A/N: Thank you Tree66, max2013, Dinogal95, Penny Blossom73, SiouxAnne3, and twobrothers for all your wonderful comments and reviews; they're greatly appreciated and enjoyed.
The song lyrics Colby speaks aren't mine (or his). Virtual chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven for anyone who can name all the songs he quotes. Bonus glass of ice-cold milk for anyone who can name the singers.
Brace yourselves, folks: as the title suggests, this is a brutal chapter, not just mentally and emotionally, but it's also the most violent one of the story.
"D" is for Despair
The first day of Colby's fifth week at Seymour coincided with his thirtieth day of incarceration. To celebrate the momentous occasion, Olsen and the Color Guard cracked three ribs, fractured a fourth, bruised at least that many more, broke a couple bones in his right hand, a couple fingers on his left hand, gave him a new collection of burns—these from hot oil Colby assumed they smuggled from the kitchen—and assured he'd have blood in his urine for at least the next couple of days.
For all that, it wasn't despair Colby felt on this anniversary but hope as they left him curled on the floor in the middle of his cell, unable to do more than take shallow, rapid breaths. He thought they'd finally done it, finally killed him; it was only a matter of time now, his body too wrecked to fight any longer. He smiled when blackness edged across and finally took his vision.
He was free.
/1234567890/
It was a lie.
Life went on unbidden in bits and pieces, filling Colby with a deeper despair for having almost escaped it, random fragments assaulting his mind of Franklin, of needles, of focused and then dulled pain, of warmth, of a cessation of violence. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes before he realized he was awake enough to understand what the warden had done: kept him alive because he wasn't finished with him yet.
It wasn't over.
He had failed.
/1234567890/
Only he hadn't. At least, not entirely.
The warden had come to give him his own present and found what his guards left behind. Colby hadn't given away his plan. It was his own bad luck that betrayed him. Before he fell further into despair, he reminded himself he hadn't lost everything.
Franklin had enough medical knowledge to be dangerous, little else. Colby'd hid the extent of damage done. So what if they dosed him with antibiotics, pumped him full of fluids, and treated his wounds? It was only a setback. That's it. He wasn't healthy by anyone's standards, so he didn't have to start all over again (good, because despite Colby's bravado, he didn't think he could). He could do this. He had to.
He used that as a mantra even as his cheeks burned in abject shame as the warden stood over him, admiring his 'gift'.
It was a custom-made collar: thick and wide leather with a choker on the inside that tightened maliciously around Colby's throat whenever anybody pulled the ring. Franklin'd buckled it tightly enough around his neck he felt it pressing against his skin, felt the top edge kissing his jawline, felt the inside chain like a thumb against his Adam's apple, trying to keep him from swallowing. It prevented him from tucking his chin in, and it chafed against his neck with any movement of his head or shoulders.
A tag hung from the ring listing his name as Bright Eyes, his owner as Zach Franklin, and his address as c/o Seymour FCI. Colby knew, because the warden read it to him.
Franklin attached a heavy chain leash to the ring and pulled him closer with it. He beamed at Granger as he leaned in and polished the tag with a handkerchief, all the while keeping up pressure on the leash, slowly choking Colby.
Colby jerked backward but had no purchase anywhere. A whimper of protest died half-formed in his throat, strangled.
Franklin raised his foot, and Colby tried to scrabble away, but the warden brought it down on the leash, at the same time pulling up on it, giving him all the leverage and forcing Colby's head to the floor at the warden's feet. Granger bucked and flailed, going nowhere fast, and finally went still, panting and trembling.
"Attaboy, pet," the warden crooned, petting Colby's head as if he were a dog, easing up on the leash.
Colby fought wildly, shamefaced. Franklin merely stepped on the leash with both feet, keeping Granger's head at ground level, and kept tension in the lead with the hand holding it.
"I have to say I'm enjoying breaking you," the warden said warmly, stroking the top of Colby's head as his struggles weakened, still debilitated and exhausted from his anniversary ordeal. Colby squeezed his eyes shut as Franklin casually stripped away his humanity, his dignity. "But since you're the dumbest mongrel I've ever owned, these stay on. Don't want you messing with your brand-new collar now. But don't you fret, pet; I'll take 'em off just as soon as you prove your training's stuck."
He meant the handcuffs around Colby's wrists, their short chain passing behind the chain belt around his waist, severely limiting his range of motion. There was no way he could reach his neck, let alone unbuckle the loathsome collar.
As soon as the force holding him to the ground eased, Granger wrenched himself backward, gagging as the choker tightened, putting him right back where he'd started. Only this time, his injured ribs vehemently objected to his twisting torso, and Colby gave in, trembling in place, concentrating on regulating his breathing. Even when Franklin bruisingly massaged his scalp, even when he slackened the lead, even when he ran his fingers through his hair. He told himself it didn't matter if Franklin thought he'd trained Colby to the leash, told himself that the debasement meant nothing to him. He was still fighting in the only way available to him, and that was the most important thing. It was.
"That's it, pet," Franklin said, playing with the hair above Colby's ear, fingers moving down, roughly caressing his jaw.
Colby turned his head, intending to bite the invasive hand, when he found himself pinned to the floor, Franklin's knee in the small of his back; his other holding the leash taut. Pain flared in bursts from his ribs and all Granger could do was breathe.
Franklin tapped him on the back of the head. "Now, pet, that's not acceptable. But I saw it coming. You certainly are a dumb one, Bright Eyes. Don't you worry, though, we've got all the time in the world for me to train you proper."
