CHAPTER 9
FENTON!
The detective startled awake from an uneasy sleep, the scream of his name assaulting his ears again. He could feel sweat seeping into the shirt stuck to his back, feel his heart pounding as he worked to calm down. A minute later he had control of himself, acknowledging that like the last two times he'd heard that shriek, it was strictly in his head. The time before that, though, had been an entirely different matter.
He'd woken this morning in the same idyllic suite as yesterday, the illusion of an island getaway holding if you didn't inspect the room too closely. A second look, however, would have revealed blood droplets along the fireplace and chair, a bit of a tooth on the throw rug. A coarse rope twisted around his hands and ankles, connecting him to the foot of the heavily carved bedpost as he sat on the wood floor. The gauzy bed above him, so recently occupied by his wife, now held the snoring form of Shorty. The soldier had slept well into the morning, trailing hand intermittently straying to land on Fenton's head.
Once Shorty finally did make it out of bed, which had occurred only when Clipboard barged in threatening to gut him to feed to the hotel kennel residents, Fenton had assumed he was in for a repeat of yesterday. Instead the soldiers left him tied while they sat at the table, pouring over charts and muttering. When most of them left for lunch, a meal Fenton was neither offered nor wanted, Shorty did get in a few practice punches, but by and large, the American was ignored in favor of whatever they were working on.
He had started to doze when he heard that first scream.
"FENTON! No! Oh my God, I can't! NO! FENTON!"
"Laura!" The detective's head snapped up, instantly awake, eyes darting. Shorty and another pair of nameless soldiers remained in the room, but Clipboard and Rao were gone. "Where is he?!"
Shorty lazily put down a pen before turning to the panicked husband. "Who?"
"Your boss! What's happening to my wife!? He better not be anywhere near…"
Shorty sauntered to the window, slamming it shut to dim the noise. Laura's wails still carried through the glass pane, but in a softer volume that made the words indistinguishable. "Our leader does as he pleases. As to whether that involves your wife, I couldn't say."
"You bas…" Fenton's sentence was curtailed by a swift kick, talking giving way to a sudden interest in breathing, but that didn't quell the glare he leveled at the other man.
"Shut up!"
"Laura better…" He paused for a lungful of air, "…be okay."
"Or what, exactly?" The smaller man quirked an eyebrow, then returned to his paperwork, rarely glancing Fenton's way.
Fenton continued to stare at the trio, although that sight repeatedly lost out to the one in his head. The one that happened in this same room yesterday - Clipboard with his hand in Laura's hair, kissing her.
The narrative in his head wanted to say he couldn't imagine what it would take to make her scream like that. In their twenty year marriage she'd certainly had ample opportunities to be upset, some related to his work, some not. He'd heard Laura's voice beside his hospital bed more than once, more painfully heard her fulfill that same vigil for their sons. He'd heard her from half a world away as a vengeful gunman invaded their home and held the phone for her, listened to the tremble in her voice giving her father's eulogy. Unbeknown to their sons, he'd even heard her sing lullabies to an older daughter that was never to be. Never during any of that had he heard that note of sheer hysteria in her voice.
As the afternoon wore on then, it wasn't that he couldn't imagine what it would take. It was that he could. His brain supplied an endless stream of unwelcome suggestions of what had happened to his wife and children. Images that didn't seem to have an off-switch.
Clipboard returned hours later, amused at the distraught state of the investigator.
"My, Mr. Hardy. Scarcely the polished appearance you had on my arrival. Public image is essential, as I am certain you are aware. Stunning you do not expend more effort at it."
"Where's my wife?" Fenton wasted no time in growling at the other man.
"Sorry, sir." Shorty shrugged and flicked a thumb toward the window. "He heard Blondie making a bunch of racket before we could get that closed."
"Oh, that. Mrs. Hardy is quite the screamer. I noticed that myself."
"W-What did you do to her? And my sons and their friends?" The little break in his voice frustrated Fenton, although perhaps he should have expected it, given his level of exhaustion and worry.
"I do have a lot of duties here, Fenton, but I do not recall being appointed social secretary for your family."
"Please… I heard the buses leave. Were Laura and the boys on that bus?" The sporadic gunshots over the last two days replayed in his ears. "Are they hurt? Please…"
"Hmm…. Alive…hurt... dead... I simply cannot recall…"
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C-cold-d. Frank grunted as the water knocked him backward into strong arms, the fierce stinging in his chest jerking him back to alertness. "W-what happened?"
"Tutup mulut!"
Oh yeah, he's what happened… Frank wavered, but he was on his feet. The last thing he remembered was a series of questions he couldn't understand, then falling. He'd been led to the same spot outside the stone building as the others and the queries had come rapid fire as he answered in English, his captors clearly angry with that and then livid when he went silent. The first few punches he'd withstood, the multiple armed men in the compound offering no option for him to fight, but then the butt of a gun had slammed into his stomach, doubling him over. The next blow must have hit his head judging from the renewed headache, but that was a bit hazy. He had a vague recollection of being in the mud, several men yelling and kicking at him as someone took his clothes and then stood him back up. Based on what had happened to the others and the frigid water blasting at him now, that couldn't have been more than a minute ago.
The water stopped and the now familiar turquoise shorts were held out. Frank made an attempt to grab them, chagrined when his flailing arm missed the mark by a foot and one of the guards tugged them over his legs instead. He almost didn't notice the noise of the clippers until the first strands of his hair landed on his shoulders.
