Chapter Two: Lesson in Pain

Cletus watched Steve carefully as he swept the room and was gratified to see the hunch to his shoulders, the careful, slightly awkward movements to avoid pulling on bruised muscles, and winces of pain when he didn't quite manage it. He had learnt long ago and, at first, from his own bitter experience, that pain was a powerful tool when eliciting compliance. If he wanted an easy time of it, for however long they had to keep this cop here, then he knew what he had to do.

Steve did his best with the broom, the heavy ankle chain restricting his movement and already beginning to chafe against his skin. He tried to concentrate on nothing but his task, not willing to do anything at the moment that would give Cletus another excuse to hit him. He needed time to recover, time to absorb what had happened to him, and to weigh up his options for doing something about it. Keeping his eyes focussed on the floor, he was almost surprised when he caught the edge of a boot with the head of the broom. He looked up to meet Cletus Baxter's gaze and felt a flash of anger at his treatment, his grip tightened, whitening his knuckles, and his jaw clenched as he fought to repress it. Now was not the time.

"I need to get behind you," he said with as much politeness as he could muster, raising the broom slightly to indicate that he desired nothing more than to complete his sweeping.

For a moment Cletus didn't move, studying him carefully, allowing the tension to build in the air around them as Steve was forced to wait for a reply. A reply that might be a fist or the butt of the rifle that Cletus still held with a dangerous casualness, his finger always hovering near the trigger. Cletus smiled a grin that showed the empty toothless gaps, offset on both upper and lower jaw, and then nodded slightly, stepping back to let Steve past.

As he turned he caught sight of his son, who had been watching with morbid fascination, afraid of what his father would do. "What're ya standin' there fer?" he asked, gesturing with his rifle. "Make yourself useful and bring in the supplies from the truck."

Startled to suddenly become the focus of his father's attention, Donald hastily retreated through the door.

Cletus shook his head lamenting the fact that the system had turned his son so soft. No guts for what had to be done. Oh, sure, Donald had a temper, but when it came right down to it he was a coward, would never have taken the necessary steps to get justice for his son, not on his own. Cletus spat some of the tobacco he was chewing onto the floor and turned his attention back to Steve. He hadn't missed the flash of anger, the defiance in his stance even as he had done as he was told. That would need to be dealt with and soon, before their prisoner forgot his place.

Sloans' Deck

Mark opened the door to the beach house and favoured Cheryl with a tired smile.

"Hi Mark," she said, slightly awkwardly, her own subdued smile of greeting quickly disappearing as she gestured with the large bundle of papers in her arms "I. . .er. . . brought the files that you asked for," she stated.

She had practiced so many openings and expressions of concern and sympathy on the way over, but somehow all of them seemed inadequate. She knew how much Steve meant to Mark, knew how worried he must be. Hell, she was worried enough herself about her missing partner, especially given what she knew about the Baxters. They were violent men who believed in a justice that bore very little resemblance to the law, or to what was just for that matter. In their world, strength ruled, and strength was expressed through violence. She put very little faith in their promises not to hurt Steve, and was consequently having a hard time not letting her own concerns consume her thought processes. If it was that bad for her, she could only imagine how bad it must be for Mark. Every minute that Steve was missing must be tearing him apart. So what could she say that would even begin to help?

"Thanks," Mark said, increasing his smile to help make her feel at ease. "It was good of you to get here so quickly. Here let me help you with those," he said gesturing at the files.

Cheryl allowed him to take some of the bundle. "It's the least I can do, anything that might help us get Steve out of this. . ." She let the sentiment trail. Not wanting to acknowledge that this might be a useless exercise. She had worked with Steve on the case and was in no doubt that Tucker Baxter was guilty, but she knew that Mark had to confirm that for himself. What they would do once he did, she wasn't sure, but for the moment she would help the old doctor in any way that she could.

He turned and led the way towards the back of the house. "I hope you don't mind I invited Jesse and Amanda out to help us go through these." By the time he had finished the sentence they were at the dining table where Jesse and Amanda were waiting.

"No, not at all," Cheryl placed her section of the papers on the table and nodded a greeting, "Dr. Travis, Dr. Bentley," before looking back to Mark. "OK where do you want to start?"

Sloans' Deck

At last, Steve had a few moments to himself; Donald had gone back to the truck and Cletus had disappeared outside. Steve had finished the sweeping, brushing the worst of the dust out through the door and onto the small wooden porch beyond. Cletus had snatched the broom from him and placed it out of his reach on the opposite side of the room before heading outside, whatever else the man was, he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to leave Steve with a potential weapon.