He stabbed a needle into Colby's bicep, disconnected the IV line, and shoved away from him.
"You're obviously feeling better, pet, so we'll end this reprieve soon. Enjoy it while you can."
/1234567890/
It ended the next day. The twenty-sixth of July, Granger's thirty-fourth day in prison. Olsen and the Color Guard (Colby told them they sounded like a group, like Village People or Queen, and asked them for a sample of their greatest hits to prove to them he was well enough to take them on), they hauled the cot back out, the thin mattress, the socks, the extra blankets, the bandages and gauze and tape, the vials and needles and IV bags left over from his course of treatment.
He fought despair when they did nothing else, leaving him alone with a full breakfast tray (with both milk and coffee, which stupidly nearly did him in before they'd even started). He'd been alone too much over the past three days—almost four already—staying lost in his head without outside stimuli to draw him out, and he desperately craved what they could do. Their torture was nothing compared to what he was doing to himself.
Thus, Colby nearly rushed the bars in deepest gratitude when he heard them coming an interminable time later. But he couldn't give himself away, not if he ever hoped to end this, so he stayed against the back wall, preparing himself to ride out whatever they did to him, foregoing his compartments. He didn't know what he needed to escape more: his mind or them.
At this moment, it was definitely what was in his head.
He thought he could handle whatever they did to him without retreating, figuring they'd ease him back into it after how close it'd been, allowing him to concentrate on what they did to his body, escaping the mental turmoil his time alone had fomented.
So, he smiled when the warden, Green, and White unlocked his cell door and asked them if they'd given up yet.
They said nothing as they strung him up in the back corner opposite the porta-potty, allowing him to set his bare feet in the seam between walls, putting his weight on his leg muscles, rather than his arms, effectively crippling him because he couldn't kick them without losing his perch and putting all that strain on his shoulders and wrists. The positioning also helped his ribcage, keeping it still (other than breathing) so he wouldn't aggravate partially healed injuries. Actually, so they wouldn't aggravate his partially healed injuries.
Colby swallowed convulsively. Three consecutive days without abuse made him fear it now, made it hard to endure for the break from it. Made it hurt more. This was going to be more difficult than he thought.
Suck it up, princess, he told himself fiercely. He wasn't giving them squat. Whatever they did, he'd give them nothing.
The tightness around Green and White's mouths said they knew it too. There was bitterness and barely concealed anger in their eyes. Colby guessed Franklin was the only one who still believed they'd get something from him, the only one intent on training him. Olsen and the Color Guard had meant to kill him, and Franklin gave them hell for it, thus the anger: it hadn't been there before. Hatred, sure, and pleasure and meanness, but not anger.
He hoped they succeeded.
They rolled up his pants, all the way past his knees, tucking the displaced material under the bend, letting his legs hold it in place so it wouldn't slide down and interfere with whatever they were planning. Colby shifted his hips slightly, fear and unease building with their preparations.
Franklin had decided Colby knew who Sheila McHugh was (he hoped he hadn't said anything in fever dreams, hoped the warden just concluded it on his own) and asked how much of the operation he'd sent to Kirkland.
Colby told him all his exes lived in Texas.
Which was funny, really. You needed to have relationships in order to have exes. He couldn't remember the last date he'd had, let alone serious relationship. Hard to build anything as a spy. Before that was Afghanistan, and basic training, and college. Maybe high school? He couldn't say for sure. Although … there was that little surfer gal in Hawaii….
He hissed in a breath as they put out a cigarette against his calf.
They asked again.
He told them he had friends in low places.
A lie. He had no friends. What did it say about him that the only people who wanted him only wanted to hurt him? That his life had been distilled down to such a primordial essence? That the sole purpose of his existence was as an object of abuse.
He tilted his head back, despair greeting him like an old friend.
They put another cigarette out on his thigh. Skin sizzled, hair burned, and Colby smelled searing flesh.
They asked him if he'd made copies of the files he sent to Kirkland.
He told them he was ten feet tall and bullet proof.
God, Granger wished they'd test that claim. Put a bullet in him and be done with it. He thought if it wasn't for Franklin, the guards would do just that.
They put the next one out against the thin flesh over his shin bone, and Colby bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
They asked again.
He went old school and told them it's been a long time.
He sure the hell wasn't going to say hello, darlin', nice to see you, but that was the song his mind latched onto. Probably because it was a favorite of his dad's, who was never off his mind these days (accident or suicide? Had his father—?).
Colby screamed as they jammed a cigarette into his knee, because he needed to release the frustration and despair of his thoughts and that was his only outlet. Let Franklin think he was breaking. Hopefully that'd drive him to take Colby past his limits.
They asked him how he'd discovered Sheila's theft.
Granger noted the more personal use of the first name without tacking on the last and guessed Franklin intimate with McHugh rather than just accomplices. So, he stayed old school and told them it burns, burns, burns the ring of fire, the ring of fire and couldn't help but think of Dwayne.
His shin burned, too, where they continued to use him as a living ashtray, but that only reminded him of his last prison transport with Dwayne and of burning Humvees under the Afghani sun.
God, he wished Dwayne would've left him in there. Or put the bullet in his head instead of Lancer's. That would've been the kindness. The reality just prolonged his suffering, made Colby aware of the wrongness in him. That he should hate himself, that he deserved all this. And more.
They asked again.
He told them as long as one heart still holds on, then hope is never really gone.
