Chapter 9

Don knew that everything was relative. As things normally progressed, he should be able to assign each item to an order of importance.

But it was all too confusing. There was a dull ache in the center of his being, all the time. If he thought about moving, even though his eyes were closed the room would spin dizzily and, although it hurt him to do it, he would have to concentrate hard to keep from throwing up. He knew, instinctively — somehow — that if he ever let himself start, it would never, ever, ever stop.

Every time he would get those things prioritized, and have some idea of what was coming next, the most confusing thing of all would happen.

Someone placed a shark on his leg, and he felt it gnaw into him and pull. And pull. And then pull some more. Why the hell the shark couldn't manage to just rip his leg off was the part Don could not understand. If he could open his eyes, and find an axe, or a butcher knife — at this point, even a pair of dull scissors — Don would help the damn shark out himself. He didn't want the leg anymore anyway. He would find a way to chase perps on a stump.

He thought he sensed people nearby, even through his closed eyes. His nose was fine, and he could swear he smelled Cecile's perfume. That frightened him, because he didn't want her to follow him into these dangerous waters.

So Don mustered all the strength he had ever put together at one time and screamed. That is, he really intended to scream — but what came out was a pitiful whisper. "Shark attack. Save yourself."

Cecile started awake from her fitful slumber in the chair beside the bed and looked at Don. His eyes were still closed. She must have been dreaming. She glanced at his leg and saw that someone had come in and resumed the traction. She was just about to get up and walk around the room a little to stretch, when she heard it again. The quietest, sexiest, most gut-wrenchingly beautiful whisper she had ever heard: "I need scissors."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

When Charlie woke up, he was very uncomfortable.

He seemed to be face down on something filthy and smelly, and both hands were extended above his head. He thought at first that his face was buried in a small pillow, but as he regained more of his senses he determined that it was a melted ice pack. He slowly turned his head to one side. His upper right arm ached, but still he tried to lower both hands, and heard an odd rattle and felt a sudden jerk when something solid stopped all motion. He opened his eyes a little — that, at least, was an improvement – and was staring at a brick wall. He moved his head cautiously and saw that he was wearing a pair of handcuffs, and they were chained to a metal loop buried in a concrete floor. He pulled on his legs, and felt another jerk, heard another rattle. Must be chained at both ends.

He froze at the sound of footsteps. Something kicked at the mattress. "It's about time." He refused to look, turning his head instead back toward the wall. "I'm releasing the cuffs now, but I've still got the gun. Don't try anything." Charlie felt first his hands and arms, then his feet and legs, pick up some slack. Something solid hit the floor next to him and he involuntarily jerked.

The voice was further away when it laughed. Then, "You slept through lunch. We saved you some. If you want it, sit up and eat it, asshole."

Charlie tried to ignore the order, but the constant burn that was now his stomach finally made him turn his head the other way, and slowly push himself into a sitting position. He could see now that he was on a filthy mattress in the corner of some large room — part of a warehouse? – and Mr. Shotgun was sitting cross-legged on the floor about 20 feet away, staring at him as if Charlie was a fascinating exhibition in a museum, somewhere. On the floor near Shotgun was a 6-pack of bottled water — one missing — and a laptop computer. Even with half-closed eyes at a distance, Charlie could tell that it wasn't his.

A pizza box lay near the head of the mattress, and Charlie leaned over painfully to flip it open. He stared with distaste at the cold pepperoni pizza, Congealed rivers of grease covered the top and had soaked through the bottom of the box. He tried not to think about what that would do to his ulcer. "I can't eat this," he said, surprised to find that his voice worked.

Shotgun shrugged. "Hey. I followed orders. If you don't want the food I got you, that's not my problem."

Charlie looked toward the water again. "Can I have a drink?"

A bottle of water rolled across the floor and into the mattress. Charlie reached to grab it before it bounced and rolled away, then uncapped it and drank greedily. It seemed to put out the fire, a little, but that only made him hungrier. While he finished the bottle of water he looked again at the pizza. He saw an ant swimming in one of the rivers of grease, and he closed the lid again. When the bottle was empty, he replaced the cap and rolled it back. "Can I have more?"

