A/N: Please note, this chapter and a few of the subsequent chapters contain fairly explicit violence and some adult language and are the main reason for the story's rating. If such content is disturbing to you, you may want to skip over them.
A faint squeaking filtered through the grey haze of semi-consciousness. He was getting good at identifying the different squeaks – well, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. The persistent squeaking of the ropes around his wrists rocking against the hook. The bright, bouncy squeak of Amelia's feet scampering down the ladder like a squirrel. The heavy, portentous squeak of David's boot soles on the rungs. This squeak was loud and slow and measured. David, then.
He stiffened automatically. That was never good news. His head felt marginally clearer – more focused, the pain more urgent and acute. He had some convoluted memories…something about being drugged…and he was beginning to suspect that that was as much a part of his problem as the exhaustion and dehydration and David's little games. If he could avoid being drugged long enough he might be able to think clearly about escaping. On the other hand, he could only go so long without water. He sighed inwardly. Every action has an opposite and equal reaction – or drawback, in this case. Thank you, Mr. Newton. But there had to be some way out of this – something he could do to help himself before his arms snapped off, at least. He tried to swallow around the dryness in his throat. And to think that he used to like puzzles.
He could hear David's approach across the hard packed dirt floor, the beam of the half-open lantern hood lighting his way. He kept very still. Maybe if David thought he was still out of it, it would ruin his fun and he'd go away. There was a hollow sound of metal on wood – putting the lantern on a barrel, no doubt - then he could feel an indistinct presence in front of him. David was tall – about as tall as he was himself – and even with the minimal light he seemed to cast a cold shadow over him. Getting a little imaginative, Adam…he scolded himself lightly. Really have to get those drugs out of your system...The presence just continued to stand there. Adam felt his breathing quicken despite himself.
Without warning, fingers tightened painfully in his hair and yanked his head up. "Come on, Cartwright – I know you're in there – "
Adam coughed before he could stop himself. His world swung dizzily, the muscles at the base of his neck shrieked a knotted protest. He pried his swollen lids half open, keeping his cloudy gaze cold and blank.
"That's better." He could hear David Fairchild's smile, but he was having a hard time focusing on him. "Thought I'd come for a visit. 'Melia's busy."
Adam wondered vaguely why he never bothered with this when Amelia was around. It certainly couldn't be that he was afraid of her – David seemed to be nearly as brutal in his treatment of Amelia as he was in his treatment of him.
"Bet you wonder where she is."
Adam didn't answer. Experience had taught him that silence was every bit as likely to earn him a cuffing as speech and he figured he might just as well save his strength. The grip in his hair tightened, pulling brutally on the cuts and bumps that decorated his scalp. How many times had he been hit in the head since he got here? No point in counting – probably not as many as he would be.
The grin in the voice grew. "Ah, come on – don't you want to know?" The fist clenched tighter still and he gave Adam's head a shake. Black stars dotted Adam's vision and for a second he wondered if he was going to throw up. With any luck, he could do it on Fairchild. No doubt he'd pay the price afterward, but it would be worth it. Despite himself, his lips curled into a stiff smile. "You think somethin's funny?" David wrenched Adam's head hard this time and the cellar dimmed in a rush of roaring sound. "You wanna good laugh? I'll tell you where she is then, big man – she's at your funeral. Got her blacks all together and went to comfort yer grievin' family. Guess it's pretty funny at that."
David let go of his head with a push and Adam fumbled with nerveless, swollen fingers to try and get a grasp on the hook and steady himself. They bounced uselessly off of it and he swung in a sickening arc, the ropes razoring deep into his wrists. He bit the inside of his cheek until it bled to keep from screaming.
Now, what was this about – some new game? His funeral? Between Amelia babbling about his wedding and David going on about his funeral he was beginning to think he'd lost his mind.
"Don't believe me?" David moved closer and Adam squinted hard, trying to study his face, to figure out what his game was. "You can believe me. They think you're dead. Think they just put you in the cold, hard ground forever. It was quite a to do, Cartwright, you can be right proud. Folks came from miles around to pay their respects. Your baby brother is pickin' fights all over town about it. And your Pa – well I figure you can guess about how he's doing."
