Part Two: Morning

He awoke to a pounding headache and a sick stomach and discovered very quickly that being ill in the dark while tied was more than a bit problematic. Fortunately, he was in a fetal position on his side and not flat out on his back. When he finished, he thrashed about in an attempt to put some distance between him and the mess he'd made. The sickly, sweet smell of whatever anesthesia he'd been given which was now working itself out of his system made things even worse. His muscles cramped and protested from their strained position and enforced immobility. With his arms tied behind him, it was his shoulders which ached the worst. But over the head and the stomach and the muscle cramping was the cold. He shook with violent shivers which drained what little strength he still had.

He came to a rest with his back pressed up against the cold, hard metal side of…whatever he was being held in—a moving truck or trailer of some sort perhaps. A horse trailer? The floor was hard and uneven under him and beyond cold. He was in shirtsleeves only, and he'd been around long enough to know he should be thankful he hadn't been stripped and left even more vulnerable and unprotected. Thankful was not the word he would have used to describe his feelings though. Befuddled more like. Numb more than frightened; too frozen and sick to work up a healthy anger…what was going on? Who would want to take him hostage?

He'd been working CID for a good many years—was it really twenty-two by now? Near enough…he'd made enemies along the way. Men and women who had sworn to get him for putting them away; women who had threatened and screamed at him for putting their husbands, sons, or lovers away. But…a crime like this—who did he know capable and willing to go to all this trouble? Easier by far to have put a knife between his ribs there in the dark…where had he been? How had he gotten here? He couldn't say, couldn't bring it into focus and that's where the fear and panic took precedence over the pain, the sickness, and the cold. He shook from it even more than the chill working itself deep into his bones.

Val came to lie beside him, press herself tightly against him, and hold him in her arms. She ran her hands up and down his back to help warm him, and said, "It's all right, Robbie—you'll be all right." He couldn't hold onto her with his arms tied behind his back, and she slipped away as quickly as she had come.

It wasn't until Lewis didn't report into work the morning of the nineteenth that the alarm was sounded. Even then Hathaway's concern was downplayed by a good portion of the station. The vast majority expressed surprise that the inspector wasn't to work on time, but then there would be a questioning glance at the calendar and he'd be sent on his way with a sympathetic pat on his shoulder and something like, "Not to worry, old boy. He'll be along in a day or two…best to let it sit."

Hathaway was not mollified in the least, but he couldn't help hearing the undertones. The station was under the impression that he shouldn't rock the boat. Let things lie and not attract undue attention to the empty desk across the way. He wasn't a detective for nothing, and it didn't take him long to know the date of December 19th held a weighty significance for his boss…still.

"Tomorrow," Lewis had said, and Hathaway couldn't believe that the date had sideswiped him on the way home leaving him incapable of reporting to work or at least calling in. Lewis wouldn't have left him twiddling his thumbs while they had a murder to solve.

Still, mindful of the cautions from those who had known the inspector far longer than he, he searched the missing person files and fussed around with the preliminary paper work without a word to the chief super. Then he grabbed a DC and went out to the murder scene to interview the neighbors. The days were far in the past when they would have had to conduct their business through the back door, so by the time Hathaway took a look at the alley for signs of a struggle or other clues about what might have happened to Inspector Lewis, any evidence there had long since been driven over or kicked out of the way any number of times.

Things were even less rosy the next time he came to. The darkness, the cold, the cramping, and the sickness were all unabated and now joined by insistent demands from his bladder. He swallowed down the bile threatening to spew out of his mouth because he was pressed as far as he could be against the wall and had nowhere else to go. And he resolutely refused to wet himself. Better to lie there desperately needing a toilet than lay there wet and smelling and even colder.

It was morning now he thought though he couldn't have said why. It was the morning of the anniversary of his wife's death and the…hallucination he'd had of her holding him, warming him, reassuring him had left him more destitute than whoever had drugged him, tied him, and left him to freeze and wallow in his own filth.

"Val," he whispered into the cavernous blackness surrounding him. The only answers were the sound of his teeth chattering, his trembling gasps, and the muted thumps of his body's shaking.