Shotgun looked at him for a moment, then begrudgingly rolled him another bottle. "Slow down. This is all we have."

Charlie grabbed the second bottle and uncapped it, and took a few small sips before he capped it again and laid it next to him on the bed. He looked at Shotgun and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. The man rose and walked to the door of the room, banging on it twice. "Max!", he yelled. "It's awake!" Presently it opened, and Charlie saw the taller man from the roof enter. He regarded Charlie pensively. "Looks like they're open enough to me," he finally said, and Shotgun walked back to the laptop and picked it up. He brought it over to Charlie and set it next to him on the mattress, and he could see now that it was Don's, from his apartment.

"We found the data," said Max. "Not that you made it easy. It was the last place we looked. And it's encrypted. None of the programs we have can break the code. You do it. You probably wrote it, boss says. Boss wants to see exactly what you think you got from your one afternoon with what we…" He stopped talking abruptly, then started up again. "…they gave you."

Charlie started to shake his head 'no', but Max kept talking. "That's not all. Boss says you're a thorough kind of guy, and there's gotta be another copy of this floating around somewhere." He grinned a little, and the sight of it chilled Charlie to the bone. "Looked pretty serious to me when he said we should find out where that copy is."

The two men stood a few feet from the mattress. Charlie looked at Don's laptop, had a sudden memory of helping Don buy it and set it up…and another memory of Don flying off the roof at Cal Sci. He looked back at the two men, and his voice was strong and full of hate when he spoke. "I won't do it."

Shotgun smiled. "Boss said you might need some persuading." He looked at his partner and nodded, and they both came to the mattress at the same time. Max roughly grabbed Charlie's feet and pulled him toward the end of the mattress, until he could reach the ankle chains again, while Shotgun leveled his weapon at Charlie's head, daring him to move. When his feet were secure, Max sat behind him on the mattress and brought Charlie's arms firmly behind his back, and held them there. Then Shotgun carefully laid his gun on the floor, and, straightening, brought a small penknife out of his pocket. He squatted in front of the mattress and began to slice away the gauze bandage that Charlie just noticed on his upper arm. He tried to twist away from the knife, but Max was strong…the chains even stronger.

"I love this part," said Shotgun, once the gauze had been cut from Charlie's arm. Charlie craned his head to look at the wound. An oozing, painful mess, from what he could see. He sensed a hand coming toward his arm again and saw that Shotgun had replaced the penknife with a cigarette lighter. "Looks like we should sterilize this," he said, and he flicked the lighter alive and started to burn the edges of the bullet graze. Charlie looked away and jerked again, and bit down on the yelp in his throat. He would not give them the satisfaction.

The burning went on forever. He lost the ability to differentiate as the edges of the wound and then its center were heated to the point of blistering. Charlie was afraid that he would pass out, and he could no longer stop the moans that burst from his mouth against his will. His head hung toward his chest and he concentrated on breathing. Mercifully, it finally stopped. "Tough one, ain't ya?" he heard Max breathe into his ear. Charlie had heard Shotgun get up and walk away from the mattress, and now he heard him coming back.

"Relax, Doc," he heard the man say. "Can't do too much damage. You'll need to use that arm when you see things our way."

Charlie kept breathing, and looked through his hanging curls toward Shotgun, immediately regretting it. The man stood over Charlie's legs, raising a sledge hammer. Where had he gotten that? Had he been gone long enough to leave the room? Charlie's sense of time must be getting fuzzy…but the sight of the sledge hammer spurred him into action. He struggled mightily against the chains. "Good thing you don't use your legs to type," said Shotgun conversationally, and Charlie saw him start to lower the hammer. Charlie did the only thing he could think of to save at least one leg. Simultaneously, he pulled hard away from Max, trying to crawl off the end of the mattress; twisted violently toward the wall; and raised the leg nearest Shotgun higher than the other.

The combined effects of those efforts turned blunt trauma into a glancing blow, but there was still enough contact and force to separate the ACL tendon from the bone, tear through the meniscus, and shatter Charlie's knee cap.

This time Charlie couldn't help it. A scream was ripped from his throat but died on his lips, and he passed out in a slump against Max.