Door of Dread

Chapter 2

Peter opened his eyes and gasped in discomfort. His dark hair, moistened with sweat and blood, laid plastered against his head. There was a large open gash on his temple, his lower lip slit open. Gritting his teeth, he tried to sit up but was stopped by the acute pain that flooded his midsection. "Neal?" he muttered, dazed and confused.

"O'Reilly use you as a punching bag?" questioned Neal, hoping to elicit an answer and gauge Peter's mental awareness.

"You…you should see his con…dition," stuttered Peter, trying to create some dignity. "We had a free…for-all."

Kneeling on the dirty floor soiled with blood and remnants of old trash and discarded papers, Neal carefully lifted Peter to a slumped position, using his own torso as a backstop. Hands trembling with outrage, he held his friend and envisioned the defenseless agent's beating.

"We'll get them, Peter. O'Reilly will be put away for a long time."

Peter's labored breathing slowed under Neal's care. He offered up a ghost of a smile. "How did you talk them into moving you here?" Sighing, he momentarily closed his eyes.

"They decided to keep us together after all. You're not the only one who warrants preferential attention."

"I don't think you'll like the accommodations."

The agent paused for short breaths. "Check the door, Neal, see if you can get it open." He nodded to himself. "They don't know… about your many talents. Try to contact headquarters and bring back help."

"Sure, Peter."

Gently lowering the man whom he had allowed into his life, Neal stepped to the entryway and carefully surveyed the door for defects. Verifying it would take him a short time to gain his freedom, he was dead set against leaving Peter alone, fearing to move him in his injured condition. Peter was unable to maintain an upright position, his breathing labored, mouth tinged with blood. What serious harm would ensue if he tried to move his friend out of the building?

Peter was showing evidence of broken ribs and a possible head injury. He was experiencing pain, shortness of breath and confusion. Moving him any great distance could cause greater damage to the lungs, spleen or blood vessels. Neal's minor knowledge of first aid reminded him that a person needed to be stabilized and moved only in a severe life threatening condition. Had they reached that point yet? He needed to slow down and analyze his options.

How had the situation turned so deadly? They had set out to investigate a minor art museum robbery. Now, Neal found himself struggling to keep his friend alive. No. There was no way he would leave this room without his advocate.

Neal returned to Peter's side. "I can't seem to unlock the door; I'll need some time to work on it."

Peter didn't question his findings, an indication how dazed he was. Neal carefully loosened and removed the agent's tie, unbuttoned his collar and draped his own suit coat over the injured man.

Peter pushed the coat aside, murmuring, "I'm hot, Neal. Please, raise me up."

Neal positioned himself against the back wall, slowly pulling his friend up against his body. Groaning, weak coughing triggering severe pain, Peter laid the back of his head against Neal's chest.

"This isn't the scenario I pictured when I sprung you out of prison," he tried to joke. "Thought one day you'd need me, to protect you, from one of your disgruntled victims."

Neal attempted a smile, looking down at his friend. "You were so serious and gruff that day I left the supermax in your custody. You had no problem letting me know my place. Thought I was going to run."

"You've kept me awake plenty of nights trying to second guess your moves. No wonder I look so old."

The door to their prison opened as Johnson came in carrying some bottled water. He placed it by their side as Neal looked up at him and pointed at Peter. "Burke needs medical care. I can make it worth your while," he whispered. "What do you want? Money, jewels, immunity…"

The young man glanced down at the injured man. "Your offer is tempting. But…I won't help you."

O'Reilly arrived in the doorway, pistol in hand. "Well, what a nice picture." He moved closer to his prisoners, "You really are tight with the feds, Caffrey."

Neal felt Peter stiffen, his heartbeat and breathing quicken. He tightened his grip on his associate and held his rage in check. "Pretty easy to hurt a defenseless prisoner. Wasn't that your problem in Marion?" Neal's eyes blazed with anger. Regardless of O'Reilly's gun, this time he would attack the man if he came within close proximity of Peter.

"You should have been here earlier. The fed pleaded with me to stop," taunted the gang's leader. "Maybe I should show you how to handle special agents. Or maybe I should test your own self defense training. Burke certainly didn't do so well."

"Neal," quietly said Peter, subtly warning him not to continue the conversation. He didn't want O'Reilly to turn his anger on his associate. He had learned first-hand the abuse the unstable senior felon would execute.

"Yes, Neal. You better listen to your custodian," countered O'Reilly. "I'm sure you're kept on a short leash." Neal held back his retort. He sensed Peter's apprehension.

O'Reilly turned his direct gaze on the agent. "You know I'll be back for you. We haven't finished our lessons." Glancing at Johnson, he motioned him out the door. "Let's go."

As soon as the door was shut, Peter closed his eyes and took short, raspy breaths.

"Neal, will you hand me some water?"

Neal reached down, opened the bottle and placed it in Peter's hands, helping him lift it to his mouth. "Take it slow and easy. It's better to just moisten your mouth," he cautioned.

Peter swallowed a few sips, trying to stop his coughing. It was evident he had internal injuries. Pain from broken ribs and a partially collapsed lung intruded in his mind. He knew he wouldn't be strong enough to escape with his consultant. He was having trouble focusing his thoughts as a feeling of nausea overwhelmed him. The air in the room was beginning to feel suffocating; the fetid smell of decay assaulted his nostrils. His vision began to fade out.

Neal observed his friend's distress and watched him slip into unconsciousness. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, trying to slow down his racing thoughts and plan a viable strategy out of this nightmare.