What a joke. He was barely in the same time zone as hope. But did lyrics ever really laud despair? He hoped not.
They ground out two more cigarettes over existing burns, and Granger squirmed, inhaling sharply. He could do this. This was nothing to the combination of tubocurarine and quinuclidinyl benzilate. He only had to survive enough to convince them to keep going so he could finally let go. Finally end it all.
They asked him how much of McHugh's operation he'd uncovered.
Green sounded pissed. He was a drone then, only following orders, but he wasn't a good soldier. Not with that tone.
Colby told them he'll be looking for eight when they pull that gate.
And hummed the tune until they smashed out cigarettes in a ring around his ankle. He wriggled uncomfortably but stopped at the stabbing pain from his ribs. He blew out a breath, then drew another, carefully exhaling and inhaling through it all.
They asked again.
He told them this old highway's getting longer, seems there ain't no end in sight.
That was so true he had to overcome despair while they put out cigarettes in all the same spots they'd already used. Green blew a mouthful of smoke up at Colby's face, before stabbing the offending item out at the site of the first burn. Colby coughed at the acrid smell and groaned through the pain radiating from his ribs.
He remarked those things would kill them.
White pulled on the leash, pulled Granger from his perch. DOC scrub top and tee were pushed up his outstretched arms.
They told him to start talking.
He told them to call someone who'll listen or might give a damn.
They put a cigar out on his stomach.
He nearly bit his tongue in half keeping the scream in.
/1234567890/
He was back on his perch, torso and legs riddled with cigarette and cigar burns, by the time he ran out of Travis Tritt lyrics. There were more, he just couldn't think coherently enough to find them.
He dredged up more Garth and George, and they ran out of smokes.
They took him down, handcuffed his wrists to the bars behind him, and brought the knives out.
He couldn't use another of Conway's songs because the only ones he remembered involved tigers in tight fittin' jeans, slow hands, and teardrops falling like rain that day, and had switched to Marty Robbins, another of his dad's favorites, by the time they tossed the knives aside. Most of the cuts were shallow and short; most of the punctures superficial. Most.
Somehow Green and White became Black, who brought salt and rubbing alcohol. Colby screamed. His own tears fell, and he was as powerless to stop them as he was to defend himself. They let him rest after that, and he wondered if this session would ever end. His ribs hurt like hell from screaming, from trying to twist away from them as they alternately rubbed salt and poured alcohol over every single open wound.
Olsen showed up about the time Granger had his breathing marginally in check, ending the break. The stun guns came out and Colby shoved his feet into the floor, trying to escape through the bars, and against his will a small sound of protest escaped his clenched jaw. Despair filled him until he coldly wondered if this was it, if they'd finish him off now.
So be it. He was beyond ready.
"C'mon, now, pet," Franklin said, squatting next to him. "You give me one honest answer to any question you want, and we'll call it a night. No stun guns, I promise. Give me this one thing, and we'll let you be." He ran one of the devices up and down Colby's arm, his leg, his chest, along his cheek.
The handcuffs rattled against the cell bars as Colby pushed himself harder into them. He didn't want to do this anymore, and despair welled up his throat. He briefly closed his eyes. They'd already proven they were liars, that anything they said couldn't be trusted. It wouldn't end. Not until he died.
Not caring if they saw him trembling, Colby said, "You wasn't worth a lick, when it came to brains you got the short end of the stick."
Franklin frowned, and Colby knew he was getting to the warden, that he was winning this battle of wills, just because he didn't smile. It was small consolation as electricity snapped, a hand dropped, and pain ripped out from his thigh, dispersing rapidly throughout his entire body. On and on and on it went and he couldn't do anything and there was only pain and still it went on.
Until it didn't. Colby slumped into the bars, overworked muscles spasming, panting shallowly. His torso clenched against his injured ribs, and he just wanted it to stop. More tears trailed down his cheeks.
"That wasn't very nice, pet," Franklin admonished, grinning again. "How'd you find out Sheila's secret?"
"If you're gonna play in Texas, you gotta have a fiddle in the band. That lead guitar is hot—"
Shocking, immobilizing pain, this time radiating from his shoulder, spreading malignantly in an eyeblink, electricity discharging in extreme muscle contractions. He couldn't breathe through it, he couldn't breathe, his injured ribs felt shattered, muscles contracting against them, squeezing them out of place.
And then it stopped.
Colby's diaphragm started working again and a gasping sob broke from his throat. The collar kept him from lowering his head, from ducking out of their gazes.
"How much did you tell Kirkland?"
"But when they're runnin' down our country, man, they're walkin' on the fightin' side of me."
Franklin's eyes narrowed and Colby grinned before the stun gun punched into his belly and he wanted to scream but electricity crackled, seizing his gut and running continuously throughout his body.
Finally, the warden leaned back, taking the fire away. "How much does Kirkland know?"
"Runnin' down a way of life our fightin' men have fought and died to keep. If you don't love it, leave it." Colby ran with the same song, not given time to find another. Besides, that one got a reaction from Franklin. He managed a grin even as he realized he was crying.
A bright bolt of agony radiated from his other thigh, limbs stiffening, as the current infiltrated his body, burning and aching. He arched his neck back, barely cognizant of the chain choker, of the leather collar edge digging into the back of his skull. The voltage kept coming, wringing out his muscles, exhausted and burning, and he wondered if he'd escaped the Humvee at all, if his mind had fantasized that rescue so that it and the last few years were lies and the truth was he was still in Afghanistan, his insides now blazing as intensely as his body.
