11
Shawn had to act, and soon. He knew as much, but all the same he wished he hadn't had to resort to this half-baked plan. He devised it as soon as he had been strung up and left alone, again, the chains biting into the tender flesh of his neck and with shards of glass round his bare feet. His toes were numbed by the cold, but he knew that they would all too readily inform him of the stabbing pain that would surely result should he move them.
He waited for several minutes after he heard both cars pull out of the driveway, rumbling engines fading as they left. Both had gone to work—it seemed they worked practically the same schedule. Shawn would be gone by the time they got back. He wasn't going to stick around for his "punishment," as Helen called it. Apparently it was wrong to waste food in their household. Shawn shuddered to think of what the punishment would entail; if he was treated so horribly under normal circumstances…
But he wouldn't be there. Shawn was escaping.
His right hand gingerly grasped his left thumb. He'd tried repeatedly to slip the cuffs, but they were just too tight. There was no chance of picking the lock, even if he did have the right materials. He had no leverage with them.
His only chance was what he was doing now—his last resort, since it was obvious that he wasn't going to be found.
He sucked in a deep breath and clenched his teeth in preparation. Then, before he could lose courage, he twisted his thumb sharply. He heard the resulting crack an instant before the pain registered.
A deep moan forced its way up from his belly, but he did not grant himself a respite. He had less than a few minutes before his dislocated—or broken, he couldn't tell which—thumb swelled up like a balloon, rendering his efforts moot. With his thumb out of the way, practically folded into his palm, he was able to weasel the appendage free from the cuff. The blood from his wrist helped to slick the way.
Shawn swayed on his feet, his field of vision darkening alarmingly.
No!
He desperately tried to breathe, but suddenly realized that he was hanging himself from the chain. Unthinkingly he readjusted his feet and stood. Lancing, unbearable pain in the bottoms of his feet made him momentarily forget his hand. He tried to move back into his original position, but that only embedded the glass shards deeper.
"Ffffuuuuck!" he sobbed, reaching his hands up to the chain. If he could only unwrap them, then he could move away from there, remove the pieces, and hobble upstairs to a phone. Gasping and hissing through his teeth, Shawn blindly searched for the end of the chain round his neck.
He discovered something at the back of his neck. Despair filled him as he explored it.
It was a padlock.
"No," he uttered, tugging at it. "No no no no no!"
Stomach sinking like a rock, he suddenly remembered the key ring that he often spotted dangling from Dobson's belt. He'd thought it looked a bit too janitor-esque on a police officer, but he hadn't had much cause to think of it.
The Dobsons really weren't taking much chance with him.
His feet and hand were in agony, but there was no helping it. Any movement only intensified the excruciating pain. He half considered just hanging himself, ending the Dobsons' fun before they could torment him further.
But no, Shawn was too much a coward to do that.
He would just have to rethink the plan. Form another plan. Shawn would get out of it—he always did. Everything would be fine.
"Think of th' plan," he whispered to himself, eyes screwed up from the pain. "Think of th' plan…"
But it was rather difficult to think of the plan, especially when there was no plan. In addition, his feet were in total agony. The shards of glass might have been red-hot nails for all Shawn could feel. As much as he wanted to relieve the pain, he could find no other option but to stand as still as possible. If he moved, he would cut his soles even worse and possibly hang himself. It was imperative that Shawn not give in to unconsciousness—to lose consciousness was to die.
Despite what many people thought of him, Shawn had a very strong sense of self-preservation. He wasn't going to die if he could help it.
Who would make sure Gus watched all the important marathons? Who would sabotage his dad's tackle box, tangle up all the fishing line and misplace the lures? Who would slurp smoothies in the bull pen as obnoxiously as possible to annoy Lassie? Who would send the Chief anonymous flowers on her bad days? Who would make Jules laugh at dumb jokes? Only Shawn could do all of those things. He had to survive!
Hours later, when at last he heard the familiar, dreadful sound of the door opening that preceded the Dobsons' arrival, he had somehow managed to dredge up a last-resort, desperate, snowball's-chance-in-hell plan. Shawn had very little confidence in the plan, if it could be called that. It relied very heavily on luck, of all things, and though he usually did rely on that in this instance he had never quite needed it more.
The door opened, and down clomped the happy couple.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins, dulled his pain, heightened Shawn's senses, and gave him energy he certainly would not have had otherwise. He quickly hid his hands behind his back, pretending that he was as he had been left. He spared no thought to the ludicrousness of his plan. It had to work.
Helen moved forward and swept away the glass. Half-congealed blood that had puddled round his bare feet was dragged along like thick red paint on a dry brush. Shawn suppressed the sudden image of Helen being awarded a blue ribbon for remarkable art ("So beautiful, so emotional," Gus applauded, wiping a tear from his eye as Carlton blew his nose into a handkerchief.)
As she completed her task, Dobson stepped forward and unhooked the chain, allowing Shawn to collapse—but, with the last vestiges of his strength, Shawn instead propelled himself forward, bringing his hands to the front. The officer had been completely unprepared; Helen had her back to the scene as she put away the glass shards for later use. Shawn unholstered the heavy gun at Dobson's waist and tugged it free.
Finally coming to his senses, Dobson snatched at it, but only succeeded in knocking Shawn aside. "No!" he grunted, diving for the gun again.
Helen whipped around in time to see Shawn switch off the safety, writhing to keep the deadly mechanism out of her husband's reach. Her mouth opened in an 'o' of surprise, but she did not move to help, apparently too stunned to fully comprehend what was happening.
Dobson yanked hard on the chain around Shawn's neck. Every muscle in his body instinctively went taut—the gun discharged with an eardrum-shattering BANG! He barely heard Helen's shriek over the ringing in his ears, the dull thud and clatter as she fell back into the workbench and then to the floor, clutching at her thigh as blood pumped profusely. The bullet had ripped open her femoral artery. The officer and prisoner continued to grapple, more fervently than before. Choking and coughing harshly, Shawn clutched at it tighter than ever, eyes squeezed shut. Dobson gave a particularly hard tug, inadvertently causing Shawn to pull the trigger again. Another deafening bang, and Dobson wrenched the gun from Shawn's weakened grasp at last.
The fight was over.