Author's note:- OK I'm posting this mainly so you know I haven't given up on this story. I've been ridiculously busy but I'm just about to head off on holiday so I should have a lot to post when I get back- Who knows it may even be finished?!? Hope you like- Let me know- J

Chapter 6:- Realisation

Mark stared for a moment, not at the gun, his brain somehow ignored that threat, not that ever looking down the barrel of a gun didn't have an accompanying frisson of fear, but his consciousness didn't even recognise it, although if anyone had been checking they might have noticed his heart rate and breathing kick up a notch and the thin sheen of sweat that already coated his skin increase slightly, but his focus wasn't on that, his focus was on a concept. The idea that Hardcastle could and would come up with a $50 000 ransom for him. For a moment he didn't know whether to laugh or cry, didn't know how to sort his way through a mess of tumbling thoughts and emotional concepts that he was in too much of a mess to handle, that he probably couldn't handle on his best day, and this definitely wasn't his best day.

Mark concentrated on the practical first. It was easier. Did Hardcastle have that sort of money? Sure he owned Gull's Way but for all Mark knew that could be mortgaged to the hilt. He thought not, but he didn't know. Hardcastle had been brought up hard and poor, and that made him very careful. He rarely spent frivolously, heck he often didn't spend on the essentials, but whether that was because he didn't have it or he just never got used to the idea that he didn't have to watch every cent, Mark wasn't sure. He'd always assumed the latter but. . .and fifty thousand dollars. . .for you?

He shook his head. "Hardcastle wouldn't give fifty cents for me," he stated, not entirely faking the bitter tone. He was pretty sure that there were a lot of things the judge would do for him. Even in his almost entirely negative frame of mind, he couldn't believe that the Judge would just abandon him, but that much money? He shook his head. "I don't know what you think I am to him, but I'm just his handyman and gardener. Trust me he'll just find someone else to cut his lawns and trim his hedges."

Melissa stared at him momentarily uncertain, then she took a step forward, the barrel of the gun dropped slightly but it was still pointed squarely at him. "No," she gave a small smile, "I saw the two of you together. He cares about you, if you're not related then you're the kid he never had, or somethin'." She thought for a little longer stepping further towards the bed until her legs were leaning against it, her eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. "Or maybe there's somethin' else goin' on between you two. I heard about that sort of thing." She half turned to sit touching his hip, her free hand moving to allow her fingers to dance along his waistband. "Is that why you don't find me attractive, because you prefer. . ."

Mark blushed a fiery red as his mind caught up with the implication. "No!" he protested "No, I. . ." He wasn't sure how to continue, how to word the denial of something so ridiculous, something so unthinkable. He changed tacks. If he just explained their relationship then. . ."The judge and I we just. . ."

"So you do like women then?" Melissa asked, her hand moving from his waistband to caress the bare flesh of his stomach.

"Yes, I. . ." He tried to clear his thoughts again, tried to keep up with the changes in sensation, in questions, in information, tried to consolidate the incongruity of the caresses and the smiles, with the gun and the threats.

She was moving forward now, leaning, her soft clothing tickling his chest as she moved upwards, her face to his, the gun sticking firmly in his ribs; its threat, its power not diminishing. "Then kiss me," she said softly, her lips brushing his. Warm and sweet they pressed down harder and when he did not respond the gun jammed a little deeper into the soft flesh just below his ribcage. "Kiss me," she demanded, hot breath, exploding over his face, and this time when she moved in he let her, allowed her tongue to slip between his lips and teeth, melted into the moment as his body responded and his mind split, because he was helpless to stop her, not sure that all of him wanted to because it was better than the fear and better than the pain. No, that wasn't right he didn't want this. He couldn't. . . He tried to pull his head away, to turn it. "Please," he said softly when she broke for breath, and she sat up grinning contentedly at him.

"I'd love to stay," Melissa said, relishing the look of confusion, the fear on her captive's face. The power she had over him was intoxicating, better than with poor old Arvin Lee, better than with her husband. "But I have a phone call to go make."

Mark shook his head trying to clear his thoughts. "It won't do any good, even if he would give it to you," 'for me,' the thought drowned softly in a confusion of want and need. He licked dry lips. "The Judge doesn't have that kind of money," he asserted.

Melissa made a sound that might have passed for a giggle. "You drive race cars, you own the nicest car I ever saw, soft leather seats and a fancy engine. You live on a big estate by the ocean," she shifted the gun once more so that it dug in high up on his abdomen. "You want me to believe that you don't got money?" She pushed harder on the gun putting her weight behind it, forcing Mark to expel a little more air as he winced from the pain. "Hardcastle's got money all right, and he's gonna give some of it to me," she twisted the gun round grinding it forward, "or at least you'd better hope he will."

Mark struggled to take a breath against the knife like pressure as she pushed in and up under his already bruised rib cage. His thoughts were bouncing in a jumble, just out of reach as the pain drew all of his focus

She eased off again, sitting back. "I don't want no big estate, I just want a little house of my own, and I don't think that's too much to ask. Do you?"