And then it wasn't.
For a while he was aware only of gasping breaths and overexerted muscles that quivered and tingled.
"What'd you tell Kirkland?" Olsen demanded.
He had his own device, and Colby didn't care. "Oh what a sad little life," he murmured.
Voltage tore through him, burning and seizing, until there was nothing but the pain, white flooding his eyes, then black, a harsh, resounding black, and Colby felt himself giving way before it, begging it to swallow him and take him away, enough of burning and agony.
A hard slap cracked across his cheek, pulling him away from the blackness. He couldn't catch his breath, his torso caught on bruised and broken ribs.
They asked again.
He opened his mouth, not even sure what was going to come out, when it started again, this time originating from high up his thigh and God, he wanted it to stop, frayed and broken, and felt the black coming on.
Then it pulled back, leaving a lingering ache in his body, and they were talking again, asking a question. Granger told them an old yellow letter said Texas is proud when the onslaught continued, leaving him burning and whimpering, the crackling current invading his compartments, scrambling everything, and somehow it was Don's voice he heard, telling him he deserved this, it was best for everyone, especially Colby, and he snapped his teeth shut on a cry of despair. And on and on it went, over and over, his jaw clenching on his pain even as the rest of his muscles clenched, overworked and failing fast. The blackness exploded into spangled white.
A jet of water in his face brought Colby back to full awareness. He coughed weakly, tried to curl up at the daggers lancing into his chest because of it, and his ribs reproved the motion and why wouldn't it just end?
Franklin was next to him and told him to pick one question and answer it, that's it.
But Colby knew better, despite everything. He deserved this, he didn't deserve for it to end, that's what they all told him, and he was too tired to fight them and the warden too, so he said all gave some, some gave all, some stood through for the red, white, and blue, and some had to fall.
And then he threw up, all down the front of his scrub top because the jolts had fatigued his muscles to the point of failure, and he couldn't lean sideways or turn his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wished he'd vomited on Franklin. His mouth tasted like iron and when he spat, red stained his thigh.
They stopped after that, unhooking him and dragging him round, forcing him on his knees facing the bars. They cuffed his hands behind his back and pulled his wrists up and back, which forced his face nearly to the floor. A taut chain from his handcuffs to the closest set above him and the leash wrapped tightly around the bars before him held him utterly immobile.
It was a stress position, and it wasn't bad at first, but the longer he maintained it, the more force concentrated on his legs, specifically his shins and knees. Enhancing that, because of how he was chained, was additional pressure on his shoulders, neck, back, and even hips. In time, breathing would become unbearable, the way his arms were chained forcing his body into the floor, the entirety of his weight preventing his chest from fully expanding. It'd be like slowly drowning. Only he'd already done that, and Colby didn't want to do it again. He fought back incipient panic.
Moreover, it put him unwillingly into a submission posture and Colby couldn't help the humiliation and apprehension he felt because of it. It left him wholly vulnerable.
Black and Olsen both kicked him on their way out the door. Colby hissed; one part hunkering down to make a smaller target without antagonizing his ribs, another part desperately trying to find a way out.
He could only see a little of what was directly in front of his face, relying more on peripheral vision. The collar and leash precluded him from easily turning his head, and his enforced position coupled with exhaustion kept him from raising it. He tried to control his breathing with Franklin somewhere behind him, and Colby couldn't find any give in his bonds to even catch a glimpse of the warden.
The tee and top were pushed back up his shoulders and pulled as far as they could go over his head, constricting painfully where they caught against his arms, further limiting Colby's line of sight. He shivered, and not entirely from the cool air wafting across heated skin. He made a strangled sound in his throat trying to thrash out of his vulnerability. The chains held him fast.
"This feels too much like rewarding you for your smart mouth," Franklin remarked, "ending it on one of your non-answers. I can't abide that."
Granger heard his steps scrape across the concrete and fear gave him enough of a boost to raise his head—not without horrendous strain to both his neck and shoulders—to see what Franklin was doing. He tried to shake his head, shake the fabric out of his eyes, but the leash didn't even provide that much leeway, and the warden was already coming back and Colby didn't see what he'd done or grabbed, and fear spiked again.
"Give me a response in your own words. And I warn you, Bright Eyes, I'll know if you don't."
Maybe it really would end tonight.
"'Cause I'm already gone and I'm feelin' strong, I will sing this victory song." Colby wanted to snatch the words back as soon as he said them. They pretty much gave away his plan. Dammit. But maybe Franklin wasn't that perceptive.
Franklin had grabbed the riding crop. Colby knew it after the second hit; he'd been struck by it often enough over the past five weeks to recognize it now, even without seeing it.
"Try again," the warden suggested.
"Wishin' to God that he'd been born a hundred years ago still singin' 'Strawberry Roan' and 'Little Joe.'"
The riding crop came down in rapid succession, tagging his lower back.
"Again."
"I should've been a cowboy; I should've learned to rope and ride."
Colby sucked in a breath as the crop battered the soles of his feet. He screwed his eyes shut. It didn't matter, he reminded himself, if Franklin crippled him. He wouldn't live long enough afterwards to despair … if he continued to egg the warden on and not give in. So what if his breaths sounded like sobs? Franklin could make of it whatever he wanted.
"Again."
"I done told you once, you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been."
