A freezing, bone numbing cold brought Don back to his senses. He gasped in shock, wincing as he encountered a tight pressure surrounding his chest and stomach that prevented him from catching his breath. He panted shallowly, trying to figure out what was going on. He had a dry, foul taste in his mouth that he thought might be a cloth rag. He automatically reached up to remove it, his panic ratcheting up a notch as he realized his hands were bound together and he was unable to lift them due to whatever was restraining his upper body. He opened his eyes, rapidly blinking them to clear the icy water dripping down his face. His first clear vision was of the stranded motorist, only she had no baby in her arms and she wore an expression on her face that made his stomach knot in fear.
"Nice to see you awake, Agent Eppes," she sneered. He saw the empty bucket in her hands and realized she was responsible for his cold, wet state. He wanted to ask – no, demand – that she tell him what was going on, but couldn't get the words past his gag. "I hope you're comfortable."
The obvious hatred in her voice sent his mind reeling. Who was she and what the hell had he ever done to her? He attempted to shift to a more assertive position, immediately stopping as his body protested. He glanced down and saw that he was seated on the ground with several loops of rope wrapped around his bare torso and upper arms. His hands were tightly bound in his lap and, although it was a little dim, he could almost swear his hands were slightly discolored from a lack of circulation. He turned his head to the side, felling a rough texture against his cheek, recognizing it as the same substance he felt digging painfully into his bare back. He craned his head a little further and realized he was bound to a wide tree trunk.
"Yes, you do look comfy." He turned his attention back to her just in time to have another bucket of icy water thrown in his face. It took him a minute to realize that it hadn't come from her, but somewhere to her right. He shook his head to clear his vision, quickly regretting it as the knot on the back of his head made its presence known. He took several shallow breaths, trying to calm his nerves and ease his discomfort.
"Bet you never wanted to see me again," an angry, male voice spoke. Don's eyes were finally able to focus and he located the source of the voice. He had to squint in the dim light of dusk but he finally was able to discern the figure. His eyes widened in shock and the man laughed at his expression. "We meet again, Eppes. Now that you recognize me, I'm sure you remember my lovely wife." He gestured to the woman standing behind him, before turning his attention back to Don. "I imagine you're a bit shocked to see me. I'm sure you were relieved that you had finally traced the threats to poor Mr. Davies. Unfortunately for him – and you – he's not the one that sent them. Merely a diversion to get to you."
Don continued to stare in shock at the man - John Alexander Reiner, convicted of insider trading and sentenced to thirty-three months in prison. Don remembered the case clearly because it had been his first successful closed investigation after being transferred to the Los Angeles office. He was confused, though - he couldn't remember Reiner ever threatening him, and his crime certainly hadn't been a violent one. His stomach plummeted as he realized the FBI had no reason to suspect him. In fact, he could only think of one person in the world who night eventually make the connection – and he had just angrily yelled at him, what – a few minutes, hours, even days ago? Please ignore my ranting like you always do, Don begged silently.
His thoughts returned to the present as Reiner approached him. He involuntarily flinched, hating himself for doing so, and compensating by attempting to draw himself more upright, ignoring the bark as bit into his skin. Reiner laughed mirthlessly, bending down and placing his face so close to Don's that their noses were almost touching. "I meant what I said in the letters," he promised. "Slow and painful, bit by bit." He smile grew as he saw a faint hint of fear flash in his captive's eyes. "Want to know how you're going to die?" He stood and walked away from Don back to his wife, Jackie. She handed him another bucket of frigid water and he carried it back to the agent, humming as he did so. He held it over Don, laughing as the hapless agent lowered his head to his chest. He slowly poured the water over him, taking care to soak every inch of his body. When the bucket was empty he set it down and kneeled in front of Don. "We're in the mountains in the middle of nowhere. This being late October – well, I'm sure you went hiking up here at some point in your life. You know how cold it gets, don't you? Of course hypothermia doesn't really set in unless it's cold and wet." He maliciously smiled. "Oh look at that – you are wet. Well then, I guess you know what's in store for you tonight."
Whether it was Reiner's words, or just his body's sluggish response time from being drugged, Don didn't know, but he suddenly found himself shivering. He clamped down on the gag to keep his teeth from chattering, refusing to give Reiner that much satisfaction.
"Don't worry, Donny-boy," the man sneered. "It's not going to be cold enough to kill you tonight, or even tomorrow tonight, or the night after. But it will definitely be uncomfortable and unpleasant, and take a toll on you physically and mentally. No, I think the dehydration will be more of a factor, don't you? No water for your stay with us." He smiled as he reached out and roughly rubbed Don's wet hair. "Well, aside from this. They say three to five days is the most a man can do without water, maybe six if he's in good shape. Lucky for me you are, so I can enjoy this for a while."
Don felt his hopes declining the more Reiner spoke. He had carefully planned this kidnapping and revenge, and he'd executed it with a ridiculous amount of ease. Don was beginning to think he wasn't going to make it out of this – with or without Charlie's help.
"But," the ex-convict continued, "The coup de grace will be the most fun. I won't be able to see your face as you die, but I'll be able to see your face when you realize exactly how you are going to die." He laughed and stood up. "I think that's enough bonding tonight, don't you?" He walked to his wife and placed an arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the woods toward their cabin a few yards away. He paused and turned back over his shoulder. "Try to think warm thoughts." The couple laughed heartily at the jibe as they disappeared into the darkness.
