AN: Here you go; the new and vastly improved chapter 26. My beta is back
and now the mistakes are gone! Big hugs to Lori!!!
PART TWENTY-SIX
Richie woke up with a groan and a throbbing headache. He had a vague memory of what happened, so wasn't too surprised when he found himself tied down. He was lying strapped to very hard table. There were straps across his chest, his stomach, his hips, his thighs, and his shins. And as if that weren't enough to keep him still, he had hospital restraints on around his wrists and ankles. Richie remained still, not wanting to attract attention yet and examined his surroundings. His table was in the far corner of a large room that reminded him somewhat of an old high school gym. In the middle of the dimly lit room was a card table with three chairs and a lamp. On the other side of that was the fourth chair from the set where his captor sat in front of a small black and white television with the sound turned down too low for Richie to hear what he was watching.
"I'm bored!" Richie announced, deciding he was ready to get a look at the man who had nabbed him.
"I see you're awake," his captor said getting up and going over to him.
"No, I just talk in my sleep," Richie returned looking at the man as he stepped closer. He judged him to be around his father's height with Duncan's build. No wonder he had lost so quickly. He had thin black hair and stubble on his cheeks and was wearing all black. He was the stereotypical cartoon burglar.
"He said you had an attitude."
"He? No, no, lemme guess. You have a boss, right?"
"Shut up!"
Richie didn't say anything for a moment. He waited for the kidnapper to turn around before speaking again. "So, when's my dad comin'?" he asked.
"He doesn't have what I want," he said turning around again.
"So. Miller then."
"Not him either. Teachers have no money."
"Money? You called Mac?"
"MacLeod should be in the Washington airport right about now. With the money in hand."
Richie's jaw dropped. "Money in hand? You're holding me for ransom?"
"If I have to put up with you for three days, I better get some kind of compensation."
"Three days?" Richie repeated.
"Those are his instructions."
. . . . . .
"I didn't know what to do, Coach," John said nervously from his seat in Roberts' office. "It says no cops."
Roberts looked at the bloody note in his hands.
'MacLeod. I have the kid. If you want to see him alive, bring fifteen million dollars with you to campus. You'll get your instructions from a new source. No police. If anyone comes looking for him early, he's dead.'
"We have to call Mr. MacLeod and Greg. He needs to know as well."
"What about the sword?"
Roberts looked the sword over carefully. On the hilt were the engraved initials R.R. "I'll talk to Ryan about it," Roberts decided, picking up Richie's rapier and putting it in a locker before closing it.
. . . . . .
"Mac, what's wrong?" Joe asked as Duncan stormed into the bar before it opened.
"Look!" Duncan threw a piece of paper onto the bar it was identical to the one John had found in Richie's room.
Joe looked it over. "Richie?" he asked.
"The kid? Campus? Who else would it be?!"
"What are you yelling at me for? I didn't do it."
"Why didn't Mike call when it happened? He had to have been right there!"
"Mac, even watchers take breaks. He'll probably call any minute now to report on Richie's disappearance. And if it was another immortal, I'm sure we'll hear something."
"Joe, read the note! Fifteen million dollars? Why would an immortal demand money?"
Joe looked over the note again. Why would an immortal demand money? And why wouldn't they seek Duncan out in Washington? Why go through all the trouble to kidnap Richie in the first place?
"I think you're right," Joe agreed. "I think Richie's been kidnapped for real."
"It was always real, Joe," Duncan snapped.
"I meant by a non-immortal. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to take the money."
"And your sword?"
"Of course. I have to get to the airport. Call me on my cell if Mike calls in."
. . . . . .
"Hey, Chuck!" Richie called across the room. "What do we do now?"
"Why do you keep calling me Chuck?" the man asked.
"You won't tell me your real name; I gotta call you something. what, you don't like it?"
"Shut up, kid."
"Well, then, fine. I'll start. Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Richie. Richie Ryan. You'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand, I'll little tied up at the moment."
"Listen here, you little smart ass," Chuck yelled once again approaching Richie. "If you don't shut up real soon, I won't be held responsible for what I do to you."