Steve let out a huge sigh and allowed himself to sink to the floor, easing his bruised torso against the wall and getting his first chance to examine the shackle and chain on his ankle. The iron was rusted on the outside but far too solid to offer him any hope of breaking it. The four-digit combination lock was also a non-starter. The shackle was there to stay until the Baxters decided to remove it. The only potential weak point in the whole system was where the chain was attached to the ring on the wall. The metal plate was screwed well to the wooden boards that made up the wall on this side, however the timber was old, and the years of neglect had taken their toll. It was just possible that the timber was rotten enough for him to be able to prise the metal plate away. Of course, he would need some time alone to get anywhere, it would make too much noise to try to do anything when the Baxters were around, but, for the first time since his abduction, Steve allowed himself a small glimmer of hope. Maybe he could get out of this, if he could just bide his time and wait for the right opportunity.

His ankle exploded in pain as a boot made contact with the heavy shackle and he looked up to see Cletus glaring down at him. He glared back, the violent action, once again, had been completely unnecessary.

"Ain't no time for ya to be daydreamin'," Cletus said, dumping a bucket next to Steve's leg so that the cold water splashed over him. "You've still got work t' do." He dropped a large scrubbing brush into the water, so that it splashed over him again, before throwing a soap bar at his chest. Steve barely caught it. "I want this floor scrubbed clean enough to eat off," Cletus continued, "'cos you're gonna be," he chuckled at his own joke, before sobering at Steve's inaction and turning around the butt of his rifle, "Or d' ya need another reminder of whose in charge around here."

Once again, defiance flashed in Steve's eyes as he worked to control his temper. Rationally he knew that to fight back from his current position could be suicidal, but there was nothing rational about the anger he felt, it bubbled under the surface even as he nodded and moved to his knees to begin the backbreaking task of scrubbing the floors. At least it would give him a relatively clean place to sleep. The thought allowed him a modicum of calm as he rationalised his own obedience to the bullying behaviour. He fished the brush from the freezing water and began to rub it over the soap.

Cletus watched disappointed, he had been sure that this would be enough to provoke Steve into fighting back, hadn't expected him to give in so easily. Still there was time, when the defiance finally showed itself he would teach him a lesson he would never forget.

Sloans' Deck

Mark let out a heavy sigh and closed the file. Placing it down on the table in front of him he took off his glasses and pinched his nose, trying to ease the tension of the growing headache behind his eyes.

Reading the file on the Baxters' background seemed to be of little use, only increasing his already almost overwhelming concern for Steve's safety. The family history spoke of violence and lack of respect for any laws but their own, and if Mark had had any doubts before about their willingness to kill Steve in revenge if Tucker Baxter was found guilty and placed on death row, he had none now.

He opened his eyes to three concerned faces looking back at him. "OK," he said, taking charge before anyone had a chance to express that concern or sympathy, knowing that that would be his undoing. "We've had a chance to look through all of the files. What have we got?"

"Pretty open and shut case," Amanda said. "Tucker had the victim's blood all over his clothing and was found standing over the body with the murder weapon in his hand."

"And," Jesse added, "he'd written a note threatening to bash Rico's brains in with a hammer if he didn't leave him alone."

"The hammer came from a wood shop class that Tucker was in only hours before." Amanda picked up the photograph from the forensic report. "The teacher hadn't even gotten around to reporting it missing. It had Tucker's fingerprints all over it, as well as traces of blood, skin and hair from the victim. All of the wounds were consistent with blows from this hammer, the cause of death was massive head trauma." She turned the picture around so the others could see. "There's no doubt that this was the murder weapon."

"Even with the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, Steve and I still checked into other possibilities, but we didn't find anything to implicate anyone else in the crime." It was Cheryl's turn to speak. "Tucker himself refused to speak to us, refused to speak to the police in general, beyond stating that he didn't do it. That was all he would say before he clamed up completely."

"So he offered no explanation as to how he came to be there with the victim at all?" Mark asked.

Cheryl shook her head. "No."

Jesse sighed in frustration. "I'd convict him, he had motive and opportunity, and the evidence is pretty stacked against him. I don't think there's anything we can do"

Mark shook his head, giving up was not an option when it may be their only opportunity to save Steve, besides there was something niggling at him. Something that he had seen in the last couple of hours, something that wasn't quite right. "Well we've looked at the evidence with an open mind," he said, "and it seems to be drawing us to the conclusion that Tucker is guilty. Now let's look through it again, only this time let's assume that he's innocent. Is there anything in here that could possibly support that?"

It was a half hour before anyone spoke again, Mark had stood to get everyone more coffee, and Amanda called him over as he went past. "Mark, look at this photograph," she said handing him a forensic picture of Tucker's clothing. "Do you notice anything unusual?"

Mark looked at the blood spatter patterns. "Well a lot of the blood is smeared and smudged, rather than definite droplets."

