Chapter Two: Rag Dolls
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Charlie's heels had been raised off the floor and he adjusted his feet to ease the strain on his wrists. It'd taken a punch to a kidney to persuade him to submit and while he was busy catching his breath, Atlas and Lipman had made a swift job of it. They'd crossed and tied his wrists then forced them up over his head, secured on an exposed rafter.
Left alone, he surveyed the room. There were two entrances: the one they'd come in which was an open archway and the other a plain door to his right. Below sanded shelves, bulky half-used candles that appeared to have burned throughout the night still glowed, set on waist-high counters lining three walls. He remembered the pointed windows, the hefty table in the center of the room and the machine beside it. Although he hadn't actually seen the machine, he couldn't forget its whining hum, the stinging sensation on his back or the glaring light he now could see came from a utility lamp jury-rigged on a rope and hung from a beam.
He stretched and grabbed the cord to pull himself up when Don was escorted in—rather dragged in like a rag doll. Atlas and Lipman dumped him to his side on the table and Blue walked in after them, carrying a plastic bag with neat, folded cloths. Reylott was conspicuous by his absence.
Charlie called out to him, struggling against the cords, begged him to wake up. Atlas ordered him to keep quiet or he'd be gagged then snatched up cheap pen lying on the table and threw it at him. Recoiling, Charlie closed his eyes, was hit on the stomach.
Don's hands were brought together and bound, the cord knotted beneath the table, with his feet nearest to Charlie, a meter away. They'd finished securing his ankles when he groaned and Blue warned the others he was coming around and selected a cloth from the bag, placed if over Don's nose and mouth.
Charlie panicked. "Don't," he said, the cord digging into his wrists. "You don't know what you're doing."
Atlas turned to him and pulled a knife from his belt, unfolded and waved it before Charlie's eyes. "The fun's only begun, professor," he said, and popped him in the ribs.
Charlie arched backwards though his reflexes told him he should bend forward to protect himself, but it was impossible. Atlas returned to the table, stuck the knifepoint into Don's shirt at the collar, cut a hole, and ripped it free with a few sharp slashes.
Blue exited and soon the sound of a generator roared from somewhere down the hallway. When he came back, Reylott trailed him and smiled over Don. Charlie recognized the smile, detested it. Numbness was beginning to take over his arms and hands and a knot formed in his gut. Anger consumed him—he could do nothing to help either of them.
"You can't do this," he said, addressing Rey. "Why? It won't change anything."
Reylott ignored him, tested Don's bindings.
Atlas hovered by the entryway. "Call me if you need help with loudmouth over there," he said, and disappeared, Lipman following like a loyal pet.
Blue, who sat on a stool, was preparing a stencil. The remainder of the image had to be outlined and transferred first, Charlie reasoned, before it was painted, pierced and made permanent—although there was no reason they should care a fiddler's fork about doing it right. He had to buy time for Don's sake and the only way he knew to accomplish this, hanging as he was on a rafter, was to provoke Reylott into a confrontation, slow things down. It wasn't hard to do; even if Don hadn't been on that table, he'd find holding his temper a challenge.
"Coward!" Charlie accused him with conviction. "You afraid of me now?" he said. "This the only way you can win? Take us prisoner, keep us like this? Guns? Four against two? Beating up an old man?"
Blue activated the machine and poked the needle into the skin on Don's upper right shoulder, silently began his rendering. Reylott watched, hands on his hips, told Blue to make it brighter than the one on the schoolboy.
"Quit calling me boy," Charlie said. "I'm more man than you." Nothing from Reylott.
Rey rapped Blue on the head. "If he starts to wake up," he said, "no more sedation. I want him to feel it."
Charlie raised his voice. "I don't hide in the corners of the world. I deal with it, something you obviously can't handle."
Reylott traced the perimeter of the table and studied Don, seemed to want to know if he was awake.
"Leave him alone. He never did anything to you."
"Sorry, old partner," he said, taking Don by the chin. "It's the bottom of the ninth."
"Don't touch him." He twisted and dust trickled from the rafter. "They're looking for us, Rey, they'll find us. You're going to spend the rest of your life in prison."
From a pocket, Reylott brought out a scrap of paper and asked Blue to add something special—the word traitor, in Latin: proditor
Charlie persisted. "I'm the one who shot you, you prick," he said, and watched Blue take a pen in hand, re-sketching the tattoo on a tablet. "Me. I won, don't you know? I won. God, I wished you'd died." He bit his lip; he'd finally attracted his tormentor's interest, his wrath. Reylott cracked his knuckles, started towards him.
I won.
Don let out a moan. "He's feeling it, boss," Blue said. "He'll be around in a minute or two."
Without looking back, Reylott said, "Good," and stepped behind Charlie.
I really wish you'd died. "Leave Don, it's me you want," he said, and scrunched up his eyes, expecting a punch, a kick, pain. Instead, Reylott's six-foot-three frame made it simple for him to weave a slender arm over Charlie's shoulder and wrap it round his neck.
Rey forced his head back, exhaling hot breaths in his ear, and whispered, "I can hardly wait to get you back on that table again."