And then there was the sound of footsteps in gravel and the clang of metal and the sudden brightness of the day. He strained his eyes to look up at whoever stood in the doorway, but it was only a fuzzy silhouette against the brightness, and the effort made him even sicker. Whoever it was stood there, holding open the metal door…a trailer or a…metal shed. Uninsulated but isolated. Far from the busy life of Oxford—there were no morning sounds of traffic or children chattering on their way to school. Only silence. And something he couldn't place, something out of place in his day to day world. Whoever it was who had come to stare down at him hadn't come to visit.

He…it was a he, Lewis thought though his eyes refused to focus enough to take in any real details, did in the end step in to loom over Lewis. As though unhappy with his night's work, the man kicked out at Lewis, striking his chest and bent knees. Then he bent over and though Lewis hadn't been able to see it there must have been a knife for his feet and then his arms were freed. His legs stiffened and jerked with cramps and he cried out with the pain of it all. His arms though lay limp and beyond numb until his captor reached down and pulled him up by one of the useless things. He screamed then, the pain tearing through his frozen frame like shattering glass. He scrambled for his footing but his legs and feet were incapable of holding him up. It was his captor that kept him upright, pulled him out the door, and thrust him up against the side of…a shed. It was a shed. The colors faded and lost from years of sunlight and weather.

"Do your business and be quick about it…I won't be back until nightfall," a harsh voice hissed in his ear. He would have liked to have complied and saved himself the humiliation but his hands might as well not even have belonged to him. With a disgusted exclamation, his captor kept him upright with a knee pressing him against the shed wall and grudgingly fumbled about to allow him to relieve himself. Lewis endured it all and vowed he wouldn't go through the same humiliation come nightfall.

Perhaps his captor felt the same for when he'd more or less tossed Lewis back down inside the shed and once again tied Lewis' feet, he left his hands free. The man bustled around a bit, trotting in and out of the shed. He threw a shovelful of dirt over the mess Lewis had made earlier. The dirt flew up into Lewis' eyes and mouth, and he lay there barely able to manage a weak cough to clear it from his throat. With a dull thud, the man slammed a Thermos against the metal floor next to Lewis' head but he didn't bother to help him manage it. It sat there like a promise, well within arm's reach but far beyond Lewis'. There was a grocery bag, only partially full, dropped next to it; and a bucket thunked into the corner.

Lewis closed his burning eyes against the sight of it all. Not a promise, a threat. He wouldn't be left to starve or die of thirst, but he'd wish he had before it was all over. He was there for the long haul.

"Keep your captors talking," was one of the precepts the training courses taught. But Lewis, his throat dry from lack of fluids and swollen with whatever the man had drugged him with and choked with the dry dust still slowly settling to the bitterly cold floor, had nothing to say to his captor. His eyes had not adjusted to the light even before the dirt…and his head hadn't cleared in the fresh air. A concussion on top of the anesthesia? There could easily have been a few, well-aimed kicks to his head while he had been out. Probably not what he needed…in either case, the pain and the lack of focus had not helped him to identify his captor. He hadn't recognized the harsh whisper or the strong build. He didn't know the man holding him, and despite the courses' teachings, he didn't want to get to know him.

He wanted out. With whatever little bit of dignity he still had. He would not beg the man for anything. He wouldn't do it. His captor came to sniff over him one last time. Before he turned away, he kicked Lewis once just above his forehead, and with that farewell, he went out, pulled the door shut with an ominous crash, fumbled with the catch, and strode away. Lewis, biting back his pain, listened in vain to hear the sound of a vehicle starting.

The neighbors almost all being the working sort, the interviews were soon over. Hathaway stuck his head into the office hoping to find Lewis sitting at his desk scowling at the paltriness of his sergeant's morning endeavors. He was disappointed. He stood in the doorway a moment, indecisively trying to decide what, if anything, he was supposed to do. He'd spent some time under Inspector Arnold, who had never bothered to show up to work until close to lunchtime, but Lewis wasn't an Arnold.

If he was late, there'd be a note or a call enumerating what he wanted Hathaway to be doing while he was out and when he could be expected in. Lewis wasn't a micromanager, but he didn't like to waste time or effort. He liked to make sure they weren't tripping each other up both unknowingly working the same angle. Hathaway sighed and took another look around the office just in case there'd been a note he'd somehow overlooked. While he was at it, he checked his phone in case he'd missed a call. Of course, he hadn't missed a call or overlooked a message.