The next line that Mark uttered would have made the judge proud, if he'd heard it. It came from deep within, a core belief, and was probably the thinking that separated Mark from most of the people he'd been in Quentin with. "Not if you do something to earn it," he stated.

"Oh but I did," Melissa stood, moving to put the gun down on the other side of the room. "All that time I spent with Sheriff Blackstone, all that work with Arvin Lee. We worked hard to get that money." She turned abruptly and stared at him for a moment, clearly deciding something, as her mood shifted.

She walked back to the bed. "Now I need you to be good for me while I'm out, but I'm not sure that I can trust you." She grabbed the free wrist of his injured arm in a two handed grip and forced it back above his head.

The move was unexpected, at least in the state Mark was in. If he'd realised straight away he might have had the strength and the position to resist a little, but even that was doubtful with the treatment the already infected injury had had in the last twelve hours. With no warning and no resistance the damaged flesh and torn muscle screamed in protest at the violent treatment and Mark joined in, his face contorting in pain, his body curling in reflex as white hot spikes radiated out from his shoulder.

Melissa watched fascinated, relishing once again, the feeling of control the feeling of power. She waited for his muscles to relax, for the lines on his face to ease off a little, his breathing calming again and then she pushed his arm back sharply, as far as it would go. He winced again, his muscles tensing as the pain hit. This time he bit the inside of his mouth to avoid crying out. Melissa smiled widely, elated by the reaction she'd caused. She'd never realised before just how enjoyable it was to just inflict pain.

She'd killed; she knew she enjoyed that. When her daddy used to take her hunting she used to love watching the creatures fall, knowing that they had been breathing and moving moments before, and she was the one who had stopped that, but injured animals had always been dispatched quickly, she'd never got to just watch them react to the pain, pain that she was inflicting. It was delicious.

She clipped the cuff quickly and tightly round Mark's wrist and climbed onto the bed to kneel beside him, waiting for him to get his breathing under control again. He turned his head to look up at her and she smiled down at him.

Mark caught the look and his blood froze. He had seen it before, in prison, had seen it on the faces of those who enjoyed the suffering and pain of others. To this moment he'd had Melissa pegged as crazy, but he hadn't quite put her in the psychopath category. Her look changed that; she was enjoying hurting him. "Please," he said, knowing that it would do no good but he had to try to get her to. . . The pain this time blanked his thoughts as his body scrambled fruitlessly to escape it, his arm muscles tensed pulling on the cuffs as the tension tried to rip his hands through the too small opening, and once more he could not stifle the scream.

Melissa pressed harder into the wound, keeping up the pressure as Mark desperately scrabbled to move away from it but his movements were uncoordinated, ineffective, there was no way to escape the relentless burning pressure until his brain overloaded and he passed out. Melissa watched him go limp, finally pulling her hand away, her head dropping backwards as she drew in a huge satisfied sigh. She stared for a moment at the ceiling allowing the waves of pleasure to wash through her system before dropping off the bed onto her feet.

She stood for a moment watching him, then gently brushed his sweat soaked hair from his face. "Now be good whilst I'm away, and I'm sure we'll have some more fun later." She turned with a flounce and grabbed her purse heading for the door.

H&MCH&MC

Hardcastle had never been good at sitting around and waiting. It wasn't the sitting part, after all that had been a large part of his job for over twenty years. No, it was the waiting that got to him, especially when things really needed to be done. In his courtroom he'd always had a certain level of control and intellectual stimulation to compensate for the lack of physical action. Any waiting in there had always been other people waiting for him, but since he'd retired he'd gotten used to doing again.

Inaction grated, allowed thoughts and fears to the surface that he could pretend he didn't have time for when he was doing something.

Those thoughts and fears consumed him now, because he was sure that McCormick was in trouble, and was equally sure that the only course of action he could follow was sit here and wait and worry and. . . .He slammed the edge of his fist onto the desk in frustration, allowing the emotion to morph into anger because it was so much easier to express, so much easier to deal with.

He checked his watch for the millionth time that morning and considered making more phonecalls, but he'd already left his number with everyone he thought might know anything, and they had all promised to call him if they heard anything at all. He was in no doubt that they would, many were friends of his and, although he tried to hide it, he knew they'd picked up on the increasing levels of desperation in his tone.

He picked up a pen and tapped it absently on the desk, he'd already tried to read, and given up on, the morning paper, after reading the same paragraph three times and still having no clue what it said.

Dammit! He needed to do something, maybe more coffee? He stood picking up his cup and realised it was still half full from the last batch he'd made and failed to drink. He put the cup down and sank back into his chair picking up the pen again. He stared across the room and caught site of the maps still spread across the coffee table. It wouldn't hurt to take one more look at them, he stood moving round the desk, maybe he could figure out. . . .

The phone rang loud and clear, stopping him in his tracks.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .