AUTHOR'S NOTE: In general you guys seemed to enjoy the B&B interlude at the end of chapter 8. What you are about to read is pretty much the total opposite. Thus, for the sensitive souls out there, I am slapping a big, fat warning sign on this chapter!

Faux Maven...Goodness, woman, we worked hard on this chapter, did we not? With the first draft being a complete disaster (and I am not exaggerating here -- I did a total rewrite before I sent it back to FM) and some time issues on both our sides, we really had to focus. But it all paid out in the end, right? Just so you know, I am very proud of the end result.

Also, as usual, thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter 8. You guys rock!

- IX -

-- THE GARROTE --

The Garrote is one of the few torture devices with a rather extensive history. The first Garrotes made their appearance in the first century B.C. in Rome. During the Middle Ages it was mostly used in Spain and Portugal by the Inquisition. In 1974 the Garrote was used for execution for the last time in Spain as well as the rest of the world, but it wasn't until 1990 that Andorra -- the only country that still had garroting as death penalty -- abolished the Garrote.

The Garrote was mostly used on heretics who had already confessed their crimes. Heretics who didn't confess were burned alive at the stake. The Inquisition treated confessed heretics differently because being killed by the Garrote only takes a few minutes, as opposed to the rather lengthy period of time it takes a human to burn to death. Once heretics had confessed, the Inquisition saw no reason to keep them alive any longer than necessary.

Being sentenced to the Garrote meant you were convicted to be strangled to death. The basic principle of the Garrote is that you were seated on a plate of wood attached to an upright plank. Your hands and feet were tied and a rope that ran through a hole in the upright plank was looped tightly around your neck -- tight enough to slowly choke the life out of you when the torturer began pulling the rope. Later on the rope was replaced by a thick band of iron that was snapped around the neck and which was drawn backwards to asphyxiate the victim.

A particularly cruel version of the medieval Garrote was the Catalan Garrote. Your head was held in place while a blade or a spike was driven through the plank you were tied to, straight into your neck. This method was often used to hasten the breaking of the neck. For all you movie addicts out there, this type of torture device was used in two James Bond movies -- The World Is Not Enough and From Russia with Love

In modern times the Garrote is mostly used in assassination because it is completely silent. A length of rope, chain, scarf or wire wrapped around a person's neck and wound tight enough effectively shuts off all oxygen supply and slowly strangles the victim.

In this chapter Madman executes the next stage in his plan. He combines the Garrote torture together with another rather gruesome torture method to take out the next squint on his list. But will he succeed?

Friday November 30 - At an unknown location - 07:00

Tired. He was so tired. Every ounce of energy and strength he possessed had been spent in favor of survival. He was exhausted, but determined nonetheless to push his logical mind past the point of suffering a man could bear, past the limit of endurance. He could beat this. They would find him. If only he could ward off the darkness fighting to overtake him long enough. If only he could keep on breathing, no matter how ragged the intake sounded, no matter how his battered chest ached with every rise and fall. He just needed to try and fight to keep his head cool.

As he drew in gulps of air, he squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on a single thought that pounded like a chant right beneath the top of his skull. Stay conscious. Stay conscious. Stay conscious. The three syllables kept him focused; they drove him away from the black void he was facing. If he let himself drop over the edge, the sense of logic he was so keen of would be lost. He would be lost because without logic he would only be an empty vessel, an empty shell, drifting in a sea of bitter black.

Grunting, biting back moans, and with grated breath, Zach tried to clench his fists to get the blood circulating again, but found that he couldn't. His vision hazy, he twisted his head as far as he could. He blinked several times in an attempt to clear his sight, but it was of no use. Some kind of liquid kept dripping down his face, pooling in the hollows of his eye sockets. Zach shook his head, blinked some more, and then froze in utter shock. One minute panic rose like bile in his throat, the next he was doing his best at whipping his head around in an attempt to get rid of the dark red river running in his eyes. Blood -- he had blood obscuring his sight. The buzzing in his ears increased with every weak shake of his head. The incessant drumming in his mind drove his skull to the point of explosion. He had to get rid of the blood...now. But he couldn't move. Something was keeping his head in place, was keeping him from ridding himself of his own blood. It nearly drove him out of his mind. It nearly robbed him of the logic he desperately wanted to preserve.

He had no idea how much time passed before he finally calmed down. It could have been hours or mere minutes before he let his head hang and let the blood drip to the ground. It was then that the blur that was his vision cleared up. The numbing darkness he was afraid of receded and made room for figurative light. It flooded his head and shot through his limbs and organs until he nearly fainted. He welcomed the light, used it to banish the remainders of unconsciousness to the corners of his mind, even though it made him painfully aware of every cracked bone and every stinging slice in his skin. But somehow his brain didn't register the stabs of pain. It only welcomed his clear vision. Zach breathed out, relieved. His internal chant didn't cease, his ears were filled with whispers that urged him to keep his eyes wide open, and his body hummed with the loud thumping of his pulse, but at least he could examine his surroundings.