Adam swallowed carefully, blood and bile, as his stomach rose up against him. He tilted his head at David – what – what was this new lie about? What did he expect…? If they thought he was dead there would be no money, and what would be…?
David smiled a slow, lazy smile. "Yeah, that's right," he agreed cheerfully, as though he had read his mind. "No money. That's okay. It weren't ever about the money. It was about the pain. I wanted yer family ta feel pain the way my family felt pain – yer Pa ta suffer the way my Pa suffered." He grabbed Adam suddenly by the collar with both hands and pulled him close. His voice dropped to a hiss. "I'll bet he is suffering now, don't you think? Suffering while he puts his boy in the ground? I'll bet he can't sleep or eat…makes me smile just ta think about it. I remember how it was when we was working together…how he used to look at you…like you was somebody…something special…"
Adam stared at him. Something new rose up inside him. He had been angry before – angry and outraged – but this was something different. Then he could be patient, could stay calm – he'd hurt before. No doubt he'd hurt again. He could take it. But this – this using him as a weapon to torture his family…David's grip on his collar was holding him close and steady. Almost without thinking, Adam thrust his knee up and forward with all the strength he could muster.
The results were rewarding. David let out a banshee-like shriek and dropped like a stone, half tearing Adam's shirt off as his hands stayed tautly entwined in the collar. The pressure it put on Adam's bleeding wrists was mind-numbing, but he barely noticed it. He smiled his first real smile in days. Take that, you miserable son of a bitch. Hope I made you a permanent soprano.
David curled tight into a ball at his feet, his hands cradling his injured parts, whimpering and barely conscious.
Good. No time like the present to make an escape.
That's when it dawned on him. There WAS no escape. And while being able to fight back at last had been satisfying, when Fairchild recovered himself…and he had all the time in the world to do it…Adam gulped. Might not have been one of your most shining moments, Cartwright…unless you can get yourself down from here, and fast…agonizingly, he tried to twist his atrophied neck muscles to look at the hook above him.
He needed to get the ropes over that somehow – get down and make a run for it…the thought of running in his current condition almost made him laugh, but adrenaline was thundering through his veins now and he wasn't ready to give up. Not now – especially not now, now that he knew what he did. When Fairchild got himself in hand again he would probably kill him outright and he had no intention of dying – not before he could get home. And he needed to get home, to assure his father and brothers that he was still alive…that it was all a horrible, cruel lie…he tried to bend his turgid fingers, to make them work for him just one more time. The motion of the ropes in the gaping channels cut into his wrists was making him light-headed, but he forced himself to ignore it. Life or death, Adam, he told himself sternly. Swallow the pain now and you can pass out later. His fingers moved a little, bumping futilely against the metal. At his feet, David moaned and stirred. A cold sweat broke out all over him at the sound.
He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate only on his hands. You can do this, he chanted to himself. Come on, you can…the fingers bent a little. One slid underneath the rope. He hardly dared breath.
He tried to get some purchase with his sweaty, blood slick hands against the smooth metal, braced the bottom of one palm over the tine, trying to lift up and over. His right hand had a little bit of a grip, now…if he could just force his aching arms to work for him…one loop of rope slid over. He gasped aloud.
The sharp time was digging into his bloated palm, but it was helping to hold him up a bit and he didn't dare shift it. He tried to get a real grip with his right hand without dislodging the left one. He was going to try and heft himself up with a kick of his legs, but he had to be careful – one wrong move and he'd lose his precarious hold. Praying every prayer he knew, he steadied himself. David groaned again, pushing himself onto his elbows. Adam clenched his jaw to keep from panicking. Come on…you can do it…come on…he smiled a little in his giddy, reeling brain. That's just the way he used to comfort himself when he was small and he woke up in the dark in some strange place along the trail. Funny, how you tended to revert…funny how you treated one bogeyman pretty much like another, real or imaginary…his right hand woke up a little more, curled weakly around the base of the hook near the ceiling. He took a deep breath and kicked.
He rose slightly, his legs scissoring in the air. The second loop nudged over the hook tine and he grappled with his damp and slippery hands, trying to maintain his grip. The tine settled back, pushing into his left palm. One more…one more and he was a free man…his body was throbbing with the strain, dragging with exhaustion, but he was almost there…trying to steady his swaying, he kicked one more time. The third loop of rope lifted, nipped at the tip of the hook – then something reached up out of the dimness, wrapped around his ankle and yanked him downward.