That got a reaction. Franklin whaled away on Colby's upper back and shoulders, blows straying down his sides, and then deliberately across his ass and feet, his lower back. Granger endured in near silence, his rasping breaths all that betrayed his discomfort and terror. The submissive posture left him too exposed, took every option from him. It was so much worse than the freighter.
His breathing hitched, blood pounded in his ears, and still the crop came down. Colby didn't know how long the beating had already lasted, how much longer it would go on, or how much more he could take when the crop hammered into his arm.
He couldn't help it. His arms were already brutally wrenched by the pose he'd been chained in, and Franklin had walloped that arm, that spot where bullet, screwdriver, caustic agent, and stun gun had all come together and Colby just wanted it over, and why couldn't it be enough, what he'd already gone through? And before he realized it, he said out loud, "Enough … stop." He ground his forehead into the concrete floor, to take his focus off the battering, on what he'd done.
It was too late. The beating ended.
"That's it, pet," Franklin soothed, stroking his head, fondling his ears, because apparently there was no abasement he wouldn't heap on Colby. He sounded out of breath. "There now, see? It's over. We'll have to work on it some more, get you answering questions properly. Then more readily." The hand came down harder, the other roughly petting his back. "But not tonight. Your reward. See, Bright Eyes? I'm a very good master, rewarding you for a job well done. Now you need to work on being a good pet, giving me what I want when I want it. Got it?"
Colby shook his head, abrading his forehead against the concrete.
Franklin laughed. He thumped Colby hard in the ribs. "We'll get that willfulness trained right outta you, pet. It'll be fun."
His steps grated across the floor, but Granger was too drained and the effort was too much to raise his head to see what the warden was doing. The faucet squealed on, water drummed into a container, squealed off, and he tensed. At the same time, he wanted a drink of water so badly he'd beg for it if he thought it'd do any good … and chided himself for the thought. It reeked of giving in. No.
Besides, dehydration ultimately worked in his favor … if he didn't give away anything when confusion set in. That wouldn't be until the end, near death; maybe luck would finally be with him and he'd be unconscious in between.
That was still days away, though, and despair threatened to choke him.
No. He could do this. He had to.
Thirty-four days. The twenty-sixth of July. Maybe it'd be over before August even began. Certainly, before the first week was up. It'd be done. He could let go.
Please.
He nearly wept when Franklin set a bowl of water under his nose. Colby didn't want it—he didn't—but he did. It compelled him to keep his head up, counter to how they'd oriented his body, putting undue stress on his neck, which extended to his shoulders and upper back. He shifted his weight slightly, enough to inch both knees forward a little bit, raising his head above the water—barely—his breaths rippling across the surface. Now all he could see was the inside of the stainless steel bowl.
He wouldn't be able to maintain this unnatural position for long, but hopefully it'd be long enough.
The warden leaned into him—Colby stifled a groan at the pressure he put on that near arm and his back—and petted his head. His cheeks flushed at the indignity, and he tried shifting away. He couldn't move.
Franklin slid his shirts back down, carelessly—or purposefully—brushing his hands against the welts and burns all along his sides and back, from neck to hip.
"Make it last, Bright Eyes. That's all you're getting for a while. Someone'll be by in fifteen hours or so to unchain you. Expect shower and laundry time afterwards."
Colby jerked, searching for any slack, any give. Nothing.
"Unless you have something to tell me now? Something that deserves a reward?"
He shivered as the warden continued invading his personal space, helpless to defend himself, to fight, even to flee, and he clamped his mouth shut over the mewl of terror crawling up his throat, degraded and shamed. Franklin stepped up on his shoulders, a foot on his neck, with the collar providing a stable platform, and tightened the chain from his wrists to the ceiling. It felt like his arms were going to rip from their sockets, and Colby gave an inarticulate cry, but he couldn't do anything; couldn't move, couldn't escape, couldn't straighten.
And he couldn't lower his head. The bowl forced him to keep it raised, despite how the muscles in his neck, chest, and shoulders quivered, on the verge of giving out. They could kill him, but Colby wouldn't take his own life (accident or suicide?) and the effort to keep his head above the water was enervating him.
"You sure you have nothing to tell me, pet? Nothing at all?" the warden asked in mock sympathy, stepping down, and adjusting Colby's handcuffs. He moved around and checked for any play in the leash, drawing taut the imaginary slack he found, and re-securing the chain.
"You really want to spend the next fifteen hours like this? It'll be at least that long before I can get someone back down here. And that's only if they have time to hose you down … so it might be longer. But since you have no objections…." He trailed off, inviting comment.
No, he didn't want to spend the night like this; didn't want to spend any time like this. Despair closed in, and Colby defiantly raised his head higher; he wanted Franklin to hear him.
"Take this job and shove it," he enunciated carefully.
Franklin lashed out with the riding crop, and then stepped back up on Colby's back. He bounced, holding the bars for balance, while Colby squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out the corners, even as his chest compressed harder into his legs folded underneath him, grinding them into the concrete. His shoulders and arms screamed, giving voice to the pain that he couldn't, and he couldn't breathe, chest unable to expand enough for even a trickle of air. His face sank into the water. It didn't matter: he couldn't inhale anyway.
Two hundred sixty-five pounds of warden—nearly ninety pounds more than Colby weighed before his arrest—came down on one foot between Granger's shoulders and pushed.
Stars burst through Colby's vision, greying out, and a mindless buzzing filled his ears. He felt strangely weightless and couldn't tell up from down. He thought he should gloat, but couldn't remember why, and sought the blackness unfolding around him.