Discouraged, he flopped down into Lewis' chair and tried him one more time.

"Um…just me again, Sir. Thought you'd want to know I tried the neighbors—the few we could catch at home. No one heard anything around the right time—the last on the far end heard a bit of a scuffle not long after we cleared off, but nothing earlier when it would have been helpful. So...we'll try again after hours, see if we can't catch the rest of the street, but in the meantime? I'd appreciate it, Sir, if you could let me know what you have planned. Thanks," he finished the message lamely.

DI Grainger stuck his head in then. "Still not here?" he asked.

"Afraid not."

"Yes, well. You've plenty to keep you busy?"

"Actually, I'm not sure what else I can be doing at the moment. And to be perfectly honest, I'm not at all comfortable with just waiting for Inspector Lewis to show up…this is not at all like him."

Grainger moved into the room and let the door shut behind him before perching himself on the edge of Lewis' desk and saying, "Listen, James…there's times we all need a blind eye and a little patience—"

"I know what today is, Sir," Hathaway interrupted him, "but I don't believe for a moment that Inspector Lewis didn't know what day it would be when he left me last night. He was clear enough then that he planned on being in today. If he'd planned to be out…"

"The best laid plans of mice and men, Sergeant…" Grainger told him. "When Val died—Lewis took it hard. Harder than you can imagine knowing him like he is now, but…this—it's not that unexpected, James."

"It is to me. I think I'll drive over there and see—"

"No. He wouldn't want that. I'll ask Dearden to go by—or Rick Paulings, if you won't be easy until we've checked. But Robbie won't thank us for it. I can promise you that."

"As his sergeant don't you think I should be the one to go?"

"Nope. Rick and Robbie go way back…and Dearden—worked alongside Robbie and Morse on more than one case. One of them will do…and if they're both too busy, I'll swing by myself." Hathaway bowed to the older man's judgment, but if Lewis was in his flat he wasn't receiving visitors, even those from way back.

"So?" he asked Grainger.

"Leave it, James. Give him the day. Please."

"I—" Hathaway started, but Hobson's call interrupted him. Grainger who had his own case to work gave him a shaky wave and sidled out of the room.

Hobson was her usual self. "So, Sergeant, where's Lewis? He's not answering his mobile, and I've no idea how he expects me to let him know the results of the PM—but the report is in. With some rather interesting bits and pieces. I thought he was in a rush—jumped the queue and everything, and he won't even answer the phone. Send him over will you?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to do," Hathaway told her and imagined her frowning at his words. "I can come round now if you'd like?"

"Not really, but we all have to make do, don't we?" she said. "Pick me up a sandwich on the way over. Turkey and cheese on wheat, no mayo—I'm missing my lunch over this," she said and cut him off before he could reply.

"So where is he?" she demanded before he'd gotten all the way into the room.

He pursed his lips and wondered where she fell in the camp of loyal Lewis supporters. Was she safe to speak to or one of those best left in the dark until Lewis made his return? His hesitation was enough to give him away.

"Hathaway," she demanded, "where is he? He's not—he seemed fine or at least like he would be fine last night—he hasn't, has he?"

From that Hathaway gathered that Hobson was as aware as anyone what day it was. "I don't know," he admitted. "He's not come in. But he meant to—"

"Yes, he would have told me if he didn't want me to juggle the queue to move your body up the line, and he said…"

"I wanted to go over, but DI Grainger thought it would be better if someone else went—he sent Sergeant Dearden, but there was no answer at the door. None of them seem concerned, but…"

"Have you spoken to Innocent?"

"No, not yet. Do you think I should?"

She bit her lips and thought it over before she said, "Did Dearden go by the cemetery? If Lewis isn't home and he—well, he might have gone there."

"I know where it is. I'll go by. Right away, shall I?"

"Probably for the best, Sergeant. But, if he's not there… Yes. I think you should take it to Innocent. Lewis wouldn't leave it like this. He'd have taken the time if he needed it; at the least, he wouldn't have left you hanging—and don't you leave me hanging either. I want to know what you find at the cemetery, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said and hurried out. He'd forgotten the PM report in his haste to leave, but it wouldn't be his case by the time he'd found nothing but old, withered, and dry flowers at Valerie Lewis' grave and informed Chief Superintendent Innocent that Inspector Lewis had gone AWOL.