes on his lower legs slightly. Then he was able to pull on that loop, loosening it from around one ankle by pulling the rest of the rope's length painfully tight around the other. It proved to be just enough to slide a loop down his foot.

When he was able to wiggle free of the ropes around his ankles, Jim quickly sloughed his socks off as well, hoping to use his toes to loosen the strands around his arms. If he could bend himself into position, that is. Working back and forth, he made slow progress, eventually shedding all the ropes and finally tearing the gag from his painfully dry mouth.

For just a few moments, Jim reveled in being able to move his arms and legs and tongue in any direction he chose, no longer restrained by an evil set of hands. The thought of where Dick's thieving fingers would lead him caused Jim to move, determined to spoil the pickpocket's plans as thoroughly as he had Jonesy's.

Thanks again, Harry, he thought as he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the Hoyt farm, ignoring the hot sting of returning circulation in his newly-freed limbs, the rawness of his skin where the ropes had chafed, the dizziness in his skull. I owe you one more.

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Although I've been telling myself Trixie stories for three decades, this is my first Trixie Belden fanfic. How'd I do?

I do this for fun, not profit; the characters are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are.