He was in a forest. Trees huddling together and bushes crowding for space surrounded him. Waves of sunlight pushed through the nearly naked tree branches and set the carpet of wet and rotting leaves covering the ground on fire. Unintentionally Zach wrinkled his nose. The unusual bright and sunny November sun was drying every inch of damp leaf and bark it could reach. Unfortunately the process seemed to enhance the rather foul smell of rotting flora. Zach pursed his lips and ignored his nose. So he was in a forest. Exactly what was he doing here? How he had ended up in the middle of a forest, he didn't even want to remember. Not yet anyway.

When he looked up he wasn't surprised to see he was standing under a tree himself. But once he had established that fact, a side effect of the light he had embraced washed over him in all its white hot fury. His sense of feeling returned in a rush, harsh and unexpected. He gasped, well aware of how uncommon a reaction it was of him. Jagged edges were poking his back and when he wriggled around, unable to move freely as he wished, he hissed in pain. His entire back, from head to toe, rubbed against hard unforgiving bark. It nearly scraped off the top layer of his skin, despite his thin shirt and jeans. It felt as if thousands of tiny papercuts were scattered across his back. The blood and sweat that ran from his pores dripped into the numerous cuts setting his entire skin on fire. He stiffened in pain and wanted nothing more than to break free from the hell he was being subjected to -- torture that reminded him of a torture method he had once read about...the Death of a Thousand Knives. But to his horror, he couldn't move a muscle, let alone a limb.

Panic threatening to overwhelm his sanity and even the splitting headache he was developing, surged through him. He tried to pull his hands to the front. Nothing budged. He pulled again, harder this time. Still nothing budged. Slowly Zach lowered his gaze. First he noticed the state of his shirt. The few shreds of fabric covering his torso explained why he felt the bark rubbing directly on his back. Then his eyes were drawn to the twists of plainly colored rope wrapped around his body. The rope looped a few times around his ankles, ran around the tree, came back to wind around his thighs. Another length of rope was wrapped five times around his waist and chest, strapping his torso efficiently against the rough tree trunk, and eventually settled snuggly around his wrists which were tied back, almost touching at the other side of the tree trunk. The third rope he was tied to the tree with was the cause of his shallow breathing and of the lack of free movement of his head. It was a thick piece of rope circling his neck as if it was a dog collar. It pulled against the skin right below his Adam's apple, intensifying the near-choking experience.

In a strange way his entanglement reminded him of an intricate web woven by an ambitious spider. His heart was the center and all the rope shot out to stretch around his limbs and neck. Zach shook his head, unsatisfied by his comparison. It made no sense that he was part of a web. Then it hit him. He wasn't the web and he wasn't just woven into a web; he was an insignificant part of a much larger web. Part of an unknown scheme, that's what he was. His eyes narrowed as the thought fully formed. A web was meant to catch the spider's prey. He was part of the web so he could conclude he was being used as bait. He was meant to lure someone while his captor was probably hiding in the shadows, waiting for an ideal opportunity to drag his prey to his corner of the web.

Zach involuntarily shuddered, unwilling to consider his bait theory further, before viciously yanking against his restraints. He had to try and break free before...before...For a brief moment Zach cursed his knowledge-hungry, fact-spouting brain when realization dawned. He wasn't just wrapped up in cord like some ancient mummy; it was cotton rope that kept him pinned to the tree. Cotton rope -- very wet cotton rope -- held him captive. And wet cotton rope could only do one thing: dry. The cord was already wound painfully tight around him. It would mean his death, or at least an excruciatingly slow fall into unconsciousness as it dried and tightened even more because most of the blood would be trapped in his limbs. With closed off veins, all the precious oxygen he managed to suck in would have no chance of circulating in his body. He would die from oxygen deprivation. But that would only happen if the painfully tight piece of cotton circling his throat didn't crush his windpipe closed and keep him from breathing. He would suffocate in a much more direct manner that way.

The unpleasant vision of his trachea being forced closed, depriving his lungs from much needed air, inspired Zach into another attempt of breaking free. Again he achieved nothing except for dragging the rough rope across his skin. He winced when the tender skin of his wrists was scraped raw. Cuts on his back, a deep slash in his forehead, wrists being flayed. It was enough to let the young genius hang his head in defeat. He was strapped to a tree in about the same fashion Jesus had been pinned to his cross. Only he didn't have a throng of believers crowding around him, dying to set him free. The only people he knew -- the only friends he had -- probably weren't even aware of his disappearance. The chill morning air hugging him told him it was too early. They would all still be asleep. They would find him when it was too late. He might just as well surrender to the darkness that was itching to wash over him.

