Chapter 6

The door opened again and Tony opened his eyes. He'd been lying on the mattress, trying to relax enough to rest. He sat up sharply and stared at Peter for a moment. "What time is it?"

Peter blinked at him. "The sun is still up, but not for too much longer."

"Is that all the answer I'm going to get?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm afraid so, but I brought you something I think you'll like."

"Keys to the handcuffs and a ticket out of here?"

"Dinner."

Tony sighed. "Not one of my preferred top two, but in the top five."

Peter smiled. "Good. Bring it in, Lola."

She pushed in a cart that looked like it was from a hotel. Peter stepped outside and returned with a pair of folding chairs. Tony got slowly to his feet. The appetizing smells were waking his stomach up with a vengeance, but there was something odd about this. For one thing, the table was set for two.

"Am I having company for dinner?" Tony asked.

"I thought I'd join you," Peter said. "I trust you have no objections?"

Tony wasn't sure what to say. "No . . . not really."

"Good," Peter replied with a smile that weirded Tony out.

Lola brought up the drop leaves on the table, left the room and shut the door behind her, leaving Tony alone with the other man. Peter unfolded the chairs and placed them on either side. "Have a seat."

"Looks pretty cold," Tony said, looking at the metal chair.

"You'll survive," Peter said.

Tony picked up the napkin from his place setting and contemplated it. He could spread it on the seat or he could cover his lap. Of course, the table would cover him fairly effectively. He spread the napkin neatly over the seat and sat down. "The cuffs are going to make eating a little awkward."

"True, but you'll manage. I have great confidence in you, Tony."

"Based on what?" Tony asked, pulling his plate towards him. It smelled like red meat, and he felt like he could do with a little of that right now.

"Based on extensive observation," Peter replied.

"Okay, that's creepy but not altogether unexpected." Tony lifted the cover off his plate. Steak medallions, mixed vegetables and mashed potatoes. Not gourmet fare, but definitely edible. "A spoon?" Tony asked, looking at his silverware. "Only a spoon?"

"Why yes, Tony, did you think I would give you a knife and fork under these circumstances?"

"It would have come in handy," Tony said with a smile.

"I'm sure." Peter stared at him for a moment, an odd look on his face. "You really do have a nice smile, Tony."

Tony had just put a bite of food into his mouth, but this remark caught him very much off guard. He looked up, trying to read the expression on his host's face. It was impenetrably bland. "Thanks," he said once he'd swallowed. "Forgive me if this seems like an odd question, but why are we having dinner together? I mean, you kidnapped me, you're keeping me locked naked in a cellar and holding me for ransom, and now you're joining me for a steak dinner. It just seems odd."

"I like you better than I like my colleagues," Peter said with a shrug.

"Really? Last I checked, we hadn't met."

"But I know a great deal about you, Tony."

"What you thought you knew about my father was wrong," Tony pointed out, then wondered if that had been altogether wise.

"Ah yes, but I paid a great deal more attention to you than to your father," Peter said.

Tony's brows knit in confusion. "Why? I mean, you were kidnapping me to get to him. All you needed to know about me was how to catch me and how to keep me."

"All I needed to know, perhaps. It wasn't all I wanted to know."

"Okay," Tony said, and he applied himself to his food. This was making less and less sense, but he wasn't going to argue with the lunatic. Arguing with lunatics tended to make them angry. "Um . . . so, what's not to like about Lola and Butch?"

Peter shrugged. "They're reasonably good at their jobs, but they don't provide much in the way of stimulating conversation. Lola's too careful, and Butch is just muscle." He picked up a plastic wine glass from the center of the table. "Would you care for some wine?"

"Not so sure how it would mix with the stuff you guys gave me earlier," Tony said, certain that he wanted to keep his wits about him as much as possible.

"I wouldn't offer you anything that would harm you, Tony. Besides, that should mostly have burned off by now."

"I don't suppose you have a Coke or something?" Tony suggested.

Peter did something under the table, Tony couldn't quite tell what, and Lola came in. "Find Tony something non-alcoholic to drink, would you?"

"I told you so," she said, then she left again.

"She told you what?" Tony asked.

"That I wasn't going to be able to convince you to have any wine," Peter said.

"Would you under these circumstances?" Peter smiled but he didn't reply. After a few minutes, Lola came back in with a can of Sprite. "Thanks," Tony said, and she shrugged. The door shut behind her with a clang. "So, is this your usual MO?" he asked.

"Usual?"

"When you kidnap people, do you usually wine and dine them?"

"I don't usually kidnap people," Peter said.

"No?" Tony scooped up a steak medallion and put it in his mouth even as he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He'd been kidnapped by amateurs. This was not good.

"Generally, I steal more portable treasures, but there was something about this particular job that appealed to me."

"Really?" Tony said. "And what was that?"

"You."

Tony's eyes widened and he stared at the other man in shock. Peter didn't seem to think he'd said anything extraordinary, for he just returned to his own dinner. Tony noticed absently that he, too, was eating with a spoon. "You know, the sheriff of Nottingham in the Kevin Costner Robin Hood was going to cut someone's heart out with a spoon."

"Yes, indeed," Peter said, looking up with a grin. "Because it would hurt more. But you wouldn't do that, Tony."

"I wouldn't?"

"No. Too messy." Peter chuckled. "Eat, Tony. The food is getting cold."

Tony returned to his meal, wishing Gibbs would come through the door about now.

The motel room was empty and clean. Gibbs stared around in disgust. There wasn't a suitcase or so much as a used tissue left behind. Agents Sacks and Fornell had joined them at the motel, which made a lot of people to be standing in a single occupancy hotel room.

"Do you suppose I could get whoever cleaned this room to come to my place?" Sacks said after looking around.

