5.04 No Good Deed – Overnight at Eve's beach house

Ketamine.

Of course.

Michael got ketamine about fifteen years ago before an operation in a MASH unit in Bosnia. He'd been there to infiltrate a particularly nasty group of Serbs. The Serbs didn't hurt him, though. No, the idiot who'd picked him up from the airport was showing off, and he'd flipped the town car into a ditch. Michael had broken his arm. And, par for his course, he'd broken it. He needed immediate surgery. Rather than having to come up with a cover to go to a real hospital, he'd opted to take advantage of a recently-installed U.S. field hospital in the area. The good thing about U.S. field hospitals is the staff knows to forget their patients once they're gone. The bad thing about U.S. field hospitals is that they're field hospitals. They do things quick and dirty, like using ketamine instead of a real surgical anesthetic. So Michael got ketamine.

And then Michael hallucinated, even though they'd given him an antihallucinogen along with the ketamine. Little blue guys stood guard around his bed. Dolphins leapt across the room. That sort of thing. Also his blood pressure soared. And his gastrocnemius kept going into spasm, which is damn annoying when you're down an arm and can't rub the muscle. All this lasted for a good twenty-four hours.

So when Eve said she'd laced a needle with ketamine, Michael spent the few seconds he was lucid groaning internally. Because he knew.

Fucking ketamine.

Michael wasn't surprised to wake up groggy. He was surprised to be nearly suffocated fifteen seconds later. Luckily his Michaelness kicked in. He redirected Eve's anger to Dean Myers and arranged for Sam, Fiona, and Jesse to come rescue him. Not bad for being drugged and almost dead.

In a way, he felt bad for Eve. She was out of her element. She's a hacker, not a kidnapper. She made the classic rookie interrogator mistake of jumping right to Talk or I'll kill you without even trying to get the information less violently. Some do it with a gun to the head. She used a plastic bag and a zip tie. There was something kind of MacGyver about it Michael admired once he wasn't dying.

Now, sometimes you need drama right from the start. Michael could appreciate that. You get a big, burly, enforcer-type guy in the chair, then subtlety and threats may not do it. He may need to feel like he's dying a time or two before he's ready to listen to reason. So you water board him, cut off his air supply, whatever.

But this wasn't one of those situations, and, really, not many are. Most people will tell you everything you want to know and then some. Sure, they may act tough for a little while, but one slap or one threat to their kid and they'll spill their guts. And a petty thief like Baxter? He would rat out his boss before Eve finished her question.

Michael briefly regretted making Baxter a dummy. If Michael were taped to that chair, he could explain to Eve that the plastic bag was unnecessary. Not only that, it was counterproductive. A, she might accidentally kill him before she got what she needed. You can't screw around with people's airways unless you know what you're doing. B, assuming she didn't kill him, now he knows he can withstand the worst she can afford to dole out, and that gives him leverage. You want me to give you a name? Fuck you. Sure, bring the bag back. It'll help me sleep. And C, it's next to impossible to salvage a relationship that begins with so great a power imbalance. Once you almost kill a guy, he's never going to trust you, no matter how nice you play afterwards. It's much more effective to move gradually from friendly to cold to vicious.

But Michael wasn't taped to that chair. Baxter was. Educating Eve would have to wait.

"All right, tell me about this crew of yours," she said. She was sitting backwards on a chair about six feet away from Michael, pointing a gun at his chest.

"It's two guys and this chick they knew. Local crew."

"You mean there's actually a woman who'll work with you? What, is she attracted to sex offenders or something?"

"She's attracted to rollin' around in a buncha hundreds on her bed."

"And why would this local crew help you now? I wouldn't help you."

"'Cause they ain't gonna get paid otherwise."

"They ain't gonna get paid at all," Eve said mockingly.

"They don't know that."

Eve nodded and was quiet for a moment. "Tell me their names and where I can find them."

"Okay, so the old guy's name is Chuck, uhh, damn, what's his name again? Oh yeah, Chuck Finley. You know, like the baseball player?"

"Whatever. What about the other two?"

"The other guy don't have a name. I mean, he won't tell me his real name. I call him Cue Ball on account of his head. And the girl is called Brianna."

"Where are they?"

"I was supposed to meet 'em at 8:00 at Tapas and Tintos right there off Washington."

Eve looked at her watch. "You better hope they're still there."

"Yeah, you're tellin' me."

Eve got up and walked sideways to a bar area separating the kitchen and living room, never taking her eyes or her gun off Michael. He watched as she put her gun on the counter and retrieved a small syringe.

"Oh, come on, Evie, you don't gotta do that," Michael said. "Where'm I gonna go? You got me taped real good here. Look." He pulled on the bonds on his wrists and ankles. "See? See? Nothin'."

