Chapter Five
Desperation
Water had become Claire's driving force.
The more she tried not to think about how thirsty she was, the worse the thirst became. She didn't know how long she'd gone without water. It was impossible to keep track of time in this dimly lit, windowless hellhole, trapped with a man who never ate, never slept. The only reason she knew it had been a relatively short period was that she hadn't died of dehydration.
He glanced at her from one of the consoles, his right leg folded against his left, one hand cocked beneath his chin. She bit her lip to keep from saying anything.
"Something the matter, Miss Redfield?"
She swallowed, her throat spasming at the action. He wanted her to ask, so she'd ask. Now, while she could still salvage some of her pride, while she could resist pleading. "I won't be much use to you if I'm dead," she croaked.
A smile twisted the corner of his lips. Without a word, he crossed the room, descended the stairs, and vanished into the bathroom. She couldn't see him even with the door open, but she heard the cascade of water pooling in the glass. Her stomach lurched. She forced herself to stay still, not to move or hope or even breathe. He hadn't given her anything yet.
He returned, a tall tumbler of the precious liquid in his hand, and leaned against the railing, watching her. She hated him with all her might, hated the cynical amusement in his expression, the way his gloved finger tapped against the glass. She couldn't help staring at the traces of moisture along the glass' side. But still he stood there, waiting for God knew what now, and Claire knew she had to keep her temper under control. She couldn't afford to anger him now.
But still he stood. Still he stared. And she was tired and weak and frightened and absolutely furious. What the hell gave him the right to treat people this way? He already had her in his power; why did he need to drive the fact home by taunting and tormenting her? She knew he would never really let her die; she'd spoken the truth -- he needed her alive to get to Chris. But he'd apparently decided to make her suffer as much as possible in the meantime.
Anger threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to scream, rage, defy him and his threats and his betrayals. As he finally took a step towards her, she swore under her breath.
He stopped, almost within reach. "What was that, dear heart?"
Staring at the water, she shook her head.
Of course Wesker wouldn't let it go. "What did you say?" he demanded in a voice as hard as steel.
She dragged her gaze away from the glass and to his face. Water, her rational self reminded her. Tell him it was nothing. Tell him you're sorry. Say whatever it takes.
Her rational self looked on in horror as instinct took over. "I said you're a sadistic son of a bitch," she seethed, lunging at him, her movement arrested by the jerk of the handcuffs. He didn't flinch, but he did look surprised -- angry even. Good. He thought he could frighten her, control her, belittle her -- reduce her to a sobbing, quivering wretch? He didn't know Claire Redfield. Her throat sore and raw, she pressed on. "My brother never gave you anything but loyalty! He was your friend, and you betrayed him. And that's why you hate him so much, isn't it, Wesker? Because he's everything you're not -- honourable and loyal and kind. That's what makes him strong, Wesker. And you -- you've taken what humanity you had and thrown it away for a little more power. You're nothing, Wesker. Nothing at all. You're the weakest kind of weak, and when Chris finally kills you not a soul is going to care that you're gone"
In the horrible silence that followed, her rational self reasserted itself, screaming every invective it knew. It took all her strength not to cringe at the fury in his gleaming eyes. Too late, she remembered the last time she'd tried to talk to him about Chris. He'd nearly choked her to death before she got ten words out. This time, he'd let her speak, but she instinctively knew he'd make her pay for it.
She was right. The tight lines of his face relaxed, and he offered her a chilling smile. "Why, Miss Redfield. I had no idea you held me in such contempt." He took half a step back and placed the glass of water on the ground. "You're free to hate me -- in fact I prefer it," he continued, his voice growing colder with every word. "But you won't forget who's in control. Weak, Miss Redfield? You call me weak? I think you'll learn differently in time."
Without another word he walked away. Although she knew it was what he expected, Claire couldn't resist lunging for the water, stretching as far as she dared without dislocating her shoulder. Her fingers came within an inch of the glass, but she couldn't reach. Tears welled up, but she choked them back; they'd only make her thirstier. It took every ounce of willpower to force herself back into her corner and close her eyes. She wouldn't give him the entertainment of straining for an unreachable glass like some Greek myth, wouldn't play his twisted game.
But God, why hadn't she kept her mouth shut?
-----
Chris closed the balcony door behind him, leaving Barry and Jill in peace as he took a precious moment to collect himself and reflect. He'd promised to call Leon back on his cell phone, and knew he had to do it before Leon interrupted another download. And exactly how the hell had Leon found them anyway? Not that Chris minded involving the younger man -- he'd helped Claire in Raccoon City, for which Chris was grateful, and by all accounts he was a hell of a man to have at your back. But he'd wanted to recruit assistance in his time, on his terms.
Drawing another breath, he leaned against the railing and punched in Leon's number, staring down at the cars navigating the city streets. It was dusk. Headlights and streetlights were on, but the sun hadn't yet disappeared; everything looked so normal -- and yet the gaping crater that had once been Raccoon City, where thousands had died in the most horrible ways imaginable, was only a few miles away.
Leon answered immediately. "Where is she, Chris?"
"What exactly do you know about all this?"
"Damn it, I asked you a question!"
"So did I!" Chris bellowed, abruptly losing his temper. He kicked the thick concrete barricade separating him from a twelve story plunge to the streets, cursing at the pain that lanced up his foot. "And since it's my sister we're talking about, I'll be getting my answers first!"
A long silence ensued. At last, with a heavy sigh, Leon relented. "She called me yesterday morning wanting to know where you were. She wasn't happy."
"She was coming after me?"