His fragile hold broke. The hook tine buried itself deep in the heel of his hand, ripping a jagged furrow the length of his palm as the downward momentum of his weight drove it through the flesh, tearing it open. The ropes brought him to a sudden, tooth-jarring stop, chopping so savagely at his injured wrists that for one blurry moment he was sure someone had taken an axe to them. This time he did scream.
Warm blood spattered from his gored palm onto his face and shoulder…guess there was some blood left in my hands after all, he thought, half-hysterically. The weight on his ankle disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, but he knew better than to be relieved. He tried to open his eyes and look, but he was sick and dizzy and malevolent black spots swam in his vision.
Sharp-edged knuckles drove into his mouth with an audible crack and he felt his lower lip give way in a burst of blood. He twisted and spun in a queasy circle, like some horrible parody of his old rope swing. Wild with pain, he kicked out at his attacker, felt the toe of his boot make contact. There was a grunt and a thud and for a moment he felt triumph, acting only on instinct now, heedless of the consequences. The consequences were almost immediate.
Something - a board or a rod of some kind, perhaps, slammed into his knee with an impact that made the world go black. For a moment he hung, suspended in nothingness - and then his knee seemed to burst into flame. He didn't scream this time - the wave of anguish that shot up his leg seared his brain and left him mute. There wasn't much fight left in him after that.
He knew he was hit again, and yet again, perhaps, but he dangled like a rag doll, swinging helplessly before the blows. There was no pattern to them, no way to prepare himself for them…they were as unpredictable in their tempo as they were predictable in their reoccurrence. He heard, as if at a great distance, a new squeaking sound, and then shouting. The roaring was back in his ears, so the sounds were indistinct, but he tried to pay attention - to listen. Anything to take his mind off the pain, off the tug and jerk of his body against the ropes. He thought he felt his shoulder give in some strange way, but it was impossible to tell anything for sure now - to distinguish any individual injuries…they all ran together, covering him like a sheet of suffering. The shouting got closer - and then the blows mysteriously stopped.
"…the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?"
Was that Amelia…? No…a man…it sounded…actually, it sounded quite a bit like…David. Like David yelling at David.
"What are you doing to him? Why is he hanging up like that? Sweet Jesus, David, what are you thinking?"
He tried to peel his gritty lids open far enough to see. It…looked like David. Like David fighting with David. Over him. Maybe he really was losing his mind. Well, small wonder.
He saw David glare at Other-David. Other-David gave him a push. He liked this David. Maybe they could keep this one and get rid of the other.
"You're gonna kill him! Jesus, I'm not sure you haven't! What's all that blood? He ain't worth anything to us dead!"
Ah. So the David who wasn't David wanted money…David who was David wanted revenge…and Amelia…what did Amelia want? He had flashes of scattered memory of her time with him and he shuddered. Okay, maybe he knew…good God…but surely they couldn't all get what they wanted? It didn't make sense! If only he could figure out how this game worked…
"You're right." Which one was that? Were there really two? God, he felt like he was trapped in one of those ridiculous morality plays, where a man's good angel talked to one side of his character and the devil talked to his other side… "I don't want him dead." No? Could've fooled me. Make up your mind, David…God, I wish somebody would explain the rules of this game to me…
"Good." Ah. His good angel David. "I'll cut him down and bandage him up."
"No."
"What do you mean, no? He's bleeding, David - use your head! You want him to survive I've got to do something!"
There was a long silence during which Adam didn't even let himself hope.
"All right," David's voice was cautious. "You can doctor him up, but he stays on the hook." Other-David started to protest, but David cut him off. "You don't know him like I do. He's sneaky. He'll get away the minute somebody's back is turned. Patch him up, if you want, but leave him where he is."
There was another long pause and Adam felt himself drift. "I gotta go get bandages and stuff then." Other-David didn't sound very happy about it.
"So go. Oh, don't worry - I don't want him dead any more than you do."
"All right…" Other-David started to move away. Damn. Why did he have to be the one to leave? "But - you don't touch him while I'm gone, David - I mean it. He ain't gonna last for us to collect nothin' if you don't lay off."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah…"
Adam heard the retreating squeak of Other-David's boots on the rungs and sagged against his bonds.