"This is more fun," she said with a smirk.

"Hey, you want me to be tip top tomorrow, don't ya? I can't be all doped up."

"It'll wear off by then. Hold still."

Michael exhaled deeply as she jammed the needle into his left deltoid.

Again, if he were Michael, he could explain how dangerous it is to leave a sedated person alone. All sorts of bad stuff can happen. That's why the rule is: give a dose and stay real close.

Fucking ketamine.

He woke up a few hours later. After some initial confusion, then a few primal jerks against the duct tape, Michael's head cleared. His heart rate was faster than usual. Nothing to get worked up about. His muscles felt okay, despite his having been stuck to a chair for six hours. Maybe the hallucinations would come, but they weren't here now. Finally something was breaking his way.

He looked around and listened. Eve didn't seem to be home. He figured it was after midnight.

First things first. He directed all his energy into his right arm, the stronger of the two, and tried to loosen the tape's grip on his wrist. He did that for three or four minutes, then froze when he heard a car engine. The engine turned off, the car door slammed shut, and within ten seconds Eve was in the house.

"Good morning, sunshine!" she sang when she saw he was awake. "Good nap?"

"Yeah, yeah, it hit the spot. You find my guys?"

"Indeed I did. You know, you should've told me Brianna was your girlfriend, Baxter. I would've brought her flowers."

Michael tightened imperceptibly. Eve's knowledge that Fiona was special to him added a layer of danger and stress to an already pretty awful situation.

"You want something to eat?" she called from the kitchen.

He wouldn't take food from an abductor in the best of times. He certainly wouldn't take it from a drug-happy lunatic. "No, thanks. I'm good."

"Good, because you can't have anything anyway."

Michael rolled his eyes. Juvenile.

A few minutes later, Eve returned to the living room with a plate and old-fashioned, glass bottle of Coke. When she sat on the couch, Michael could see her snack choices. Three fruit roll-ups, Ritz crackers, and what looked like a giant glob of mayonnaise. He watched as she dipped a cracker in mayo and popped it in her mouth.

"Quite an assortment you got there," he said.

"Shut up."

He nodded and stared at her as she continued to eat. And she stared at him as she continued to eat.

"How old do you think I am?" she asked after a while. She had a strange look to her. Human. Vulnerable.

Michael knew instantly where this was going. Napoleon complex. Classic case. She was a woman in a man's world, except she looked like a girl, not a woman. Probably never got taken seriously. That would explain her overkill. So much to prove. Fiona had experienced something similar when she started out. Definitely explained her overkill. So while Michael understood the complexity of emotions Eve was probably feeling, he didn't care, and he was in no mood to play therapist and/or cheerleader.

On the other hand, his priority was to survive, and she was handing him an opportunity to do two things to help him survive: humanize himself and learn about her. So therapist and/or cheerleader he would be.

"I'm scared to answer," he said truthfully. "You'll probably shoot me if I get it wrong."

Eve looked down. She seemed ashamed. Another human emotion. Michael knew she was getting tired. "No, go ahead. It's okay," she said softly.

Michael pretended to inspect her. "I dunno, maybe 'bout twenty-five?" He figured that was close, even though she looked fifteen. He could see her eyes widen, an involuntary signal he'd surprised her. And made her happy, evidently, based on the tiny smile she tried to hide. "Am I close?" he asked.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact." She hesitated, then said, "Most people think I'm still in high school."

"You? No, no, no, no, no. You're way too smart to still be in high school. For sure you went to college. You probably got a whole buncha letters after your name."

"Actually, I've never been to school."

Michael put a surprised expression on his face. "Huh? Whaddya mean, you never been to school? Everybody's been to school for a little while at least. I went up through Thanksgivin' of sophomore year."

"My parents unschooled me. They taught me everything themselves. No school."

He burst out laughing. "Unschooled?" He snorted. "You know what they call that where I come from? Fuckin' around. I didn't know we could call it school. Damn, I coulda had a Ph.D. by now."

Eve laughed unintentionally, then looked embarrassed.

"Hey, could I ask you something'?" Michael said. "Why you in this line of work? Smart as you are, you could make millions at some computer job or somethin'."

She picked up her bottle of Coke and leaned back on the couch. "I don't want a boss," she said before she took a long swig.

"I could see that, I could see that," said Michael, nodding. "I like makin' my own hours, too." He decided to push a little more since she was receptive to talking. "What do your parents think you do? I mean, me, my old man was in the joint more than he wasn't. No surprise I went into the family business. But you, yours are probably legit, right?"

Eve snorted. "They're about as far from legit as you can get. They're missionaries."

Michael wrinkled his forehead. "What, you mean like teachin' god and stuff?"

"I mean brainwashing people in Paraguay who don't know any better."