The additional weight abruptly left and instinct took over, Colby greedily gulping in air before he could override that compulsion. It'd almost been over … another minute or two, surely, would've ended it. Just a minute longer. Despair threatened to choke off the breath in his throat. He wished it would. He realized the bowl was gone.
"Alright, pet. Let's see what your manners are like after twenty-four hours."
The door clanged shut, and the warden retreated across the concrete. Colby counted steps as Franklin ascended and to his shame, only lasted until the third before tears of despair mixed with the water on his face.
"Sweet dreams," floated down the staircase, before the lights flicked off for the first time, plunging Colby into absolute darkness. The heavy door at the top of the staircase thudded shut, the sound carrying hollowly in the murk.
/1234567890/
The voices started about the time Colby eased his legs back.
He froze when Franklin shut the lights off, the dark like a weight, palpable and dense. He waited, aware of his heart beating faster, and angry at the involuntary reaction. Nothing was going to hurt him in the dark, especially not down here. And even if it did, what of it?
He waited, nonetheless, but the lights didn't come back on.
He softly thunked his forehead on the floor, the grit a welcome sensation against his skin. He shifted his legs again, back to the original position, more properly aligning his neck, but it did little for the rest of his body. And he couldn't shift them further back, not with his weight pressing them into the concrete.
David's voice slithered into his misery, telling him he deserved it since the past two years were nothing but lies.
They weren't, Colby thought back desperately, just as massive cramps folded both feet lengthwise. He couldn't help the involuntary cry or the tears stinging his eyes as he breathed and rode it out.
Don assured him this was best for everyone, especially for Colby. And it was a helluva lot nicer than what Don would do to him for contacting Charlie, for bringing his kid brother into FBI business.
Business Colby was just too incompetent to handle, Liz put in. She reminded him Don never gave second chances, so he was where he needed to be.
And they were celebrating getting rid of him at last.
"I'm sorry," Colby breathed, despairing.
He wanted the voices to stop. And he didn't. They kept him from being alone in the dark, even if they were figments of his overtaxed brain.
/1234567890/
At some point during the long night, his mind made faces out of the absence of light, giving Colby something else to focus on, giving him company in isolation. Didn't matter if his eyes were closed or opened: he saw his old teammates.
They never stopped tearing him down. But they kept his mind from slipping as his knees ground into concrete, as muscles cramped, as his hips and back ached, as the opposing chains threatened to jerk his shoulders from their sockets, as thirst wore on him. Periodically, when the pressure built up too much in his chest, he'd slide a leg backward the half inch or inch leeway he had and roll awkwardly toward that side, allowing his diaphragm to expand, and repeat with the other leg, the other side. It was exhausting. It was demoralizing.
Despite Colby's wish for death, his body refused to yield; refused to do nothing as the pain became nearly unbearable, as the air was crushed from his chest. It fought to live, sentencing Colby to hell.
David told him that's what he got for lying through their partnership.
Don added Colby couldn't die yet—he'd deceived them for two years; therefore, he needed to live through this for two years.
Colby shook his head. "No. Please," he whispered. "I'm sorry. Please don't make me. Please." Over and over again, until his voice turned to ash.
Thirty-four days down, Liz said, ignoring his pleas, plus five weeks in prison and three at the office subtracted from 730 days—that's how many more he had to live through before he could die. Hallucination-Liz was as incapable of grade school math as Colby himself and couldn't provide an actual number. Any number greater than one was too much.
David told him they would kill him, that David was counting the days down until then, that he was looking forward to killing his ex-partner.
Tears ran down Colby's cheeks, though he couldn't tell in the nothingness surrounding him.
Don told him this was best.
Megan said nothing, just smiled. Colby couldn't tell if she smiled in greeting, because she agreed with everything everyone else said, because his suffering made her happy. Maybe all the above. Colby didn't know.
He only knew they kept him company in the unremitting blackness, their hateful words piercing him like barbs, in waking, in the snatches of nightmares that passed as sleep, as the tears ran to nothing. They didn't leave him.
To his despair, he was thankful for their presence.
/1234567890/
After thirty-five days, they were still nowhere.
In this modern era of traffic, security, and ATM cameras, how was it possible for a man to disappear? Don wearily ran a hand down his face. He knew how. He'd seen it often enough throughout his career with the FBI.
It was different, though, when it was someone you knew, starker. It was hell.
He'd be a lot more sympathetic to victims' families after this, empathetic in a way he hadn't been before. Don wished he didn't know what it was like, this waiting for word, the ceaseless wondering, the innumerable questions without answers. The not knowing was a terrible weight to bear. It was impossible not to be affected by it … to not let it change you. It was hard not to give in to grim despair.
He didn't know what they'd do—what he'd do—if they never found Colby. Grief stuck its sharp little knife straight into Don's heart and guilt helped twist it.
He'd lose David, one way or another. Maybe not just from the FBI … realistically, Don knew, not just from the FBI. David was a bundle of raw emotions, a cluster of open nerves poised on the edge of violence, and anger was never far beneath the surface. It made his best moods exhausted and too tired to see straight, his worse surly impatience and biting; fuming, foul, and furious ran the gamut of what one was likely to encounter with David on a given day. So far no one had set off his worst: homicidal.