"Planning to, yeah. She wanted me to come with her. I refused, obviously, and she hung up on me. I gave her a few minutes to calm down and tried to call back, but she didn't pick up. I didn't think anything of it at first; I assumed if she was serious about leaving she'd call again and give me another try. But this morning, when I still hadn't heard from her, I thought I'd better check things out. I, uh..." He cleared his throat loudly. "Well, I broke into your house. Through a back window. Sorry."
Chris shook his head. "Go on," he grunted. A broken window was the least of his worries.
"I thought that if Claire had gone after you, she'd at least have left you a note. But instead I found another broken window upstairs, and some overturned furniture in the office -- nothing serious, but enough that I knew she'd been attacked. I spent the rest of the day searching for you." Leon drew in a breath of his own. "So now you answer me, Chris. Where the hell is your sister?"
"Wesker has her."
"What?" Leon exploded. He'd never met Wesker in person, but he'd had enough indirect experience with the man to know that he was trouble. "Where? Why? How the hell could you let this happen?"
"Don't you start that shit, Kennedy. You're the one who was almost next door when it happened."
"I'm not the one who took off and left her alone!"
Chris' anger faded abruptly. After all, Leon was right. "He wants me, not her," he sighed, leaning once more against the railing. The last rays of sun vanished from the horizon, plunging the balcony into shadow. "And I'm going after her. You want to help?"
"What do you think?"
Chris gave him the name and location of the motel, as well as the room number. "Be quick about it."
He didn't move after breaking the connection, not even when he heard the balcony door sliding behind him. Jill leaned next to him, folding her elbows, almost but not quite touching his arm. "Leon okay?"
"Worried. He's on his way."
"That's good, Chris. We're going to need him." She let another moment pass in silence. "Barry has the coordinates. It's actually relatively close by."
"Good. Then we can move in the morning."
Jill closed her eyes. "I don't know."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he growled, spinning to face her.
She resisted the urge to respond in kind. "I'm not saying we shouldn't go after her, Chris. God knows I wouldn't say that -- and so do you, if you think about it. But we can't rush into this half-cocked. We have to plan every move, know exactly what we're doing, and we have to remember that Wesker knows us inside out. Planning something like this takes time."
"Jill, with every second that passes, that maniac could be doing God knows what to my baby sister! You know what that's like, Jill? Having someone you love in danger?"
"Strangely enough, I do," she almost shouted before she brought herself under control. "Damn it, Chris, I want her back too! But we're not going to accomplish anything if we get ourselves killed! Who's going to help Claire then, huh?"
He shook his head in disgust. "I didn't think I'd hear this kind of whining from you. What are you, the new STARS Chickenheart? Taking Vickers' place?"
"I'm preaching common sense, not running away."
"All I know is that Claire's in danger, and you're telling me to slow down, think things through, write pretty little notes and maybe computerize our plan, submit it for government approval!"
"I didn't say anything about computers." The joke fell flat under his furious glare. "Come on, Chris, you're not being fair and you know it."
"I never said I was. I can't be fair where Claire's concerned. And I expected you, of all people, to understand that. I expected a little support, Jill. But never mind. You stay out here and watch the sunset and daydream up a way to help us, okay? And if you decide y ou're ready to do something useful, well, I'll be inside." He spun and stormed back to the room, ignoring Jill when she called his name, slamming the door behind him.
Great, that went well, she thought, slumping, exhausted, against the rail. Barry and Chris were all for charging in there with guns a-blazing and playing Indiana Jones. They were making the same mistake many people made -- focusing so completely on Wesker's transformation, his inhuman strength and speed, that they forgot about the man himself. Jill, on the other hand, had never lost sight of the fact they were dealing with someone who was a, crazy, and b, a genius. The man was an accomplished scientist, marksman, fighter. He had a Ph.D. in biochemistry and an uncanny knack of reading other people -- and this was all before he went and injected himself with the virus. Chris and Barry thought they could outwit Wesker with two minutes of planning. Jill knew they needed more like two months.
She also knew they didn't have two months, because Chris was right -- God knew what Wesker was doing to Claire. And God help her if he decided to use her to torment Chris. Would he? Jill honestly didn't know. She didn't know what he was capable of anymore. Shuddering, she remembered the mansion, remembered Chris running off to check out the gunshot -- remembered a guilty, cowardly feeling of relief that she didn't have to go with him, but could wait in the hall with the captain. She'd never seen the blow coming. And when she'd opened her eyes and realized who had locked her away, it had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed not to break into tears.
But Wesker hadn't killed her, and he hadn't used her in his sick experiments. He'd left her locked in that cell where she would have died if Chris hadn't found her... Why?
Jill had always thought she knew Wesker better than most in the old days, not that that was saying much. She'd liked him, his smooth, efficient way of moving, his terse but intelligent comments. She'd even had a drink with him one night after a stakeout -- nothing romantic, just co-workers burning off steam. He'd been an interesting, if impersonal, conversationalist, limiting himself to a single beer before driving her home.
Yes, she'd liked Wesker. In fact, she'd been offered several opportunities for advancement within the department during her stint with STARS, and she'd turned them all down -- just as she knew Chris had. She'd loved STARS, loved the tight-knit efficiency of a team whose members knew what the others would do without asking. She'd loved the challenge of late night phone calls rousing her from a much needed sleep to don a kevlar vest and rush into the field. She'd loved working under Wesker's organized, discliplined command. She had sacrificed everything -- her career, her personal life, even several relationships -- to Wesker and STARS.
And what, she wondered, did she have now?
She turned her face into the cool evening breeze and sighed heavily. She'd better get in there before Chris and Barry concocted some idiotic plan and expected her to take part in it. Maybe if she was tactful enough, she could get them to use their brains.
But the heavy crash from behind her told her she might already be too late.