"Boss, this place doesn't even have any fingerprints," McGee said.

"Damn it," Gibbs muttered. "Ziva, these kinds of places always get license plate numbers. Get it, find out whatever else you can from the clerk, and have them let us know if he comes back."

She nodded and went out.

"It's not like he has to check in with the clerk, Gibbs," Fornell said.

Gibbs shrugged. "There's nothing here."

"I'll put someone on surveillance duty," Fornell said. "Beyond that, I think this is a dead end."

"Where does he live, McGee?"

"Anaheim," McGee replied. "That's the address on his credit cards at any rate."

"I can have someone from the Los Angeles office check the place out," Fornell said, and Gibbs nodded as he left the motel room.

McGee paused to pass the address on and followed him. "Boss, what do we do now?"

"You find out who Alkire knew locally."

"Yes Boss."

Ziva was returning from the motel office as they reached the car. "Ziva?" Gibbs asked.

"The license plate belongs to a rental car."

"Did you see a rental car on his credit cards, McGee?"

"Would have mentioned it if I had."

"Ziva, find out who rented that car."

"On it, Gibbs."

He got behind the wheel and they climbed in. It was going on twenty hours since the last time anyone had seen DiNozzo, and that was not good.

After they'd both finished their food, Peter lingered, drinking his wine and trying to draw Tony out on a number of subjects, from movies to his childhood. Tony, getting more nervous by the moment, tried to keep up his end of the conversation, but he was having more than a little trouble.

Eventually, Peter pressed his little button, or whatever it was, and the door opened to reveal both Lola and Butch. They came in and moved towards the table. Tony stood up and backed away, watching them all anxiously. This situation had been bad enough when he'd thought he understood what was going on, but now he felt totally lost. He didn't like the sensation.

Butch and Lola gathered the chairs and table up and left, and Peter paused at the door. "Tony?" he said, and Tony lifted his eyebrows. "Sleep well."

"Right," Tony said. "Good night."

Peter left and the door shut with a clang. Tony wandered over and tried it again. It was locked. He turned and leaned against it. Admittedly, he could easily believe that Peter didn't find his compatriots' conversation stimulating, but he couldn't believe that he found Tony's stilted nervous babble any more so.

He heard the door unlatch, and he shifted away from it hastily. Peter stepped inside, Butch behind him. He was holding a glass of something dark red. "I'm sorry, Tony, I almost forgot your nightcap."

"No thanks, I'm fine," Tony said, backing up.

"I'm sorry, Tony, I'm going to have to insist."

"What is it?"

"Just some brandy . . . with a mixer."

"I'm not fond of brandy."

"Then tomorrow night I'll take care to put it in whiskey," Peter said. He came closer, holding out the glass. "Drink it, Tony, or will Butch have to hold you down?"

"What is it?" Tony demanded. Peter shrugged, and gave Butch a look. "Wait a minute. Just tell –" Butch started to slam him against the wall, but Tony sidestepped him and shifted away. The door was still open. Maybe there was some chance of using this moment to his advantage. If he could just play cat and mouse long enough . . . and get the drop on Lola . . .

Butch drove at him again, but this time Tony wasn't quite as successful. The other man caught his arm, dragging him off balance. Once he hit the floor, there wasn't much of a chance. Butch pinned him down, one of his knees in Tony's gut.

"This really shouldn't be necessary, Tony," Peter said sorrowfully as he walked over and knelt by Tony's head.

"It really isn't," Tony gasped.

Peter raised the glass over Tony's face, but he clamped his jaw shut. He wasn't sure what Gibbs would tell him to do, but he really didn't want to be unconscious. Not especially with the way that dinner had gone. "Tony, don't be a child. You know I can force you to drink it. In fact, I could just ask Lola to come in here with a hypodermic. Have some dignity and just drink."

Tony stared up at him, darted his eyes to Butch's face. Big and beefy was now sort of puce with irritation. Peter just gazed down at him with an odd sort of sympathy in his eyes. If he could just make sense of what that man wanted . . . but he did know one thing. This was a struggle he was bound to lose. If they wanted him out, they could knock him out. The fact that Peter had essentially admitted that it was more than a glass of booze indicated that he was trying to . . . what? What was he doing? Preserving Tony's dignity? Eroding his sense of control? Destroying his ability to think?

"Tony?"

Tony shut his eyes and let out an explosive sigh. "Fine. Let me up."

Nothing happened for a long moment, then Peter spoke again. "Butch, let him up."

"My name is not Butch!" the big guy growled, and Tony looked up to find him glaring down.

"What, do you want me to give him your full name and address?" The glare shifted focus. "Then Butch it is." Peter's voice took on a sharper tone. "Let him up."

Tony saw a hint of fear in Butch's face for a moment before it turned impassive again. He removed his knee from Tony's gut and backed away. Tony pushed himself to a sitting position against the wall. Peter held out the glass, and he took it, swallowing a bit of acid from his stomach.

"Can I at least have a blanket?" Tony asked.

"Come now, Tony," Peter said. "You know as well as I do that the denial of clothing has a purpose. Providing a blanket would defeat that purpose. Drink up and we'll leave you alone."

Tony looked at the glass, took a deep breath, and downed it in one long gulp.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Tony glared at him. "It tastes vile, thank you."

"You're going to want to get to the mattress quickly," Peter said with a bit of amusement. "With the way you slammed that, it's going to hit you soon."

In fact, Tony could already feel it. He pushed himself up to his knees and tried to stand up. If Peter hadn't steadied him, he'd have fallen. Peter kept an arm around him all the way to the mattress, and Tony didn't have the strength to object. He more or less fell onto the soft surface, and his last awareness was of Peter gazing down at him pensively.