Matt

Why do people always assume a blow to the head is the way to go when you want to incapacitate someone? Is it too much bad TV, maybe? Because people in TV shows are always getting conked on the head and knocked out when the truth of it is, hitting someone over the head with, let's say a wooden bat stolen from the back of their truck, isn't going to knock them out. It will daze them for sure, but it's not going to completely incapacitate them, at least not for long. Unfortunately for me, the idiot who blew out my window this morning and bashed me in the face with the business end of my bat was also carrying some sort of sedative along with him. I can still feel the sting of the injection site as I slowly claw myself back into consciousness.

Somewhere above my head, Johnny Mathis serenades me, his rousing rendition of "We Need a Little Christmas" coaxing me out of my drug-induced slumber.

"For we need a little Christmas, right this very minute."

My head throbs along in time with the beat thanks to the drugs and the bat to the face, but when I lift my arms to cradle my head, nothing happens. This surprises me, but I'm still too dazed to really be able to figure out what's going on. So I do the only thing available to me. I blink stupidly down at my boots until it finally registers that they're bound together with what looks to be duct tape. (Probably my duct tape, considering how this day is going.) My hands are bound behind my back too, and with the same tape, if the stickiness surrounding my wrists is anything to go by.

"Candles in the window, carols at the spinnet!"

Whether it's the result of the drugs or the panic attack brewing at the edge of my mind, I close my eyes against a wave of nausea so intense the pain in my brain ratchets up to an almost unbearable level and nausea claws up the back of my throat.

"You're okay. You're fine. Nothing you can't handle. Just breathe, Casey," I repeat the words out loud like a mantra, focusing in on my breathing, and the feeling mercifully subsides.

"It hasn't snowed a single flurry, but Santa, dear, we're in a hurry."

First thing I gotta do is get my hands free, so I squint out into the gloom to try and get a handle on where I am and what I've got to work with. The place I'm in seems to be some kind of forgotten backroom in a retail shop. Dust covers everything, and there are naked, faceless mannequins I almost mistake for people piled up along the walls and a broken clothes rack behind me. The world spins a bit when I shift onto my back, but I can make out one entire wall covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves holding bolt after bolt of molding, outdated cloth. It feels as forgotten and unused as a tomb.

"Is anyone there?" I try, kicking at a the broken pile of twisted metal that was once a clothing display off to my left and raising as big a ruckus as I can manage. "Can anyone hear me?" That Christmas music is coming from somewhere and where there's Christmas music there's usually people, so I figure making a ton of noise is at least worth a shot. I freeze, listening, but the only response I get for my efforts is more Johnny Mathis.

"Need a little Chriiiiist-maaaaas noooooow!"

Something shifts off to my left as the song ends. I strain my hearing but all I can pick up on is the faint sound of distant rustling. Rats probably.

I shudder. Forgotten places like these always have rats. And rats nibble. And make nests in the things that stick around long enough, and there's no way in hell that's going to be me. I maneuver up off of the floor in a move that would have made my instructors at the fire academy proud, and congratulate myself a moment later for actually managing to sit up and stay up. Vertigo has a thing or two to say about the sudden shift in position, but I am able to keep down the Egg McMuffin I scarfed down before heading out to the jewelry store this morning. I count my blessings on that one. Because if there's anything in this world that's just about as bad coming back up as it is going down, it's a hastily inhaled McDonald's breakfast eaten on the go.

I'm in the middle of the room, but besides the clothes rack behind me, there isn't much around me to work with. Still, the broken arms of the rack look sharp enough, and I start scooting myself over so I can reach them with my hands. I have to stop a few times because the drugs are still in my system, and every so often the nausea washes back over me as the ground sways and I nearly topple over again. I can usually get it to stop with a few quick breaths in through the nose and out the mouth, but the sooner I'm out of here the better. I'm just about to reach the rack when a door opens and closes behind me.

"Hello?" I'm almost happy, giddy really. So much so, it never occurs to me that the man approaching could be anything but my savior. Even when he squats down beside me, winter hat sliding up his impeccably shaved head until it looks like it's about to pop off the top like a pimple, I'm expecting him to ask me if I'm okay and start sawing through the tape binding my ankles together. What I'm not expecting, however, is to get back handed across the face so ferociously, my head snaps back and collides painfully with the broken rack behind me.