"Oohh. I'm scared now. What are you gonna do, call your boss and tell on me?"
"I might just."
"Just what?" Richie challenged. "If you think I'm remotely scared, you're in for a shock. Cause all I am right now, is bored. And I'm about to start entertaining myself. just so you have fair warning."
"Look, MacLeod will be here in a couple days and if you're a good little boy after I kill him, I'll let you go."
Richie pretended to think it over. "No deal. I'm bored now."
"What am I supposed to do about it?"
"Maybe you could go get my homework and I could do that," Richie suggested hoping to get the man away long enough to escape. "That way I won't be too far behind in my classes and I won't annoy you; everybody wins."
"I'm not supposed to leave you."
"Ah, the boss doesn't trust me to be good and stay quiet?"
"Not boss, partner," Chuck corrected irritably.
"Yeah, this is sure real 50/50. That's why you're here doing all the dirty work and he's nowhere to be seen. Face it, Chuck, you're the lackey."
Chuck grabbed Richie's jaw and squeezed hard. "Shut up!"
. . . . . .
"Hey, Hernandez, you seen Ryan?" Young asked coming out of Richie's room. "He's supposed to help me today."
"Oh, uh." John stuttered. "He had a family emergency and had to leave for a few days. He told me to help you. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. But uh, Coach called a meeting and that's where I was going. Why don't I give you a ride and we'll work afterwards."
John and Young rode to the gym in silence. The gathered with the rest of the team on the bleachers and waited for Roberts to start talking.
"Is that everyone?" Roberts asked looking over the faces of the young men seated in front of him.
"Where's our fearless leader?" someone asked.
"That's what this is about. Ryan had a family emergency and went back to Washington for a few days. So this meeting is to elect a replacement captain until he gets back."
"We need a new captain for a few days?" a player asked.
"We don't know how long Ryan will be gone. He may not be able to come back, so we need to be prepared. Any nominations?"
. . . . . .
Duncan knocked on the door in front of him. He could feel the buzz; he knew Greg was home.
"Masters! It's MacLeod! We need to talk!" he yelled through the door pounding on it this time.
"About this?" Greg demanded thrusting a note under Duncan's nose as he opened the door.
Duncan looked it over.
'Masters, I have your son. You want him back; you make sure MacLeod brings fifteen million in cash to the old high school on the 29th, not a day sooner. No police. Anyone shows early, your little boy is dead.'
"You got one, too," he said handing it back.
"Yes, I got one, too!" Greg spat. "What have you done to my son!" he demanded.
"I think this would be better discussed inside," Duncan said.
"Get in." Greg opened the door.
Duncan stepped in. "We need to figure out who did this," he said taking a seat on the couch and looking directly at Greg in the easy chair across from him.
"Obviously someone after you," Greg said. "The way I found out about this is one of Richie's friends found a ransom note in Richie's room on his bed and it was covered in blood. I got this two hours ago." He gestured to the note.
"Which one of Richie's friends?" Duncan asked.
"I don't know, some Hispanic kid, good sized, shaggy hair. On the team."
"John Hernandez?" Duncan supplied.
"Maybe, his old roommate."
"That's John. We need to talk to him. Did he tell anyone else?"
"Roberts knows. That's it; the four of us."
"And Richie and the kidnapper. It doesn't make any sense; Richie should have been able to defend himself. There's no reason he should have gotten caught."
"Maybe he was asleep," Greg suggested.
"When did John find the note?"
"Afternoon. But you know teenagers; they'd sleep all day if they could."
"He's not a teenager anymore. And even if he was, Richie doesn't sleep past nine. He hasn't for years. That means they over powered him."
"Maybe they threatened him with a gun," Greg speculated. "I mean, this can't involve an immortal if they're demanding money."
"A gun wouldn't have stopped Richie. He would have fought. He's good Masters, he can disarm anybody." Duncan paused to think. "The only thing that would have stopped him was if the other guy had a sword and he wasn't armed. That's the only thing he can't do. He gets nervous and messes up."
"I thought you were his teacher."
"I was; he's with you now. Don't you train him?"
