Paint it Red, Black and Blue

Just what one might logically expect when one steals a $50,000,000 painting from a sadistic, violent but highly methodical and psychologically astute Russian mobster…

Chapter 2

The sensations came slowly out of the darkness. First, the smell of salt and fish. Then the sounds, creaking, rushing, and the sharp cries of birds. The copper tang of blood on his tongue. The rocking, he thought, was almost organic, and he wasn't sure if it was from outside, an external force, or it was something he himself was doing. What he found interesting however, was the fact that he couldn't see.

Pain came afterwards, dull and throbbing from his head, sharp and nasty from his wrist. He silently cursed the buffoon who had grabbed him. Asinine, hirsute and uncouth – no finesse whatsoever. Sleight of hand didn't work without the hand. Idiot. Buffoon.

He could hear footsteps above, and voices, and he knew that he was inside the main quarters of a ship, and from the sounds of the voices, a Russian ship. Then it came back in a rush – 'Arlov wants his painting back.' And for the first time in a long time, Patrick Jane realized he just might be in trouble.

Hmm. He needed to think about this.

He shifted his weight. He was lying on his side on a smooth wooden floor, likely urethane-coated because of the glazed and slippery feel of it on his cheek. His hands were bound behind his back, likely with duct tape. Ah, he thought, one reason why his wrist hurt so terribly and another for why he couldn't see. Blinking was impossible. His eyes were taped shut. He made a smacking sound with his lips and grinned. At least his mouth was free. He fought the urge to laugh.

"You find this funny, Mr. Jane."

The voice, a soft rolling tenor, like a cat purring, and the unforgettable accent, clipped and gutteral, distinctly Russian. Chirarli Arlov.

"Well, yes," he began. "On one level, it's very funny. Physically funny, I mean, insofar as you left to me the one avenue most would like to shut up or stop. On a secondary level, there is a certain amount of irony, or poetic justice – say, do you mind if I sit up? This is very uncomfortable…"

He tried to roll up but a shoe on his shoulder pushed him back down.

"No," said Arlov. "This is good."

"Oh, fair enough." Go with the flow. Like Judo. Use your opponent's strengths against him. Draw him out. Get him talking. "Um, so your buffoons said you wanted your painting back…"

"No. Not really."

"Oh?" That was surprising.

There was a long silence. It could only mean one of two things.

"Ah. You've already talked to Caid…"

A rustle of fabric, the shoe left, only to be replaced by the other. "He will give me the Morreau, and I will give him oil rights to an island I have in the Baltic."

"Hm. Good deal."

"I think so, yes."

"So, why am I here?"

Arlov shouted something and suddenly his shoe was gone. There was stomping, as if down wooden steps, and Jane was yanked to his feet, his wrist sending sharp daggers of pain up his arm. Next the sound of Arlov going up, up, up, light on his feet in his deck shoes, then the stomping, yanking and tugging of the buffoons, dragging him up the short but very steep steps to the deck above. And sunlight.

They stood him in what seemed to the center of a main deck. He could tell because the sound bounced all around him, but was muffled at a distance of 2 meters on every side. Padded seating, no doubt, for lounging, fishing, sunning or watching the occasional torture. Past that was the ocean, and he was grateful for the wind on his face, plucking at his shirt and waistcoat. His jacket was gone. Damn, he thought. He liked that jacket.

Another order barked. Arlov was 2m in front of him, seated from the sound of it. Rough hands on his shoulders pushed him to his knees. Fingers pried at the tape on his temple, trying to find a corner. Jane braced himself.

"That's the dilemma, isn't it? If you take it off quickly, it hurts a lot. However, if you take it off slowly, it's more the slow psychological –"

The buffoon ripped. It hurt. A lot.

Sunshine blazed into his eyes, and they watered and squinted in the brilliance of it. Arlov was directly in front, as guessed, seated on the padded edge of the yacht, wearing a tan polo shirt and khaki shorts. He had a tall glass of what was likely vodka-laced orange juice in one hand, and a gorgeous young woman in a bikini was lighting a cigarette for the other.

"Hello," Jane said to the woman. She turned, appraised him with her eyes, smiled. Arlov grinned at the interaction, reached up to caress her face, tangle his fingers in her long dark hair, pulled her down to his lips and whispered. Her face changed immediately, and she disappeared to the fore of the ship.

"Nice girl," said Jane. "Here on a scholarship?"

Arlov grinned again, the predatory one, a cat eyeing up a cheeky mouse. "Tell me something, Mr. Jane. You seem to be an intelligent man, yes…"

Jane shrugged. It was true.

"I mean, you had to have done your homework…" The way Arlov said it, it came out 'you hhhed to hhhev dunyurrr hhhomvoork…' Jane couldn't help but smile.

"Honestly, with your accent, you just sound so diabolical. It's perfect, really it is." He buried the urge to swallow hard, however, when Arlov rose smoothly from the seat and crossed the wooden floor to stand directly facing him. He wasn't a tall man by any means, but when you're kneeling, everyone has the upper hand.

The Russian took a long drag from the cigarette. "Did you not think there would be consequences, Mr. Jane?"

"Um, well, actually, I did. I thought –"

The blow came out of nowhere, a backhand still holding the cigarette, across the cheek. Stars, popping lights, the usual stuff. Small burn from the tip of the cigarette. He had been punched by many a grieving father, slapped by many a grieving widow. This, this was different.

"You were fast. So very fast. Like a rabbit. I should have killed you then and there…"

A stray thought crossed his mind - a good offense is the best defense. Jane steeled his eyes, not certain if it was the right tactic but willing to give it a try. "You cannot kill an officer of the law in California –"

Another blow, the other cheek. "You are not… a police officer, Mr. Jane." And another. "And we are not… in California…" And another.

Jane struggled to stay upright. His head was reeling. He couldn't remember this level of physical pain in a long while. It didn't frighten him. It was merely an inconvenience. It interfered with his ability to think.

He ran his tongue along his teeth. Still intact, fortunately. His brain, his hands, his smile. Tools of the trade. He needed them all.

"What do you want?" he asked, his jaw throbbing and beginning to swell.

Arlov crouched down, his eyes cold, dead, like a shark's. Yes, that was it. Not a cat, a shark. "I want you to shut up."

The Russian straightened and moved over to the seat. He lowered himself slowly, like a king. "I want you to shut up and not say one word. Not one word, do you understand me, little rabbit? If you say even one word, I will have my friends pick you up and throw you into the water."

Jane weighed his responses, decided that a good offense was best left to things like football and hockey, and that in this situation, Judo was by far the more excellent strategy. He decided to say nothing.

"How long do you think you can swim like that, little rabbit? Without your hands free you will quickly tire, and soon the water will become your friend. She will swallow you whole, like a whale, and no one will ever know what happened to the little rabbit named Patrick Jane."

Jane looked at the deck. There was nothing at all he could do, certainly nothing he could say. And so they stayed like that, Jane on his knees and Arlov on his deck seat, for a very long time in the hot Pacific sun.

End of chapter 2