Stay conscious. Stay rational.

Zach jerked his head up when those four words flooded his mind. While he had been studying his precarious situation, the chant had lulled, had been pushed to the background. And now it came rushing back to him. It kicked him out of his gloomy state of mind. It knocked some sense into him. And to top it all off, the voice in his head sounded like Booth. In a way Zach wasn't surprised. He admired the FBI-agent, had even approached him for advice regarding the letter he had received that asked him to go to Iraq. As much as Booth knew about honor and duty, he had to know at least as much about survival. It only seemed logical that the man Zach had deemed as his role model was now his voice of reason.

It took him a massive amount of concentration, but he managed to flex a couple of muscles. Pain shot up his arms when his fingers suddenly curled and cramped up. But the result was more than satisfying. If he could keep his muscles moving, his blood flowing, he could slow down the strangulation process. He could delay it enough until his friends tracked him down.

Stay conscious. Stay rational.

He forced his windpipe open, drawing in deep breaths. His chest expanded and deflated. His brow furrowed in concentration and a trickle of sweat dripped down his temple as he worked his breathing until a rhythm close to regular, unobstructed respiration was his. If he hadn't been tied up, Zach would have fallen onto his knees in gratitude because he could breathe again.

Stay conscious. Stay rational.

It was as simple as naming all the bones in his left foot. It was innate knowledge. It was instinct. It was survival. The words became a significant part of him. If he kept repeating them, he would remain focused. And if he was focused enough, he would live. Listening and following the chant would be all he would do until the moment he saw one of his friends come running to him. He would fight, would ward off delirium, would not faint. He would stay conscious. He would stay rational. He refused to give up.

---&---

Friday November 30 – Hodgins' mansion – 07:55

"Zach! Come on dude, rise and shine!" Hodgins shouted as he first knocked, then banged on Zach's front door.

Like every other morning, Hodgins was waiting for the young genius to come out and tag along with him and Angela to the lab. Only today Zach hadn't been waiting downstairs, next to Hodgins' red Mini Cooper. Hodgins had shrugged Zach's lateness off, but after more than ten minutes of standing around, he had grown irritated and had climbed the stairs leading from his garage to Zach's apartment. If Zach wanted to hitch a ride with him and Angela to work, he had to be on time. Otherwise boy genius could take the bus, which he hated with fervor thanks to the ever present smell of sweaty feet.

Angela, who accompanied Hodgins, crossed her arms and stared at the door, equally puzzled. Hodgins quirked an eyebrow at her and eventually gave up his persistent banging. Slowly his irritation evolved to worry. It wasn't anything like Zach to be late, much less to give him the cold shoulder. He should have come out by now and stated if Hodgins wanted to break down his door an axe would be more effective than his fists. Cold sweat dampened his back when Hodgins' eyes flicked to Angela. His irises dilated and his nostrils flared slightly. It couldn't be...

A curse got stuck in his throat when Hodgins fished a key chain out of his pocket. With trembling hands he used one of the keys to unlock the door. Just before he pushed the door open, he took in the sight of Angela standing next to him. She was pale and wide-eyed and worry and anxiety played over her features. Just like him, Angela was suppressing all the possible explanations why Zach wasn't answering the door -- ignoring vehemently the most obvious one. But there was one particular image Hodgins couldn't hold back. A flash of Angela's lovely skin ravaged by blood-red scratches leading from her throat down her chest shot through his mind. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut and gulped before determinedly gripping the door knob and twisting it. This could not be happening. Not again; not Zach!

"Zach?" he tentatively called out as the door swung open. Preceding Angela, Hodgins crossed the threshold.

And immediately stopped dead in his tracks. Angela nearly bumped into him, but was shocked to complete stillness as well as she beheld the chaos before her. The entire place was a mess. Not just a messy disorder that was created by a laziness and a lack of regular cleaning, but a downright mess. From where Hodgins and Angela were standing, they couldn't see a single thing that was in its rightful place, where they had seen it the last time they had set foot in Zach's loft above Hodgins' garage.

All the shelves of Zach's bookcase had been swept clean as if someone had carelessly brushed his books aside. But the truth probably was that someone -- almost certainly Zach -- had been shoved repeatedly against the piece of furniture thereby sending his precious volumes of knowledge crashing down. The couch stood crooked, the coffee table was pushed on its side, and one of the upended floor lamps looked as if the shade had been trampled. The couch cushions were spread across the floor together with the books and the remnants of the few plants Zach had kept and which had obviously toppled off the window sills. Zach's collection of self-made robots that had proudly stood on display on a table near the bookcase lay in a pile of bits and pieces on the living room carpet, one particular robot on the other side of the carpet, separated from its comrades.

