Hammond watched in amusement as Harris continued to beat the already unconscious Bobby. His efforts to call him off went unheeded, and he had to physically pull him off Bobby.
"Harris! Ain't no point in beating a dead horse. The guy's out cold!"
Harris was breathing heavily, his exertions wearing him out.
"Yeah, but he'll feel it all when he wakes up," he said, panting.
"If he wakes up," Hammond corrected. He lifted Bobby's head, looked at him and at the small pool of blood on the floor, then let his head drop back down to the floor. "You hit him pretty hard. I really don't care what you do, but you might want to control yourself a little. That is, if you want the fun to last longer…"
Then Hammond, who really didn't care much for anyone, ridiculed his guard, who was standing there rubbing his groin area, which Bobby had somehow managed to kick before Harris subdued him.
"Got you pretty good, didn't he?" Hammond laughed. "The bastard's chained up and hurt, and he still got you!" He continued to laugh, which only made Harris angrier. "Maybe you oughta shackle him, too, then he won't be able to hurt you anymore!"
Harris glowered. Now he had another reason to hate Bobby.
"Yeah, well he'll pay for it…"
"Less than twenty four hours, Harris. Remember that. Then he better be dead. Cause if he ain't, you will be."
The crazy look in Hammond's eyes actually sent a chill through Harris.
"He…he will be," he promised.
After Hammond left, Harris considered his words, and thought it just might be a good idea to shackle his prisoner after all.
Hammond went back into the station, where he saw Bobby's journal still lying on the floor where he'd dropped it. He picked it up and read it, along with all the other information contained in it, then placed it in a drawer in his desk. He had to give Detective Robert Goren credit, he was the only one to figure him out. Not that it mattered. For all intents and purposes, Goren was dead, and the secret would die with him. He would be accused of the crime, and shot while trying to escape. It would later be determined that Goren could not have been the killer, it had all been a horrible mistake. Too late for him, of course, and the Jack the Ripper case would forever go unsolved, while he, Hammond, continued on his killing spree. The only thing left to do now was to follow up on his appointment to "help out" the other American detective, that woman, Eames. Help her to set up her trap. Little did she know it would be Hammond setting up the trap, for her. And he was anxiously looking forward to that.
Alex Eames was starting to feel a little uneasy. Although Bobby had said it would probably be tomorrow night before he made it back, for some reason she expected it to be sooner. She didn't like them being separated. Maybe it was because they were in a whole new world that she wasn't comfortable in; she wasn't sure of the reason; it just didn't feel right. And she was worried, although Inspector Cromwell seemed to think it was unnecessary; he felt sure Bobby would be all right. But Alex was skeptical; something just didn't set right with her.
It was almost five hours later before Bobby regained consciousness. It was a slow process. He moaned softly, and gradually woke up to darkness and a blinding headache. He tried to get up, but the effort only resulted in more pain and total confusion when he couldn't. A feeling of panic ensued; he realized he had no idea where he was or what had happened. All he knew was that his head felt like it was splitting in half, (in reality, it was, as one of the blows from Harris's club had caused a slight fracture in his skull, causing some temporary memory loss) and his whole body just hurt horribly. Mercifully, a few minutes later he drifted off into unconsciousness again.
Harris came back to check on Bobby. Shining his lantern on him, he saw he was still unconscious, and cursed himself and Bobby. He could kick himself for being so stupid, for beating him so bad that he knocked him out so quickly. Well, within five minutes anyway. A short time for him, a long time for Bobby. Well, that wouldn't happen again. From now on he'd play it a little smarter, make him hurt but not let him lose consciousness.
Finally Bobby was starting to stir again, and his memory was starting to come back. He figured he must have suffered some kind of head injury, besides the pain, when he tried to lift his head he felt a slightly wet stickiness that he knew was blood. His head felt worse than the most horrible migraine he'd ever suffered, three times over. The rest of his body wasn't much better. His dislocated arm hurt unbelievably, his ribs hurt, the entire length of his long body hurt. His newly broken nose only added to the headache. When he tried to move, it only made it worse, so for a while he tried not to move at all.
Harris nudged him none too gently with his boot, pushing him over, face up. The lantern light flickering on Harris's face made him appear grotesque, a macabre monster in Bobby's worst nightmare. Only this wasn't a nightmare. It was the real thing.