He'd alienated many people (and probably most of SID) with his temper and demands. Those forensic geniuses who could get away with murder and even entertained the thought, who plotted it out in their heads; those who'd chosen to confront him over his behavior; those who'd met anger with anger, they looked into David's eyes and they all—to the man—backed down, practically fawning over him or pissing themselves fleeing. If eyes were windows to the soul, David's showed a monster waiting to be unleashed, ready to uncoil and spring from the depths of his despair, grief, guilt, rage. Murder—premediated or spur of the moment—wasn't an idle thought to him, something to entertain himself with when he was pissed (which was too much of the time), but a foregone conclusion.
It wasn't a matter of if David would kill but when. It was there in his eyes, lurking, ready. Sometimes he hid it better than others, but it was there, just like at the koi pond, and never deep enough it couldn't be seen, a trumpet blast of a warning if ever there was one. It defused everyone else's temper: no one wanted to be the idiot who provoked him into doing it.
The Ross-Browne incident hammered this truth home, for all of them. So now people avoided David whenever possible; taking the stairs if he was on the elevator, making convoluted paths across the office to keep him at a safe distance, foregoing the breakroom if he was in there. Don didn't even think David was aware of how everyone else reacted to him, treated him; if it didn't have anything to do with Colby, it just wasn't important to him.
Conversely, if anyone had reports to give him or information to relay to him, they sought him out rather than make him come to them. That way, they could control the environment. And that environment always included Don or Megan.
They were the only ones he responded to, no matter how worked up or frazzled he got (no one had tested homicidal so Don didn't know if he and Megan could stop him then, and Don didn't want to find out, but he suspected the only one capable of disarming David at that point would be Colby). Everyone agreed Liz, even though she'd been temporarily on the team, hadn't been part of it long enough to have that kind of hold over him, only Don or Megan. And Colby.
But Colby was missing and was the reason for this David.
Charlie was the only one exempt from David's volatility, as if since he'd failed his kid brother, Charlie became Colby-by-proxy, so that how David treated him would somehow affect Colby. Don didn't know for sure, hadn't brought it up because he didn't want to remind the other man that he still had a brother, safe and sound, alive and well while David's was…. Don shook his head. It couldn't be good, whatever was going on with and wherever Colby was.
He hadn't been nearly as restrained with Charlie as David had, but Charlie was just going to have to deal with it; Don had too much on his plate, too many damn balls to juggle to worry about Charlie's feelings. Babysitting David was a full-time job in and of itself.
Charlie came by the office almost daily, bringing food and company if nothing else. He, Amita, and Larry were ready to do their thing with any amount of data to see if it led to Colby. Problem was, they had nothing to give them. They were at a standstill, and Don was running out of options.
They'd interviewed every one of Clark Stewart's coworkers, friends, acquaintances, and relatives (the Minneapolis office taking care of those in their region) and came up empty. Forensic accounting was still looking into his financials. Don had taken to watching that last footage of him with Colby the way he'd watched Granger's confession, something bothering him in the back of his mind, though he hadn't brought anything forward yet. Old case files, for both the FBI and CID, yielded nothing promising. The JFTB was another dead end. With no other recourse, they'd plastered Colby's official FBI photo across every media outlet in the area (reminding the reporters he was a hero, his prison transport escape notwithstanding) and followed every tip to the hotline, but they all led nowhere. Nothing meant nothing and that's all they had. It made Don think maybe David had the right of it after all. Just let your anger run wild on everyone around you and hope it kept you from going insane.
Not even the ADIC was immune from David's displeasure. After yet another complaint (no one complained anymore, they didn't dare David finding out and taking it as they'd given up on Colby—no one was stupid enough to let him think that), Wright had called Don into his office and suggested suspending David to cool him off and at least get him out of the building for the benefit and relief of everyone else.
Tired and frustrated over their lack of progress, Don had laughed in his face.
To his credit, Wright didn't snap or get defensive. He'd kept Don to a strict schedule of updating him on Colby's case twice a day (he'd been demanding hourly updates until Don had had enough and channeled his inner David, letting Wright know there was no one in the building—in the FBI, in the fricking world—who wanted Colby found more than his teammates and Don was having a hard time working on that with the ADIC needing fricking progress reports every sixty fricking minutes and he wanted to find his guy, not sit around for fricking debriefings) and understood patience was the key for dealing with the Eppes team. More to Wright's credit, he gave them the freedom and independence to do their jobs and settled ruffled feathers with discreet words; apparently, he wanted Granger found almost as much as they did. So, he merely raised an eyebrow at Don's laughter and gestured for Eppes to explain.
"You really wanna set David loose on the unsuspecting people of LA without anyone with him to talk him down?" Don had questioned incredulously. "He'll burn the city to the ground within 72 hours. Tops."
Wright had blanched at that mental image (which was impressive given the darkness of his skin).
"We could arrest him," he'd said uncertainly (this being before the Ross-Browne incident and wasn't that ironic?).
"For what?" Don had demanded. "He hasn't broken any laws yet. We could hold him for 48 hours, I guess, on suspicion, but what happens when we have to let him go? He'd be madder than hell and he wouldn't trust us so how would we control him then? No. We need to find Colby."
"What happens if we can't?"
Don had had no answer for him.
They needed to find Colby.
For Colby's sake. Because he was a good man who hadn't deserved how they'd treated him. He needed to know that. Don needed to apologize.
If Don didn't check his thoughts in time, he dwelled on Colby out there somewhere going through God only knew what (well, God and Colby's captors), thinking he was on his own … that his team had turned their backs on him, just like his fricking family. What would that do to a man's mindset if he thought he was alone in the world … that no one cared … that no one would come for him?