"What's your beef with god?" he asked, making sure to put a defensive edge to his tone.

"I don't have a beef with god. I have a beef with the assholes who pretend they're the gatekeepers for god. I mean, priests? I have to go through them to get to god? Give me a break. Total racket."

Michael feigned indignance. "When my mother, god rest her soul, lay dyin' from emphysema in '94, Father Andrew was the only one who could make her feel better. Beautiful man. God rest his soul, too." He leaned his chest down and made the sign of the cross as best he could.

She rolled her eyes.

"Anyway," Michael said, making his voice break a little, "you didn't answer me. What do they think you do?"

"Labor and delivery nurse." She scoffed and looked away.

"Somethin' wrong?" he asked. He was genuinely puzzled.

"They always wanted me to be a nurse."

"Yeah?"

"Never occurred to them to encourage me to be a doctor. Of course I'd want to be a nurse. That's all women can be—teachers and nurses. And mothers." She sounded disgusted.

"Nursin' is a real hard job," Michael said. "My ex was a nurse. You gotta be wicked smart."

She didn't say anything.

"The nurses do all the hard shit, you know? Doctors, they just come in and tell everybody what to do, but they don't know how to do it. The nurses gotta do it."

"Look, right or wrong, nurses are second-class citizens compared to doctors."

"So you wanna be a doctor?" he asked.

"No, I don't want to be a doctor. That's not the point," Eve snapped.

He furrowed his brow. "I'm kinda confused here, Evie."

"Forget it. Just shut up." She reached over to the end table next to the couch and picked up one of five remote controls. She pushed some buttons to turn on the sixty-inch TV behind and to the left of Michael. He couldn't see the screen, but he could see soft clouds of light dancing on the wall far in front of him, and he could hear through speakers well positioned throughout the room. He heard the friendly blip, blip, blip as Eve scrolled through her DVR's list of recorded episodes. Then he heard a familiar voice telling him that in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups.

Michael had to laugh, to himself of course, at the ridiculousness of his situation. He was being held captive by a sociopathic, vicious hacker who could probably turn off the power on the eastern seaboard if she set her mind to it, and she was watching a Law & Order rerun.

Eve lay down on the couch and curled into a semi-fetal position as she stared at the screen. Michael was amazed that she'd allow herself to be seen in such a vulnerable state. It reminded him, again, that she was young and she was tired.

"Hey, you mind if I scoot myself around so I could see, too?" Michael asked. He didn't care about the program. He wanted to assess their relationship. Was she more trusting, more permissive now? They'd shared a couple of moments, after all. And her exhaustion was showing.

"Move and I'll shoot you in the foot."

Nope.

So for forty-three minutes, Michael watched Eve as Eve watched Jerry Orbach and friends. He learned a lot about her, as he knew he would—how she paid attention, what she found interesting, the look on her face when she understood enough of the plot to let her mind wander for a minute.

When the show ended, Eve turned off the TV and looked at Michael. "You're going to piss on my floor, aren't you."

He stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out her angle. "Wasn't plannin' on it, but yeah, now that you mention it, I wouldn't mind takin' a leak."

She left through a side door and came back about a minute later carrying an amorphous armful of metal. As she neared Michael, he could see that it was a length of chain, probably four feet. She squatted down near him and coiled one end around his right ankle three times, then repeated the process on his left ankle. She wove a padlock through a few of the links and snapped it shut.

"Damn," he said. "You're good at that. You do this a lot?"

She glared at him as she tugged the padlock to make sure it was secure. She stood up and pulled a pair of scissors from her back pocket. He grimaced as she cut through the duct tape around his right wrist, knowing what was coming. "OW. Fuck," he yelled as she yanked the tape off his skin.

"Take the rest off," she ordered. She retrieved her gun from the counter and kept it trained on him.

Michael shook his right arm out a bit, then got to work unsticking the tape around his left wrist. "You know, I had to grab somebody one time. I owed this guy some money. He was – well, I ain't gonna lie. He was my bookie. Joe Wang. You ever seen a Chinese bookie before? Anyway, I was into him pretty good and I didn't have the dough, so he told me I could pay it off by workin' for him. At first it was just smackin' around some other guys who owed him money. I felt bad about that, you know? I mean, there but for the grace of god go I, right? Kinda felt guilty not tellin' 'em to go see about workin' for Wang, but then I figured, hey, it's them or me, and I choose me." He took a deep breath and exhaled hard as he ripped the last layer off his skin. He clenched his fist and banged it on the arm of the chair a few times, waiting for the pain to subside.

"Legs, too," she said.