The first words out of the sneering guard's mouth were "I owe you something…" and he gave Bobby a vicious kick to the groin. Bobby rolled over in agony, a strong feeling of nausea creeping up in him. He did not want to throw up, with the gag in his mouth he would choke to death on his own vomit. He didn't have much time to think about it before Harris yanked him to his knees again.
"The Inspector thinks I should go slower with you, prolong it a little," Harris told him indifferently. "It gave me a good idea. I read somewhere that in your Civil War prisons they had this thing they used to do to prisoners…" he tried to remember. "Oh yeah, I think they tie your wrists to your ankles, real tight like, kinda bends ya back like a bow, then they put this pole or something behind your back to keep ya from moving, I guess…that sound right?" Harris's demeanor made it obvious that he was a sociopath; he talked to Bobby about his torture and death as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Getting no response from Bobby, he continued, "It's supposed to be real uncomfortable…you can't hardly stand it… Think maybe I'll try that on you." Leaving Bobby's cell, he turned around and locked it again. "Now don't you go anywhere while I'm gone."
Bobby had heard of that punishment; it was very harsh. He dreaded what he knew was coming. He also knew he had no way out, but he still tried desperately to escape the handcuffs and shackles but succeeded only in making his wrists and ankles raw.
A short time later Harris returned with some lengths of rope and a wooden pole used for tethering horses. He dropped his supplies next to Bobby, then went to work on him, again, indifferently, his only emotion being pleasure at Bobby's obvious discomfort.
Bobby was made to kneel with his shackled legs on either side of the metal ring. Harris ran the chain of the shackle through the ring, effectively securing Bobby. He took one end of the rope and tied it to Bobby's handcuffs and ran it through the chain on the shackles and through the metal ring on the floor. Then he started pulling down on the rope, hard, forcing Bobby's back into a sideways "U" shape, (the lower portion of the "U" being how Bobby's back was bent), at one point even stepping on the rope to force him back even further, then tying off the rope. Taking another length of rope, he tied it around his arms above the elbows, pulling it tight and forcing his elbows together, putting even more stress on his shoulders, one of which was already dislocated. There was something else… oh, yeah. Taking the pole he forced it between Bobby's elbows and his back, virtually assuring that he couldn't move. Stepping back to survey his work, he saw the pain in Bobby's eyes as he tried to adjust himself to relieve some of the pressure, but he couldn't move. He could tell it was bad. Bobby's legs were shaking from the cramping that started almost immediately, and although he couldn't see it, his back was also cramping, sending spasms of pain throughout his body, especially his back.
Harris was satisfied…this guy was suffering, and it would only get worse. He watched Bobby for a while longer. "Guess I'll go get me a bit of a drink down at the tavern. All this work's made me thirsty. I shouldn't be too long, then I'll come back and check on you." Picking up his lantern, he left the cell, locking it behind him. Taking a last look at Bobby, he turned and went back to the station, the light becoming dimmer and dimmer as he went. Bobby could hear the door opening and closing, and then he was in total darkness again.
Bobby was in agony. He actually wished Harris was back, beating the crap out of him; at least there would be an occasional respite from the pain. This was constant. The pain he was going through was excruciating; his leg muscles were cramped all over like dozens of never ending charley horses, and his back hurt unbearably, his spine bent at an ungodly angle, with continual spasms. Combined with his other injuries he was in a bad way. He felt like screaming, which he couldn't do anyway, or to physically cry, just to let it out. But he'd never give them that satisfaction.
Bobby kept trying to think of things—anything—to keep his mind off the pain, trying to block it out, but it was hard. He wondered if he would actually die here. What would become of Alex? Alex! He suddenly remembered Hammond's last words to him—that he would be keeping that appointment with her. God! Why did he bring her here? Why did either of them have to come? It had been a fiasco from day one. Bobby berated himself. It was his fault for wanting to be a big hero, solve the Jack the Ripper case. Well, he'd solved it, all right, but at what price? His and Alex's deaths. He didn't care so much for himself, he deserved it. Besides, death would be a welcome relief from his suffering. But Alex—his Alex—she didn't deserve any of this. He couldn't bear the thought of what Hammond would do to her. The tears finally came to his eyes. I'm sorry Alex, he thought over and over. I'm so sorry!
tbc