Don could too easily imagine, his mind going to dark, scary places, and the thought of Colby there now put a lead weight in his belly and filled him with a desperate urgency he couldn't appease. He remembered Colby's quiet 'I don't matter', how he'd put up with how they treated him without complaint, how he'd shut down. David had told Don the postmark on the box meant it'd been delivered that last week too. Because that's what Colby needed on top of everything else.
Goddammit. Don felt tears prickling his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. They needed to find Colby.
As much as he hated the idea, if it was too late, if … if Colby was dead (please, God, no), Don sincerely hoped they'd find his body—even if it showed the horrors of what he'd endured. At least it'd give them closure.
It wouldn't bring Colby back, but hopefully it'd give them enough clues to find the sons of bitches who'd done it to him, focus their rage on hunting them down. Afterwards….
Well, Don just didn't know. He prayed he'd never find out.
He'd always figured he was the most important person on the team. Now he knew better. It was Colby and David; their partnership (the one hot-headed, the other relaxed and by the book; the one could put his emotions aside and do whatever it took to get the job done, the other emotionally driven), their brotherhood, the way they complemented each other in the field. Their strong friendship, tested now, enhanced it all (and would improve it even more when they got Colby back—if they got him back). They were the underpinnings holding the team together. Take one away and the other would soon follow, and that was a loss the team just couldn't come back from. They might give him a new team, the best and brightest the FBI had to offer, and it still wouldn't make up for the one lost. For the men lost. Not to him. Not to Megan.
If they couldn't bring Colby home, Don didn't know who'd last longer: David or Megan.
Megan had decidedly become the junior agent's big sister, treating him as older siblings always did their younger ones, as she did to no one else at the office. Don had seen it, even teased them about it. And somewhere along the way, Don still didn't know when, he'd started using Colby as his go-to guy if he needed Megan contacted or found. He thought it might've solidified about the time Colby came back. For a while there, when Don had bothered to pay attention, there'd been the same hauntedness in Colby's eyes as Megan's when she'd returned from the DOJ. They'd gotten even closer then. Larry was undoubtedly her boyfriend, but the Idahoan was definitely her kid brother.
Not to the same extent David was his brother. Only Don and Charlie rivaled that bond.
Don sighed, checking his watch, trying to decide if he'd decompressed enough to go inside to face his dad.
Since his breakup with Liz, Don'd been spending almost every night at his childhood home. A part of him (and not a small part) had been glad for the ending of the relationship, but he'd pursued nothing with Robin either. It was too much right now, not with Colby out there God only knew where (God and his captors, of course, and goddammit all anyway, Don wished one of them would just fricking tell him where to find his guy) suffering whatever the hell they were doing to him under the false belief the team just didn't care about him. That's what Don kept going back to, try as he might not to. It's what fueled his nightmares these days.
The way things had been left that Friday, the hurt he'd seen in Colby's expression at not being invited to Charlie's with the rest of the team. Hell, with being told outright he couldn't come. Worse, with how Colby seemed to rationalize it, that he somehow deserved it. And the way Don and everyone else had been treating him for weeks already (Megan only because her mind had been on her DOJ assignment, not her little brother, but boy was it focused on him now), furthering the distance between them. Sure, Don had finally figured things out that Thursday but everything he did blew up in Colby's face, and Colby didn't have the one thing he wanted: David's understanding.
And then he'd disappeared. With nothing to cling to whatever they (whoever the hell 'they' were) were doing to him.
It was enough to fill Don with black despair.
That's when he started seeking out his father, someone to talk to, to share the burden with. In retrospect, Don realized he should've gone to Dr. Bradford instead. He shouldn't've let Alan watch the freighter video either.
To Alan it had all been very clear: Colby was a hero, he sacrificed for his country; there was nothing to forgive because he'd done nothing wrong.
He was right. Even if it'd taken Don so long to see it.
With Colby's disappearance, the case stalling so quickly, finding out what his mother had done … Don just needed company, the reassurance his father would never do that to him.
Brooding silently next to his dad had eventually turned into discussing the case with him (only it wasn't a case; it was Colby), talking things over, trying to lessen the despair. But he'd made an error in judgement. Alan looked at it all from a different perspective, as the only one of them who was a parent, who had grown sons of his own.
He took what happened to Colby, especially what his mom did, personally, becoming incredibly invested in the outcome. It was one of the first things Alan asked about when he saw his eldest son: any news on Colby? Any break, any luck, any progress, anything?
What was Don supposed to tell him if they found Colby's body? If they never found him?
He didn't even know what he'd do—or Megan or David—and now he felt responsible for his dad's emotional wellbeing too.
He should've kept it to himself. But talking about it allowed him to make some sort of sense of it, to wrap his head around it.
Had Colby?
After what they'd put him through, did he trust them to look for him? Surely, he'd know they would; they were FBI, it's what they did. But given his reception after the freighter, would he wonder if they'd come? Or would he assume they wouldn't bother with him? I don't matter.
It always came back to those three small words. To the absolute conviction in which he'd uttered them.
Feeling the rising despair, Don climbed out of the SUV. His dad would be waiting up for him. Alan never retired for the night until he'd had word on Colby. Don wanted to tell Colby that, show him how much he was loved, show him his mom didn't know anything.
They'd find Colby. He'd be in bad shape—after thirty-five days he'd have to be—but he would be okay. He would. They just had to find him. And he just had to hold on for them.