Greg shook his head. "Miller does. I'm just his father."
"This has to be another immortal," Duncan decided. "That's the only way."
"An immortal demanding ransom? MacLeod, there's no way. I knew all your little gifts would get him in trouble one day! Somebody's after money and my son is their ticket! This is your fault!" Greg yelled.
"My fault? I'm half way across the country; you're a few miles down the road and this is my fault?" Duncan yelled back. "You keep saying he's your son, why don't you do something for him? If you hadn't abandoned him, he wouldn't be in this situation! All you want from him is to re-live your glory days on the court! You know what I want from him? I want to see him get old, I want to see him outlive everyone; I want him to be the one. I'm the one that's been protecting him for the last five years, I'm the one who taught him to survive, I'm the one that sent him here, I'm the one that's always been there for him. Who are you? A man that hides behind a title that you never earned. I bet you told him to call you 'dad' didn't you?"
"It makes no difference how I became his father, MacLeod," Greg snarled. "I am. I won. He chose me over you. You're just his meal ticket."
Duncan jumped to his feet and drew his katana. "The only reason I don't kill you now is I might need your help to rescue my best friend," he said in a low voice. "I have never trusted you and I never will. I know you want something from him. I just don't know what it is yet."
"If you take my head, he'll never forgive you," Greg said smugly. "You kill me, you loose him."
"I know; that's why I haven't killed you before." Duncan put his sword away. "I have a preposition for you," he told Greg. "I think we should agree to hate each other in private. The last thing Richie needs is us fighting over him. So, we play nice. I don't go after you; you don't come after me. We set our differences aside and figure out what happened to Richie. We work out a plan and rescue him."
"Sounds reasonable."
"From here on out, we make nice."
"I'll do it. for Richie."
"Good. So what do we really know about what happened?"
. . . . . .
"No bottles of beer on the wall, no bottles of beer!" Richie sang just loud enough to be heard by Chuck.
"Would you shut up!!!" Chuck had been trying to push Richie's voice to the back of his mind all day. Now he had had enough.
"Take. you made me loose count," Richie complained. "Oh, well. 99 bottles of beer."
"Stop with the beer song!"
"I can't help it, I'm bored and thirsty... and hungry."
"Maybe if you'd stop singing, you wouldn't be so thirsty," Chuck suggested.
"Maybe, but I can't help myself. I was born to entertain. 99 bottles of."
"No more beer!"
"Milk then? Coke? Juice? What? You pick," he offered.
"If you start that song one more time I don't care what M." Chuck stopped suddenly. "I don't care what anyone says. The no hurting the kid rule is going out the window."
"Fine, geeze." Richie let the room fall silent as he thought of other songs to sing. "I'm Henry the eight I am, Henry the eighth I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door; she's been married seven times before and every one was an Henmmmmph!" He was cut off when Chuck clamped his hand over his mouth.
"Shut up, you little prick," he said slowly. "No beer, no Henry the eighth, got it?" Richie nodded. "Good." He let Richie go and walked away.
Richie waited for him to get settled and comfortable before starting up again. "We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine. We all live in a yellow submarinnnmmmmph!" Chuck was back by his side with his hand over his mouth.
"That's it. Torture time."
"Do your worst," Richie challenged once the hand was removed.
"I will. See, I know you," Chuck started getting a roll of duct tape off the card table. "I know what you like and don't like." He ripped off a piece and put it over Richie's mouth. "You hate staying quiet and still. And you love to eat." He went back to the table and reached under it, picking up a cooler. He got out a sandwich and unwrapped it before going back to loom above Richie. "See, I was going to give you one," he said taking a big bite. "But now I think I'll eat yours too."
Richie looked up at him in disbelief. By his calculations it had been nearly twenty-four hours since he had last eaten and he was starving. By the smell, he could tell it was a meatball sandwich he had just deprived himself of. His suspicions were confirmed when a large glob of marinara sauce began to drip from the bread.
"I guess you can have some. if you say please," Chuck decided.
"Pmmp!" Richie said as best he could.
"That didn't sound like please to me," Chuck laughed stuffing the last of the food into his mouth. "Oh, well. Maybe you can eat tomorrow. if you're good."