Don expelled a woeful moan, moved slightly, and Rey tightened his choke-hold. Charlie tiptoed to compensate but the binding went taut, the rotted rafter creaking under the strain. He gasped for air, the cord pinching his wrists. Is this it?
Rey relaxed a second then re-squeezed, repositioned his stance. "See, I'm not dead, Charlie," he said. "Can you feel who I've become? How much stronger, tougher, for having lived?"
From below, Rey's knuckles drilled into the flesh at his ribs and chalky streaks flooded his eyesight, swirling like smoke. Rey would take him on a long journey, and there was no road home. The light's gone, Don, do what you have to do…
A shout erupted out of nowhere, suspending the swirling smoke: "Armen!" it said.
The choke-hold suddenly relaxed and Charlie revived, a rush of blood flowing up into his neck and ears. Reylott's arm stayed locked in place but the grayness subsided, lights turned on. Charlie stared at the ceiling, his ears ringing, feeling lightheaded, and prayed Rey would let him go. Somewhere out of view, a woman's voice demanded to be heard.
"Let him go," she said. "I've got plans for him."
Reylott slipped his arm out and stepped near the table, the woman at his heels. "Fuck," he said. "It's the stupidest idea I've ever heard."
"Be nice to me," she said, and glanced at Don, approached and stroked his hair. "I like this one." She turned to Charlie. "But you've got the brains."
Charlie sucked air, recovering, his side a steady throb, and watched Jacobi meow and paw over Don as though she were planning to exhibit him in a cage. Over a year ago, she'd maneuvered herself into Charlie's life and stolen his ID long enough to lift several thousand from his bank account. Despite Don's efforts to track her down, she'd vanished. The single most important piece of information the FBI had culled out of the many useless tips about her whereabouts was that she'd lost custody of her son John, aged four, and he was now in the legal custody of his paternal grandmother. Apparently, the family court judge thought wisely that a child should not have a fugitive for a mother—particularly when the boy's father was serving time.
Don had awakened and Blue stopped, began to clean his tools in the corner at one of the built-in counters. Jacobi kissed Don on the head and abandoned him for Charlie, tugging at his sleeve. "Can you get him down from there, I don't want him to get bent out of shape."
"Go home," Reylott said, checking out Blue's handiwork.
Don twisted, jerked the cords. "Untie me," he said, and lifted his head, seemed to be promising Charlie he wouldn't give up.
In return, Charlie acknowledged with a nod. "Jacobi…"
"It's Kat, call me Kat. Or Kathy." She tangled her manicured fingertips amongst his curls. "I hope these get passed on."
"Jacobi, please, you're not like your brother. Ask him to—"
She ignored him, flamed at Rey. "He's bleeding. Cut him down."
Charlie glanced up. His wrists bled, trickling into the cuffs.
Reylott asked Jacobi to leave them to their business, said he wasn't finished with the schoolboy and to stick to their agreement. He called her over, asked her to examine the handiwork on Don's back, bragging about his original design—a crown with the initials, W.A.R., Walter Armen Reylott, displayed across the center. Jacobi was apparently unimpressed and spent merely seconds inspecting it before she returned to Charlie.
At the stool, Blue had gone back to work and Don winced with each prick. The tattoo was becoming permanent. "Hold still," he said, holding the needle up. "I can't do it with him squiggling around."
"Eppes," Reylott said. "Stay still or your brother leaves forever. I'll bury him in the desert—alive."
Don looked up at him a moment, then complied. Blue resumed his task.
"Armen," Jacobi said. "Untie Charlie."
"Uh-uh. Me first, you second. It's taking longer than I thought it would. We had some power trouble. I want…"
Charlie watched, puzzled, as Reylott rushed out of the room and Jacobi—or should he call her Kathy?—chased after him. The machine and lamp were dead; the generator no longer grumbled. Blue shook the needle and set it aside, leaving the room as well.
"Are you okay?" Charlie said. They'd have a brief interval alone, no doubt.
Don fought with the bindings. "Let it be broke, let it be broke," he said, his words slurred. "Indefinitely. You?"
"Okay. I didn't know what to do. But I think, I think we might have a chance."
"Jacobi?" Don asked, flexing his hands.
Charlie's reply was interrupted. Atlas hurried in, snapped out his knife and cut him down, keeping his wrists tied together. Lipman snipped Don free and the brothers were herded back towards the tower chamber. Along the way, Charlie tried to memorize the pathway, estimating distances and noting architectural features as best he could with his weary, hungry mind.
Don had trouble walking, complained he was dizzy. Though his wrists were bound, Charlie supported his brother, wrapping his arms over his shoulders, instructing him to lean in. When they reached the stairwell, he heard shouting and saw that outside an alcove window, in the courtyard at the rear of the house, Rey and his sister were having a doozy of a family fight.
"Hurry up," Atlas said, flicking Charlie on the head. "Carry him if you have to."
Charlie tightened his hold. "Don? Can you hear me? Stairs," he said, and they trudged up, side by side.
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