"You got it, boss." That tape was stuck to his pants, so it was painless to remove, but it still took time. "Anyway, couple weeks into it, he had me grab some chick. Girlfriend of one of his repeat offenders. Guess that's how he was gonna make his point. You never heard someone scream like that, Evie. You'd think I was killin' her. All I did was put her in the trunk. Didn't lay a hand on her other than that." Finally detached from the chair, he stretched his arms and legs (as much as they could stretch chained together, anyway), grateful for the freedom.

Freedom was short-lived. Eve threw him a thick, black cable tie. "Tie your hands."

He took a few final stretches and wiggles, then inserted the end of the tie through the slit. He put his hands through the large oval and pulled the end with his teeth.

"Tighter."

He rolled his eyes and pulled it tighter.

"Get up."

Michael stood up slowly. His legs felt like spaghetti.

"Go." She gestured to a hallway with her gun. "Slowly. Don't . . . try . . . anything," she said menacingly.

He shuffled along and continued his story. "So like I was sayin', all I did was put her in the trunk. I didn't have to do nothin' to her. I just drove around for two or three hours and then took her back home." Michael stopped at a half bathroom and looked at her, waiting for approval.

"Thirty seconds."

Michael went inside the small room. "Probably too much to ask for some privacy, huh?" He smiled Baxter's goofy smile.

"Twenty-four seconds."

"Aye aye, cap'n." He made his way to the toilet and managed to take care of business within the time limit and without peeing on himself. "I'm just gonna wash my hands, all right? That's all. Don't worry. I ain't gonna do nothin'."

She didn't say anything, so he took that as a yes. Like with the TV, he didn't care about washing his hands. Well, he did as a general matter. Not so much today. What he cared about today was seizing another opportunity to evaluate the relationship. The fact that she let him do something that was his idea was a good sign.

"Let's go," she said, tilting her head back to the living room.

Michael walked more slowly this time, to see how she'd react. Nothing. Another good sign. "That lady, you know, I'm real glad I didn't have to get her out. I didn't really know what I was gonna do with her. I mean, you got all this equipment here, the tape and chain and stuff. That's real professional, you know? That's good. I didn't have none of that. Wasn't all prepared like you. I sure as shit didn't have no Special K."

"Sit down."

"On the couch?" he asked brightly with that same stupid grin.

She stared at him and narrowed her eyes. He sat back down on the hard chair. She reached to the counter again and pulled another syringe out of a small box.

"Ugh, come on, Evie. Please? That shit's awful, girl. Look, have I tried anything? No. I ain't tried to run this whole time. We been havin' some nice conversations. We're, well, I guess we're not friends, but I been friendly. I been nothin' but friendly to you. You don't need that needle. Come on. Please. Come on. I ain't goin' nowhere, not like this." He shook his bound fists and rattled the chain around his ankles to emphasize his point. "Okay? Come on."

She put the syringe back in the box.

"Oh, thank you, girl. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

She approached him and ripped a length of duct tape from the roll. She taped his ankles thoroughly to the chair legs. Michael figured she was finished, but she went back and did the same thing around his calves.

"Guess I can't complain about this since you were nice enough not to give me that poison again." He laughed halfheartedly.

Eve went down that same hallway and returned with a black pillowcase. She dropped it on Michael's lap. "Put it over your head."

"Why?" he said.

"Shut up and do it."

He did it, eventually. It took some doing with his hands tied as tightly as they were. "Isn't this what they do to tell birds to go to sleep?" he said from under the pillowcase. He heard duct tape being ripped again. Then he heard a heavy snip and felt an immediate release as the cable tie fell from his wrists. Then, before he could do much of anything, she'd re-taped his right wrist to the arm of the chair.

Michael felt a little proud of Eve. She knew there was no way to avoid freeing his hands for a few seconds. So she did the next best thing: she blinded him so he would be surprised—and unprepared—when she did it. That took some forethought. She was improving. His pride quickly gave way to annoyance as she taped his wrists and his forearms to the chair. That was a damn lot of hair he was going to lose.

He didn't hear or feel anything for about ten seconds. "Hey, uh, could you take this thing off? It's getting' a little hot under here." A moment later, it was off. "Ahh. Thank you. That's better." He stretched and turned his neck a couple of times, stopping just in time to see Eve get the syringe again.

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?" he shouted. "What was all this for?" He tensed his arms and pulled against the tape.

"To make sure you don't go anywhere when I go to bed."

"And I ain't goin' nowhere, so what's the hell's that for?"

"My amusement."

He sighed loudly and waited for the now-familiar prick to his arm.

Fucking ketamine.

Author's Note: I had a ball writing this one. Anson said Michael was exceptionally skilled at social engineering, at making his targets like him. That's what I've always imagined he had to do overnight at Eve's house. And Eve - boy, was she ever fun to develop. Hope you enjoyed the story!