PART TWENTY-SIX
Richie woke up with a groan and a throbbing headache. He had a vague memory of what happened, so wasn't too surprised when he found himself tied down. He was lying strapped to very hard table. There were straps across his chest, his stomach, his hips, his thighs, and his shins. And as if that weren't enough to keep him still, he had hospital restraints on around his wrists and ankles. Richie remained still, not wanting to attract attention yet and examined his surroundings. His table was in the far corner of a large room that reminded him somewhat of an old high school gym. In the middle of the dimly lit room was a card table with three chairs and a lamp. On the other side of that was the fourth chair from the set where his captor sat in front of a small black and white television with the sound turned down too low for Richie to hear what he was watching.
"I'm bored!" Richie announced, deciding he was ready to get a look at the man who had nabbed him.
"I see you're awake," his captor said getting up and going over to him.
"No, I just talk in my sleep," Richie returned looking at the man as he stepped closer. He judged him to be around his father's height with Duncan's build. No wonder he had lost so quickly. He had thin black hair and stubble on his cheeks and was wearing all black. He was the stereotypical cartoon burglar.
"He said you had an attitude."
"He? No, no, lemme guess. You have a boss, right?"
"Shut up!"
Richie didn't say anything for a moment. He waited for the kidnapper to turn around before speaking again. "So, when's my dad comin'?" he asked.
"He doesn't have what I want," he said turning around again.
"So. Miller then."
"Not him either. Teachers have no money."
"Money? You called Mac?"
"MacLeod should be in the Washington airport right about now. With the money in hand."
Richie's jaw dropped. "Money in hand? You're holding me for ransom?"
"If I have to put up with you for three days, I better get some kind of compensation."
"Three days?" Richie repeated.
"Those are his instructions."
. . . . . .
"I didn't know what to do, Coach," John said nervously from his seat in Roberts' office. "It says no cops."
Roberts looked at the bloody note in his hands.
'MacLeod. I have the kid. If you want to see him alive, bring fifteen million dollars with you to campus. You'll get your instructions from a new source. No police. If anyone comes looking for him early, he's dead.'
"We have to call Mr. MacLeod and Greg. He needs to know as well."
"What about the sword?"
Roberts looked the sword over carefully. On the hilt were the engraved initials R.R. "I'll talk to Ryan about it," Roberts decided, picking up Richie's rapier and putting it in a locker before closing it.
. . . . . .
"Mac, what's wrong?" Joe asked as Duncan stormed into the bar before it opened.
"Look!" Duncan threw a piece of paper onto the bar it was identical to the one John had found in Richie's room.
Joe looked it over. "Richie?" he asked.
"The kid? Campus? Who else would it be?!"
"What are you yelling at me for? I didn't do it."
"Why didn't Mike call when it happened? He had to have been right there!"
"Mac, even watchers take breaks. He'll probably call any minute now to report on Richie's disappearance. And if it was another immortal, I'm sure we'll hear something."
"Joe, read the note! Fifteen million dollars? Why would an immortal demand money?"
Joe looked over the note again. Why would an immortal demand money? And why wouldn't they seek Duncan out in Washington? Why go through all the trouble to kidnap Richie in the first place?
"I think you're right," Joe agreed. "I think Richie's been kidnapped for real."
"It was always real, Joe," Duncan snapped.
"I meant by a non-immortal. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to take the money."
"And your sword?"
"Of course. I have to get to the airport. Call me on my cell if Mike calls in."
. . . . . .
"Hey, Chuck!" Richie called across the room. "What do we do now?"
"Why do you keep calling me Chuck?" the man asked.
"You won't tell me your real name; I gotta call you something. what, you don't like it?"
"Shut up, kid."
"Well, then, fine. I'll start. Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Richie. Richie Ryan. You'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand, I'll little tied up at the moment."
"Listen here, you little smart ass," Chuck yelled once again approaching Richie. "If you don't shut up real soon, I won't be held responsible for what I do to you."
"Oohh. I'm scared now. What are you gonna do, call your boss and tell on me?"
