Chapter 5
Damn, that hurt. Actually, what didn't hurt? Where was he?
Okay, take inventory. Cuffed, behind the back. Dark. Blindfold, and just plain dark. Maybe a closed room, lights off. Something on the face; dry, itchy.
Someone else in the room, behind him, breathing.
"Hey! Hey, you!"
Silence. Ross rolled to the side, in an awkward half-sit. His head spun. A concussion would probably be a good guess. Yeah, someone took him out from behind. "I know you're there." Footsteps echoed on a bare floor, a door closed. He could hear the murmur of voices, just barely.
The door opened. Two sets of footsteps, one set stopped while the other continued up to him. He felt a dress shoe press firmly on his chest and push him to the floor. With no way to brace himself, his head bounced, sending flashes of pain through his skull. Definitely a concussion.
Rough hands flipped him face down, someone fiddled with the cuffs. They were snapped down over his wrists again, too tight, but at least in front. At least two men, one on each side, hauled him to his feet and pushed him along. He tried to count steps, gauge direction. Instead, he stumbled, and they dragged him along.
He protested. Still no direct answer.
He was shoved to the floor, and a door slammed behind him. Awkwardly, he pushed the blindfold away from his eyes. It was stiff with blood. He was in a tiny, grubby bathroom, on his knees. Shakily, he pulled himself up, using the sink to balance.
The reflection in the mirror looked pretty grim. One eye was nearly swollen shut, with a trail of blood streaking down his cheek from brow to chin. He was sure there was a lump and more blood on the back. He reached behind and probed gently with stiff fingers. It was pretty bad. What had they hit him with?
He turned the water on. The rust-stained trickle convinced him to leave it running. He stumbled to the toilet. The inventor of zippers hadn't planned for handcuffs. Relieving himself was awkward, and the stream tinged with blood. Not good news.
He finished and turned back to the sink. The water ran clear and it was warm. He cupped water to his mouth, then splashed his face, gently massaging at the dried blood and dirt. They must have dragged him through the yard after he went down. His sweater and jeans were smeared with mud. His vision cleared enough to read the note taped to the mirror:
TRY TO ESCAPE AND YOU DIE!
BE SILENT
COVER YOUR EYES BEFORE YOU KNOCK ON DOOR!
He straightened up, barely able to stand. He wasn't strong enough for an escape attempt, not yet. The sky beyond the tiny bathroom window was lightening. It had to be early morning. The only good news was that someone Would be looking for him, by now.
Reluctantly, he picked up the soiled bandana and placed it back over his eyes. He would play the game by their rules – for now.
Joseph wound his way carefully into the park. He sat quietly in the car after turning off the engine. With the wipers stopped, rain slid off the windshield. What a cursed country. And now, he was supposed to tromp about in this deluge – drop the coat, and walk down to his pickup point.
He shivered involuntarily. He hated to think of it – puddles filling his shoes, water dripping down his neck. Perhaps he could wait until the rain stopped, or forget the coat. Surely, that coat couldn't be as important as the Armand imagined. The idea was so tempting. What difference could it possibly make?
The wail of a siren interrupted his thoughts, faint but getting closer. Joseph vaulted from the car, dragging the coat with him. He was running as the car door slammed on the fabric, jerking him off his feet. He scrambled back on hands and knees, freed the coat and ran blindly towards the railings that separated the parking area from the ocean.
The sirens were closer. He hurled the coat into the darkness. Instead of going over, it flopped over the railing. Joseph yanked hard. The coat whipped free, and a chorus of items jangled to the pavement. Would nothing go right! He gathered the material into a ball and tried again. The sirens still rang in his ears. They must be coming for him.
Down on his hands and knees, Joseph scrabbled along the asphalt, desperate to get away. It was too dark to see. He stuffed whatever he could find into his pockets – some coins, a case of some kind - and fled. By the time he realized the sirens had passed him by, he didn't have the courage to go back and check his work.
The SUV jolted over the speed bump, and Eames squealed to a stop. Logan was waiting for them in the parking lot. Ritchie's car was there, but no sign of him. Wheeler was still en-route.
Eames bolted from the driver's side. "Logan, what's going on?"
"Nothing. It's still just us."
Goren swore softly. "We have a cop, a captain no less, missing for nearly twelve hours. And it's just the three of us?"
Eames stepped up, thankful the message to meet was for the diner and not 1PP. Right now, Goren would be storming through the halls, looking for the first superior he could lay hands on. They couldn't afford to lose anyone right now, least of all, Goren. "So we go with what we've got, Bobby. It's nearly daylight. They have the same skeleton crew on at Major Case that we had last night. The rest of us will go back, on foot, and start canvassing."
"What about Jeremy or Nancy? Anyone heard from either of them yet?" Eames asked.
"Not good," said a voice behind them. Sergeant Powell was carrying a tray of coffee cups. Ritchie had a stack of food containers. "Here. Eat. I went by about an hour ago. Unless we chain him to a pole, he's going to be down here, looking for his dad. I can hardly blame him, and we really can't stop him. He promised to wait, but I wouldn't count on it for very long."
"Shit," Goren said between bites. "Ross will kill us if anything happens to Jeremy. What's going on with the brass, Joel? This is nuts."
"Don't start. Let's just say we don't all have the same priorities. I'm calling everyone I can think of, trying to generate some pressure." While the ragged group gulped down a meager breakfast, Powell went through the litany of early morning phone calls, political wrangling and a host of other frustrations.
"So what you're telling us is we'll be on our own for a while," Goren said, wadding his napkin into a ball and cramming it into his coffee cup. "I don't believe this."
"Officially, all of you are off duty. I told dispatch to forget your names. " Powell's cell interrupted him. "Powell."
"Where?"
"Damn. No sign of him?"
"Right. Good, but tell them to stay away from it until we get there. No one touches it until I say so. We're on our way."
Goren was already moving. Eames looked at him with alarm.
"They found the car in Overlook Park. I'm going with Goren and Eames. Keep in touch. Use my cell for now."