Just a haircut, don't make a thing out of it… this is a cliche' for a reason... supposed to mess with your brain... a haircut and a shower, that's it… nope, not thinking about that…I'm not…can't….ahh, my head hurts…
The grate of another opening along the stunted wall was unlocked, the guard half lugging Frank over there and then tossing him in on his belly.
The area inside was taller than Frank had judged, the floor of the cell dropping about two feet below the ground outside. Unfortunately that still left it well short of the space he'd need to stand. Sitting flat on the muddied floor, the rain water gushing through the grate and swirling around him wasn't the most appealing option, but he doubted his abused knees could handle anything else. The algae slicked walls nearly brushed his shoulders from the sides, the length of the room mercifully extending a bit longer, perhaps three feet by five.
"Berjanji untuk menikahi saya."
Frank halted his inspection of the hole he'd been flung into at the angry voice, struggling to turn around and focus on the guard. "I don't understand."
"Tangan!" The soldier knelt to jab at Frank with the point of his gun. "Tangan, sekarang!"
Frank could do little but nervously repeat his earlier answer. "I don't understand you."
The other man paused, spitting on the ground before again glaring at his charge with obvious disgust. He spoke slowly, voice adjusted to one used with a particularly dimwitted child.
"Tangan." He held his left palm out vertically, fingers extended taut, vaguely gesturing at it with the gun barrel and then at Frank's hands.
"Oh." Frank couldn't help the small tremor in his arm as he extended his hands to the guard. He desperately wanted out of here – out of the grip of the man before him, out of this tiny box masquerading as a cell, out of the entire nation of Ranei – but right now there didn't seem to be much chance of any of that.
A light slap hit against his left forearm, pushing it back to Frank's side. His right, however, was wrapped tightly in the soldier's fist and yanked toward the rough ceiling. He rose half to his knees again at the tug, looking up as an ancient manacle clamped over his wrist, holding the hand fast against the damp stone roof. The man before him gave a satisfied snort and slammed the iron grate between them closed, standing to leave Frank with an eye-level view of muddied boots.
There's got to be some way to move that doesn't involve pulling my arm half off… Frank reluctantly came to the conclusion that there wasn't. If he knelt, his knees and thighs ached, arm slack above his head. Once this became intolerable, he shifted down toward the floor, all his weight dangling from the restrained arm as he couldn't quite stretch low enough to sit. He tried standing, hoping to straighten his back flat against the ceiling, but the central position of the cuff wouldn't permit that. Instead he settled on a rotation between kneeling, a catcher's squat, and then the lopsided dangle, gritting his teeth through as many minutes of the latter as he could to rest his legs.
The day wore on, the cold of the hose long forgotten as he sweltered in the cramped cell. The rain stopped, momentarily lessening his discomfort as the water running over his feet slowed, but he soon realized this only led to safe passage for a myriad of bugs. He was loath to inspect his calves too closely once the crawling sensations crossed upward of his ankles, preferring to stick with the idea that it was all in his imagination.
Frank had almost drifted into a stupor when something clanged against the iron bars in front of him. "Waktu untuk makan."
Last time I leave the guide book in my other pants… great, getting delirious if I'm making bad jokes in my head… wish I…
"Waktu untuk makan."
Yep, just what I always say… While no sudden epiphany on the language was forthcoming, Frank thought he had this one figured out. A metal dipper of water was the source of noise, a squatting guard bent low to peer in at him. Frank's dry throat won the battle with his mind's instant biology lecture on contaminated water, split lips guzzling at the lukewarm slightly greenish fluid. Besides, don't drink the water implies you've got something better… and I'm thinking this is all I'm going to get.
The soldier pulled the tin vessel back through the bars after Frank finished a second cupful, laughing when the youth leaned forward to catch a last drop with his tongue. A round brown roll was poked through, intentionally dropped to the floor before Frank could grab it, and then the man was gone.
Frank hesitated, and then picked up the roll from a relatively dry section of the floor. The stench of the cell suggested there were things on that floor he really didn't want to think about. On the other hand, it had been well over twenty four hours since he'd eaten and there was no telling when he'd get anything more. If there was going to be any chance of getting out of here, he couldn't starve himself. He choked the stale bread down, ignoring a few crunches he suspected were bugs. Least these are cooked. I bet even Joe would like those sea kelp rolls about now...
Unfortunately, the thought of his brother instantly sobered the feeble attempt at humor. Joe had been in the hotel lobby the last time Frank saw him, nose bloodied but otherwise okay. Frank could only hope that he was on a plane home by now. Part of him intensely needed to believe his brother or father was going to get him out of here, although he didn't see how they could. Strained shoulder, banged knees, kicked spine, maybe a cracked rib or two, probably a concussion, assorted bruises - Rattling off a mental list of his injuries didn't do anything to improve Frank's assessment of his chances. Be it rescue or escape, leaving was likely to involve some running, and he didn't think he could. Not much I can do to change the odds yet … except eat this infernal rotten biscuit.
Frank swallowed the last of it, turning over what few details of the compound he'd seen so far in his head. Nothing struck him as especially useful. He wasn't even aware he was memorizing everything as he went, the process ingrained over years of dinner table discussions. His conscious thoughts weren't on that at all.
Please be on that plane home, Joe. Take Chet and Biff and Mom and just go. I know how many times we've had to come after each other, know how many times we've promised not to let each other down, and I meant every one of them. Know you did, too. But this time, looking at this place… well… please, just go, leave me, Joe, and just go….
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to be continued...