"What the hell!" I taste blood. My would-be rescuer has busted open my lip.

"Say another word and I won't just hit you next time," my kidnapper says darkly. We'll call him Manny for now, considering he looks a lot like the mannequin he drapes his winter coat over when he rises. I flex my jaw and swipe my tongue across the cut. It's not too deep, but it still sends blood trickling down my chin. It's amazing how annoying things on your face can be when you don't have your hands free to wipe them away.

"Who in the hell are you supposed to be?" I know Manny said not to talk again, but I'm pretty sure he was just bluffing. He proves my point a moment later when he takes off his hat and answers my question.

"The guy who's gonna kill you, Mr. Casey." I don't know quite what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. Manny walks back over and stares down at me, his nearly-black, beady little eyes glinting even in the low light. He reminds me of one of those bald bouncers outside of a club.

"My name is Kurt Dace and three months ago, you and your little smoke eater pals got my buddy Eddie thrown in jail. I'm here to collect on a debt."

I think long and hard about what he's just told me, but nothing clicks. Maybe it's the drugs, but absolutely nothing about the name Kurt Dace rings a bell. And if I knew him, I'd remember it. The list of people who have a grudge against me is not a long one, per se, but I never forget the ones who want to kill me.

"Look, how about this Ma… Kurt. Why don't you untie me and we can go talk about this over a beer. Discuss it like gentlemen." It's a long shot and Not Manny… Kurt - damn it, Matt - laughs at it. I guess it was worth a try.

"You know, my partner made that mistake," He chuckles, dragging a dusty old chair over from one side of the room and pulling me up off the floor and into it with ease. I'm not a small man, so the fact that he's able to do this without much strain does not bode well for me physically if things start going downhill again. "Played with ya when he should have just killed ya outright. Well, I won't make that same mistake, Captain." So he knows enough about me to know my rank. I can't help but feel like I'm missing something here.

"Look, I don't know who you are, and I sure as hell don't remember throwing your partner in jail."

Dace moves behind me, securing my already bound wrists to the chair with what feels like rope. I crane my neck to try and see what he's doing, but it's no use. I can't see. "You sure you've even got the right guy?"

"Oh, I got the right guy, alright," Dace replies, popping his head up over my shoulder as he finishes tying the rope with a painful pull. I try not to wince. "Does the name Eddie Holmes jog your memory?"

All the color drains from my face. Of course I remember the name. That was the gun wielding psychopath who tried to kill me a few months back. As far as I knew, he was locked up at County. No one bothered to mention to me that the guy might have an accomplice.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

"Your silence tells me it might." Dace rounds on me, big beefy biceps visible under the shirt sleeves he's in the process of rolling up. There's only one reason you roll up your shirtsleeves like that, and my eyes go wide with the panic I can no longer keep hidden. This is not going to be pretty.

"Wait a second! Why don't we just…"

His closed fist connects with my face as his knuckles crack mercilessly across my cheekbone. I'm pretty sure something breaks as the force of his blow snaps my head to the side and actually tips the chair over ever so slightly. I'm anticipating this to be just like the first time he hit me, only it's not. This is worse. There's no break, no pause, just a flurry of curses and fists. I feel a bit like a punching bag suspended from the ceiling, my sole purpose in life now to just hang there and take it. And I do, because there's literally nowhere else for me to go. The ropes and the tape hold fast, my skin chafing and bleeding as I pull against them.

"Me and Eddie, we had plans," Dace says, when he finally pauses. I try to steady my breathing as sweat (or blood, for all I know) runs down my neck and soaks my shirt collar as I fight to stay conscious. "You and your little pals over at 51 lost me a lot of money. I can't ever get that back, but at least I can take a little bit of it out of your hide."

My eyes might be well on their way to swelling shut, but my hearing is still intact. There's a click near my ear and then a moment later something electronic whirls to life.

"Now, Captain Casey," Dace continues on, waiving what looks to be a recording device in front of my face, and sounding extremely pleased with himself. "Let's see if we can't make you scream for your wife."