"I might just."
"Just what?" Richie challenged. "If you think I'm remotely scared, you're in for a shock. Cause all I am right now, is bored. And I'm about to start entertaining myself. just so you have fair warning."
"Look, MacLeod will be here in a couple days and if you're a good little boy after I kill him, I'll let you go."
Richie pretended to think it over. "No deal. I'm bored now."
"What am I supposed to do about it?"
"Maybe you could go get my homework and I could do that," Richie suggested hoping to get the man away long enough to escape. "That way I won't be too far behind in my classes and I won't annoy you; everybody wins."
"I'm not supposed to leave you."
"Ah, the boss doesn't trust me to be good and stay quiet?"
"Not boss, partner," Chuck corrected irritably.
"Yeah, this is sure real 50/50. That's why you're here doing all the dirty work and he's nowhere to be seen. Face it, Chuck, you're the lackey."
Chuck grabbed Richie's jaw and squeezed hard. "Shut up!"
. . . . . .
"Hey, Hernandez, you seen Ryan?" Young asked coming out of Richie's room. "He's supposed to help me today."
"Oh, uh." John stuttered. "He had a family emergency and had to leave for a few days. He told me to help you. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. But uh, Coach called a meeting and that's where I was going. Why don't I give you a ride and we'll work afterwards."
John and Young rode to the gym in silence. The gathered with the rest of the team on the bleachers and waited for Roberts to start talking.
"Is that everyone?" Roberts asked looking over the faces of the young men seated in front of him.
"Where's our fearless leader?" someone asked.
"That's what this is about. Ryan had a family emergency and went back to Washington for a few days. So this meeting is to elect a replacement captain until he gets back."
"We need a new captain for a few days?" a player asked.
"We don't know how long Ryan will be gone. He may not be able to come back, so we need to be prepared. Any nominations?"
. . . . . .
Duncan knocked on the door in front of him. He could feel the buzz; he knew Greg was home.
"Masters! It's MacLeod! We need to talk!" he yelled through the door pounding on it this time.
"About this?" Greg demanded thrusting a note under Duncan's nose as he opened the door.
Duncan looked it over.
'Masters, I have your son. You want him back; you make sure MacLeod brings fifteen million in cash to the old high school on the 29th, not a day sooner. No police. Anyone shows early, your little boy is dead.'
"You got one, too," he said handing it back.
"Yes, I got one, too!" Greg spat. "What have you done to my son!" he demanded.
"I think this would be better discussed inside," Duncan said.
"Get in." Greg opened the door.
Duncan stepped in. "We need to figure out who did this," he said taking a seat on the couch and looking directly at Greg in the easy chair across from him.
"Obviously someone after you," Greg said. "The way I found out about this is one of Richie's friends found a ransom note in Richie's room on his bed and it was covered in blood. I got this two hours ago." He gestured to the note.
"Which one of Richie's friends?" Duncan asked.
"I don't know, some Hispanic kid, good sized, shaggy hair. On the team."
"John Hernandez?" Duncan supplied.
"Maybe, his old roommate."
"That's John. We need to talk to him. Did he tell anyone else?"
"Roberts knows. That's it; the four of us."
"And Richie and the kidnapper. It doesn't make any sense; Richie should have been able to defend himself. There's no reason he should have gotten caught."
"Maybe he was asleep," Greg suggested.
"When did John find the note?"
"Afternoon. But you know teenagers; they'd sleep all day if they could."
"He's not a teenager anymore. And even if he was, Richie doesn't sleep past nine. He hasn't for years. That means they over powered him."
"Maybe they threatened him with a gun," Greg speculated. "I mean, this can't involve an immortal if they're demanding money."
"A gun wouldn't have stopped Richie. He would have fought. He's good Masters, he can disarm anybody." Duncan paused to think. "The only thing that would have stopped him was if the other guy had a sword and he wasn't armed. That's the only thing he can't do. He gets nervous and messes up."
"I thought you were his teacher."
"I was; he's with you now. Don't you train him?"
Greg shook his head. "Miller does. I'm just his father."
"This has to be another immortal," Duncan decided. "That's the only way."