When their eyes landed on the toy, their breaths hitched. Hodgins stared at the miniature robot, willing Zach to come strolling in, but knowing full well that wasn't going to happen. He was torn from his shocked state when Angela let out a soft shriek. She rushed over to the wall on their left, to the painting she had given Zach to dress up his apartment. Hodgins followed her, almost reluctant because he knew what he was going to find wouldn't be pleasant. Angela's hand shook almost imperceptibly as she breathed out shakily and reached out. Her fingertips hovered about an inch over the painting, tracing the outline of a dark red smear.

"Blood," she whispered.

It was enough to trigger Hodgins into a frantic search for his cell phone. Once he held the damned thing in his hand, he quickly dialed a familiar number and waited with bated breath. When his call was finally answered, Hodgins didn't get enough time to wring out a mandatory greeting. He was immediately cut off by the smooth and deep voice of an obviously irritated FBI-agent who knew how to use caller ID.

"Look Hodgins, whatever kind of dirt has got you excited enough to call me at eight in the morning, it'll have to wait. I'm on my way to-"

"He took him," Hodgins cut him off in a grim voice.

"What?"

"He took Zach." Hodgins' knuckles turned white from the death grip he had on his phone. "Zach's gone...taken by him."

Booth was silent for perhaps one or two seconds. Then he exploded into a wave of anger punctuated by a harsh curse and a bitter, "I'll send a team over."

---&---

Friday November 30 - At an unknown location - noon

He was tired. Dead tired. Close to giving up. All the energy Zach had summoned hours ago had nearly all been spent. The bit of strength he had left, he used to keep his windpipe open. If he could just keep on breathing everything would turn out alright. If he kept on fighting, he would survive. The darkness threatening to swallow him whole would be kept at a distance if he didn't let go of the light. After all, victory came to those who persisted.

Zach had been deliberately avoiding the shards of memories of how he had ended up in his current situation. He wanted to deal with them when he was somewhere familiar like his apartment or, better yet, the Jeffersonian -- at least some place and some time when he was less 'tied up'. But with every passing minute, with every torn breath that passed through his raw and itchy throat, his chances of keeping the memories at bay diminished. The odds of facing the terrible fight that had taken place at his apartment on his own conditions grew smaller and smaller. He didn't have the strength anymore to will away the stabs of pain his capture had brought him. All of his energy went into breathing; there was nothing left to prevent the memories from jumping him and dragging him by his feet into looming darkness.

He was one second away from finally giving in when he heard a peculiar rustling of leaves. The sound grew louder and drew nearer. Zach's eyes widened. Could it be? Could someone be on his way to rescue him? He was almost scared to believe it, but all doubt vanished when the bushes a bit further ahead swayed back and forth as if someone was pushing his way through them. Shards of shouted conversation drifted over to him.

"...oak tree...only found...woods...I planted..."

Without any further warning, Hodgins suddenly burst through the bushes, right into the small clearing that was framed by the trees Zach had been staring at the entire morning. The relief that hit Zach square in the chest was too big to comprehend. It was enormous, a tidal wave. If he hadn't been tied to a tree, he would have collapsed. The urge to sob in relief took him by surprise. Zach rarely showed strong emotions, but now he actually felt like sobbing. He had come close to dying and now his friends were here to protect him from harm. If that wasn't a good enough excuse to let his emotions run wild and cry, just this once, he didn't know what was.

"Doctor...Agent...Suffer." His voice croaked because of the almost entirely dried up cotton cord. He was making no sense, was babbling like a fool. He didn't even know what he was on about, why he wasn't calling Hodgins and Angela by their names. Instead all that fell from his mouth as his friends ran over to him and began picking at the nearly dry rope was "Suffer...Doctor Brennan...Agent Bo-" A sudden bright moment. "I hit him with one of my robots." And then the world began to spin out of control, slowly at first but soon picking up speed until everything had faded into a blur.

"Hey buddy, stay with me, alright?" Zach heard Hodgins say. He nodded.

Stay conscious. Stay rational. Stay conscious. Stay rational. Stay consci-

Oh, to hell with staying conscious. He welcomed the darkness now that his friends were with him. They would catch him; he was sure of it. A quick dip in black oblivion would spare him the agony of being cut loose. He would return to the light soon enough, but for now he needed the darkness to cloak his pain and make him forget, if only for a little while. As Zach allowed the darkness to overtake him, he heard the distinct click of a cell phone being flipped open.

"It's alright, Booth. We've got him."

And then the world turned soothingly black.

What do you say -- are we back on the shiver inducing track?