Don swallowed nervously as he tried to calm the panic he was feeling. First things first, he thought to himself. Try to get free. Even if it doesn't work, the movement will keep me warm. He twisted his wrists against one another, trying to loosen the bindings. He sighed in defeat as his tired mind finally informed him that his wrists were bound with thick, leather strips. He could feel them tightening as the night breeze dried the wet material. Okay, maybe I can loosen the ropes around my chest. He tried to draw in a deep breath to expand the rope enough to wriggle loose, but discovered the ropes had absolutely no give. He felt a warm, wet substance running down his back and realized the rough tree bark had scraped off patches of skin as he had struggled. Maybe he could just scrape enough flesh off to make some space between him and the ropes.
He leaned his head against the tree and half sobbed/half laughed at the crazy idea. Don't lose it already, Don. His shivering was increasing, and biting on his gag was no longer holding the teeth chattering at bay. He felt an overwhelming urge to lash out at something – anything – to banish the feeling of defeat creeping into his heart but, as tightly bound as he was, he couldn't even manage that one small task. He fought back tears as he closed his eyes, hoping to wake up and find that this was all a bad dream.
--
"Reeves."
"Don's missing," Charlie's frantic voice filled her ear.
"What?" Megan asked in shock. "He was just here a few hours ago. How can he be missing?"
"He was supposed to come over for dinner, but he never showed up. Something's happened to him – I know it."
"Okay," Megan tried to soothe him. "When did you last speak to him?"
"He was coming over here on his way home from work. We were talking and I told him that I thought he should still be very careful, that I didn't think Davies was the guy."
"You told him about working on the case?" Megan demanded.
"Um, yeah," Charlie mumbled. "But only because I was worried."
"How'd he take it?"
"He was mad," Charlie admitted. "He yelled at me, but then he had to stop and help a woman that was stranded on the road."
"Maybe he was too angry and changed his mind about dinner," Megan suggested.
"He would have called," Charlie insisted. "No matter how angry he was, he knew we would be concerned and he would have called." Charlie made a noise that could have been a small sob. "What if the person he helped is the one behind the threats?"
"Charlie, I don't know about that. It could just be that whatever was wrong is taking a little longer than he expected."
"Like I said," Charlie's tone was becoming irritable, "He would have called. I've tried to call his cell four times in the past three hours and it goes straight to voicemail." He waited, listening to the silence on the other end. "Please, Megan," he pleaded. "I'm really worried."
Megan silently debated with herself. Don wasn't irresponsible, and Charlie had a point – he knew his family was worried and he wouldn't have just skipped out on dinner and not told them. And he did sometimes turn off his cell, but he had agreed to keep it on at all times as long as the suspect was out there on the loose. She sighed before speaking. "Alright Charlie, let me make a couple of calls and I'll get back to you." He agreed and she hung up with him, immediately dialing David's cell. "Hey, are you still watching Davies?"
"Yeah," he answered through a yawn. "I've got thirty more minutes before my relief gets here. What's up?"
"Don was supposed to stop by Charlie's for dinner, but he's a no-show."
"That doesn't sound like him," David answered, his voice suddenly alert and filled with worry. "But Davies is still here. He hasn't left the house all day, although I guess he could have an accomplice."
"No, I don't think so. He was strictly a loner when he was committing his crimes. Besides, his choice of residence now is an indication that he wants to get away from everyone and everything, not establish a partnership with someone." She tapped her lip, deep in thought. "I didn't want to spook him before, but maybe we need to question him now. See if he alibis for the night Don's apartment was bombed. If so, maybe we should start looking at other suspects."
"Okay," David agreed. "Give me an hour and I'll let you know."
"He may not be willing to talk," she pointed out.
"I know, but this is Don's life we're talking about. I will do whatever is necessary to convince Mr. Davies to talk." The line went dead and Megan began sorting through Don's old cases for the second time. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she hoped it would jump out at her when she found it.
--
Cold. It was so cold.
Don could think of nothing else, except the cold invading his body. The wind would gust from one direction, sucking what little heat he had straight from his body, before changing direction and attacking him from a different angle. He was becoming drowsy as his body became colder, but his position was so uncomfortable that the second he dozed off, his head would sag forward and the strain on his neck would yank him back to awareness. He'd noticed that his hands had begun trembling, and that his fingers and toes were tingling.
His thirst was starting to worsen, and the disgusting rag in his mouth did nothing to help that. He'd felt the water running down his face earlier, and had desperately wanted to stick his tongue out and savor whatever few drops he could catch, but the gag had prevented that. Now the water was mostly dried, the evening winds evaporating it as they rushed across his skin. He was still shivering – more severely now – but knew that was a good sign. It was when you stopped that you had to start worrying.
Between the bump on the head and his decreased body temperature, he knew his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. Still, he had to try to figure out why Reiner had it in for him so badly. He hadn't been convicted of a violent crime, and he hadn't served major time. If Don's confused mind was right, he had been a model prisoner and had even gotten released early for good behavior. Don thought back to the trial, trying to remember if anyone had made any threats. All he remembered was going to the courthouse to testify, and seeing the look of defeat on Reiner's face as he'd laid out the case for the jury. The defendant had looked like a guilty man all during the trial, taking comfort from his family's – no, wait – his wife's presence. There had been a son too, hadn't there? Don wracked his brain, searching for a memory of the young man. He moaned in frustration, knowing there was something important in that memory that was dancing just out of reach.
A strong gust of wind rushed by, sucking the air from Don's lungs. His trembling increased so much that he banged his head against the tree, almost directly on his earlier injury. He tried to breathe through the pain as stars danced across his vision, but the cursed ropes were doing their job in constricting his chest. His vision began to gray around the edges, and he knew unconsciousness was beckoning to him. He was only slightly surprised to find himself giving in, looking forward to even a moment of solace from this hell.