"An immortal demanding ransom? MacLeod, there's no way. I knew all your little gifts would get him in trouble one day! Somebody's after money and my son is their ticket! This is your fault!" Greg yelled.
"My fault? I'm half way across the country; you're a few miles down the road and this is my fault?" Duncan yelled back. "You keep saying he's your son, why don't you do something for him? If you hadn't abandoned him, he wouldn't be in this situation! All you want from him is to re-live your glory days on the court! You know what I want from him? I want to see him get old, I want to see him outlive everyone; I want him to be the one. I'm the one that's been protecting him for the last five years, I'm the one who taught him to survive, I'm the one that sent him here, I'm the one that's always been there for him. Who are you? A man that hides behind a title that you never earned. I bet you told him to call you 'dad' didn't you?"
"It makes no difference how I became his father, MacLeod," Greg snarled. "I am. I won. He chose me over you. You're just his meal ticket."
Duncan jumped to his feet and drew his katana. "The only reason I don't kill you now is I might need your help to rescue my best friend," he said in a low voice. "I have never trusted you and I never will. I know you want something from him. I just don't know what it is yet."
"If you take my head, he'll never forgive you," Greg said smugly. "You kill me, you loose him."
"I know; that's why I haven't killed you before." Duncan put his sword away. "I have a preposition for you," he told Greg. "I think we should agree to hate each other in private. The last thing Richie needs is us fighting over him. So, we play nice. I don't go after you; you don't come after me. We set our differences aside and figure out what happened to Richie. We work out a plan and rescue him."
"Sounds reasonable."
"From here on out, we make nice."
"I'll do it. for Richie."
"Good. So what do we really know about what happened?"
. . . . . .
"No bottles of beer on the wall, no bottles of beer!" Richie sang just loud enough to be heard by Chuck.
"Would you shut up!!!" Chuck had been trying to push Richie's voice to the back of his mind all day. Now he had had enough.
"Take. you made me loose count," Richie complained. "Oh, well. 99 bottles of beer."
"Stop with the beer song!"
"I can't help it, I'm bored and thirsty... and hungry."
"Maybe if you'd stop singing, you wouldn't be so thirsty," Chuck suggested.
"Maybe, but I can't help myself. I was born to entertain. 99 bottles of."
"No more beer!"
"Milk then? Coke? Juice? What? You pick," he offered.
"If you start that song one more time I don't care what M." Chuck stopped suddenly. "I don't care what anyone says. The no hurting the kid rule is going out the window."
"Fine, geeze." Richie let the room fall silent as he thought of other songs to sing. "I'm Henry the eight I am, Henry the eighth I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door; she's been married seven times before and every one was an Henmmmmph!" He was cut off when Chuck clamped his hand over his mouth.
"Shut up, you little prick," he said slowly. "No beer, no Henry the eighth, got it?" Richie nodded. "Good." He let Richie go and walked away.
Richie waited for him to get settled and comfortable before starting up again. "We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine. We all live in a yellow submarinnnmmmmph!" Chuck was back by his side with his hand over his mouth.
"That's it. Torture time."
"Do your worst," Richie challenged once the hand was removed.
"I will. See, I know you," Chuck started getting a roll of duct tape off the card table. "I know what you like and don't like." He ripped off a piece and put it over Richie's mouth. "You hate staying quiet and still. And you love to eat." He went back to the table and reached under it, picking up a cooler. He got out a sandwich and unwrapped it before going back to loom above Richie. "See, I was going to give you one," he said taking a big bite. "But now I think I'll eat yours too."
Richie looked up at him in disbelief. By his calculations it had been nearly twenty-four hours since he had last eaten and he was starving. By the smell, he could tell it was a meatball sandwich he had just deprived himself of. His suspicions were confirmed when a large glob of marinara sauce began to drip from the bread.
"I guess you can have some. if you say please," Chuck decided.
"Pmmp!" Richie said as best he could.
"That didn't sound like please to me," Chuck laughed stuffing the last of the food into his mouth. "Oh, well. Maybe you can eat tomorrow. if you're good."