"Precisely, everyone assumed that was because Tucker tried to wipe the blood off his clothing." She paused, "But what if he actually wiped it on?"

Mark thought for a moment. "Are you suggesting that Tucker deliberately smeared his own clothing in the victim's blood?"

Amanda nodded. "It's another explanation as to how the blood got on there, and it fits with the evidence."

"I think I have something too," Jesse stated, "I've just been looking at the statement from the teacher whose class the hammer was taken from. According to him, all of the tools were used that morning. So why were only Tucker's fingerprints found on it? Why would he wipe everyone else's prints off it before using it to murder someone? It makes no sense."

"Unless," Mark said, putting the two facts together with Tucker's reluctance to talk, "he's protecting someone." He moved back to his seat all thoughts of coffee abandoned, finally a break.

Sloans' Deck

Steve had been exhausted before he started the floor, the tension and the violence had both taken their toll, eating away at his reserves of energy, by the time he had finished he barely had the energy to stand, the muscles of his back ached from actions they were unused to performing. He threw the brush into the bucket as he stood, heedless of being splashed again on trousers that were already soaked from the knees down and covered in grime. His hands were freezing from constantly being dipped in the cold water and his knuckles grazed from catching the brush in the floorboards and twisting his hands over as he pushed on it.

He turned to face Cletus who scowled at the floor. "I suppose it'll do," he said gesturing with his rifle for Steve to head back towards the chain ring as he moved to get the bucket. "Next, it'll be the windows."

Steve had started moving, expecting to finally be allowed some rest. "No," the refusal left his lips before he even acknowledged it.

Cletus whirled round, scenting the confrontation he moved to provoke it. "What did ya say, boy?" The last word was spat with a derogatory venom.

Steve could no longer control the anger. "I said no, I won't be your skivvy," he stated defiantly.

"You'll do whatever I tell ya." Cletus roared, his face reddening as he allowed his own rage to build. He brought the rifle butt around to strike another blow but this time Steve blocked it.

Even in his weakened state Steve's training, strength and agility showed, as he easily turned the rifle and pushed it back to strike Cletus on the side, the rush of adrenaline fueling his anger as he fought back, heedless of the consequences. He was so focussed on Cletus however that he failed to notice Donald's return, was unaware of his presence until he felt the blow make contact with his temple. Donald used the butt of his own rifle to drop Steve to the floor.

Steve landed on his hands and knees. Stunned, he remained there, supporting himself as he tried to clear his head. As the world swam back into focus he became aware of the raging figure of Cletus Baxter at his side, felt the rip of his shirt up his back and cold air against his skin.

"Think ya can hit me," Cletus roared, "Well I'll learn ya."

Suddenly Steve's senses snapped back and he knew what was to come. He braced himself as he heard the tell tale swish through the air, but nothing could have prepared him for the sharp screaming pain as Cletus' leather belt impacted with his unprotected back, the metal buckle cutting into his skin and then tearing at it as it was dragged away. An involuntary cry of pain was pulled from him as nerve endings seemed to explode. He barely had time to recover before the next blow landed and the pattern was repeated. This time he tried his best not to cry out as tears streamed down his face. Time after time Cletus raised the belt in an arc above his shoulder bringing it down full force.

Steve wasn't sure how many blows he held out for, but eventually his arms gave way and he collapsed to the ground, acknowledging nothing other than pain, his back a living, breathing, sea of fire.

"Pa, stop!" Donald cried out plaintively.

Cletus paused, his arm raised for another blow. Sweating and breathing heavily from the exertion, his pupils dilated from the massive adrenaline rush that accompanied the violent action, he looked up at his son.

"You're going to kill him," Donald stated quickly, pleadingly, "We need him alive." He looked back down at Steve, appalled at the mess his father had made of his back. He had meant it when he'd told Mark that they would not hurt him. All he wanted was to prove his son's innocence, but not this way.

Cletus looked back down at his victim, snorting air out through his nostrils as he allowed the adrenaline to dissipate, the rage leaving him on a natural high, a complete power trip as he looked at the damage he had inflicted. "He shouldn't have hit me," he stated, allowing his arm to drop to his side he turned and walked outside. The detective would not challenge him again in a hurry.

Donald watched his father leave, and then moved into the small kitchen. Retrieving what he needed he returned and knelt at Steve's side. "I'm sorry we ain't got no antiseptic," he said apologetically. "So this is gonna hurt real bad, but it'll stop it getting infected," and with that he poured salt onto the ugly red welts on Steve's back.

Steve would not have believed that the pain could get any worse, but the salt was like having a million tiny knives shoved into the wounds all at once. It was too much for his system to take and, mercifully, he passed out.