"Oh, don't fret…" David must still be watching him. The thought filled him with helpless rage. "I meant what I said. I don't want you dead. I mean it. I plan on keeping you alive just as long as I can. A long, long time."
Adam's heart bumped against his ribs. No. Just - no. He had to get out of here. He had to get free or, if he wasn't crazy already, he surely would be.
That's when a new idea rose through his thoughts. In his anger and his indignation he hadn't really realized…
They thought he was dead.
There was no ransom, no search, no rescue - they thought they had buried him. As far as they were concerned, they knew exactly where he was - under six feet of earth and a fancy headstone. That hit his solar plexus in a way that David's fists never could.
They were mourning him, no doubt, but they certainly weren't looking for him. No one was coming. He was on his own.
*
"ADAM!" Ben sat up with a start, his pulse racing. "Adam - " he blinked about him. Sunlight streamed through the window. It was late morning, from the look of things. What on earth was he doing in bed? Why was he shaking as if…? The events of the morning rushed in on him and he sank back with a groan. Oh, Adam. Oh, God…he became aware of a presence in the doorway and he looked up. Hop Sing stood there with a towel in one hand and a glass in the other, his expression questioning. Ben closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry if I alarmed you, Hop Sing."
Hop Sing didn't move. "Boss okay?"
"I'm - " He wasn't anything like okay, but Hop Sing knew that. "I - had a dream, is all. I - "
Hop Sing came further into the room. "Missa Adam ghost walk?"
Ben pushed himself up and stared at him. "I - beg your pardon?"
"Second time you call for Missa Adam. He visit your dreams? Ghost walk?"
Ben blinked. He forgot, sometimes, that what seemed incredible to him in his culture was very matter-of-fact to Hop Sing in his. He hesitated. It would be wonderful to be able to talk about the images that haunted him. Haunted him - Hop Sing was right…Adam was haunting him, and despite the fact that they'd buried him, he couldn't feel that he was at rest. And Hop Sing…Hop Sing was not looking at him with pity or fear or concern. He had asked him a serious question. Maybe he knew some magic for banishing these demons…not that he was sure he wanted them banished. Adam's haunting was horrible, but better than having him gone all together, maybe. "I…think he might be. What do you know about these things, Hop Sing?"
Hop Sing came further into the room and took a seat in a chair near the bed, his face contemplative. "Ghosts walk when they not at peace - unfinished business, maybe, or something important to tell loved one. Missa Adam tell you something?"
Ben felt a lump rise in his throat. "He - " He looked at Hop Sing helplessly. "He - tells me that he needs me. Asks me to help him." His voice caught and he paused to get it under control. He gazed at Hop Sing pleadingly. "I keep finding myself in this dark, cold place - like a mine, maybe - or…" he caught his breath, "…a grave…" Hop Sing nodded briskly. His detached, clinical manner somehow comforted Ben and he hurried on. "Of course, this was even before we buried him. He calls for me, and he sounds so weak, so desperate…I don't know what to do, Hop Sing. I don't know what to do to help him. All his life, it was so hard for him to ask for help, and now that he does…" he buried his face in his hands for a minute. When he looked up again, Hop Sing was nodding thoughtfully.
"You ask Missa Adam what he want? What he need tell you?"
Ben peered at him. Hop Sing seemed in deadly earnest - did not seem to think anything he was telling him was the least bit crazy. "N-no…"
"Next time, you ask him. Ask him why he no rest now - what he need you know. Ask him what help he need."
"He says he needs me." Ben's voice was very soft.
"Boys always need father - this life and next one. That natural. Ghost walk, though - something troubles. You ask. Missa Adam tell you how to help."
Ben felt some of the ache leave his chest. "I will, then, next time. Thank you, my friend."
"Hurt hands?"
"What's that?" Hop Sing gestured with his head and Ben looked down to see he was rubbing his wrists. "Oh - I don't think so. Have a sort of ache there I can't seem to get rid of, though. Hope it's not the start of rheumatism."
Hop Sing stood up. "I fix you something for ache. You sleep more. Missa Adam visit again, you ask him what he need from you. I light special incense. We help Missa Adam to next world."
