Author's note:- OK apologies for the taking so long. I took a long time with this chapter for 2 reasons. Firstly my muse deserted me for a while and secondly I found this chapter really difficult to write, but it is necessary to go through this bit to get to the parts that are coming. So I hope you like it. If my muse remains future chapters shouldn't be too long in coming.- p.s. check out the message on my profile.

Chapter 8: Torture

Frank put his hand on his friend's shoulder, squeezing slightly against the tension. It was a gesture of comfort, of support, and he held it there as he looked up towards agent Gorman, who shook his head.

"Not enough time," there was the slightest of pauses. "I'm sorry; we'll try again when she calls back with the ransom instructions."

The Judge, whose gaze had also switched to the Agent sank back down into his chair. He wasn't sure at what point in the conversation he'd made it to his feet, but he knew the emotions that had driven him there, the same mix of anger and frustration and fear that he'd been feeling since he'd found out that she had him, but now the fear took over. The kid was hurt and hurting, that last pain filled cry. . . He finally felt the soft squeeze on his shoulder, heard the tentative "Milt?" from his friend. He looked up, Frank was radiating concern, he hadn't heard the conversation but he had seen and heard the Judge's response to it.

"She's hurting him Frank," The Judge said softly by way of explanation. There was another squeeze of his shoulder before Frank let go.

"Did he say anything that might give us a clue to where she has him?" Frank asked hopefully, he knew that McCormick was smart, resourceful.

The Judge shook his head, "I don't think so there wasn't time. I. . ." He tried to recall exactly what Mark had said, but all he could hear was the weakness and the fear. He gestured at the recording machine. "Listen to the tape, there might be something."

Frank looked across at Agent Gorman who gave a nod to his technician. It took a few seconds to rewind; by the time it was playing the Judge was staring out of the window.

Frank watched him as he listened. He had already heard the Judge's answers, now he understood his reactions, the knotted tension in his back. Hardcastle visibly flinched this time at Mark's yell of pain. He'd tensed, waited for it, and knowing it was coming somehow made it worse.

As soon as the room went quiet the Judge turned. "There's nothing there," he stated.

"My guys'll get it back to the lab," Agent Gorman said, "See if there's anything in the background."

The Judge nodded distractedly before moving towards the door.

"Milt?" the tentative questioning tone stopped him. He turned to look at Frank.

"I'm going to the bank," he stated, still distracted, "to sort out the ransom" He rubbed his hand absently across his chin. There was a short sigh. "We might need it to get him back." He turned for the door again.

Frank stood for a moment watching his friend. The Judge's usual vibrancy replaced by a posture that made him look every one of his sixty years, an uncharacteristic slump to his shoulders and heavy, almost laboured, steps. It made Frank contemplate what would happen if they didn't get McCormick back. He gave his head a slight shake. The effect on Hardcastle would be devastating. He didn't let the mood hold him. If Milt wasn't able to hold his usual optimism, then he would just have to do it for him. Whatever it took they would get him back. "Hold up," he shouted after the retreating form "I'll come with you."

H&MCH&MC

Melissa grinned as she dropped the receiver back onto the body of the phone and moved to place it on the bedside table, her eyes not straying from McCormick's still writhing form. His movement was futile, an instinctual attempt to try to escape from the pain. She took a breath, watching him was intoxicating. Her head dropped back her gaze leaving him as her eyes defocused, and pleasure chemicals swept through her brain. She savoured the moment, drawing in another deep breath. When she looked down again Mark was watching her, fear and hatred fighting each other, and the pain for control of his expression.

She sat down beside him and moved her hand to caress his cheek, but he flinched away from the touch. "Don't," he said softly, uselessly. She could do whatever she wanted.

Melissa stopped mid movement and stared at him. "OK if that's how you want it," she said, "but just remember that it's your choice." She moved her hand back in to trail her finger gently down the side of his face, "and we've got lots of time to fill 'til I go pick up your ransom." She smiled down at him, pushing herself to her feet. "So if you change your mind. You just let me know." She looked round and grabbed her purse, moving back to the bed before speaking again. "Now I'm just gonna go out and get some things that I need. You don't go nowhere." On the last comment the smile widened to a full-blown grin. No menace, no irony, just amusement at her own joke.

Mark watched her head out of the door, listened to it click shut, and he knew that her absence should bring him some sense of relief, but it didn't. Somehow his anxiety increased in the emptiness of the room. He flexed his arms uselessly. He couldn't reach either one with the other and the frame of the bed was far too strong to give at all. He was trapped, and when Melissa returned, he would have the choice between agonizing pain and soft touches that made his skin crawl in revulsion. She was going to use him for her amusement until she had to go and meet the Judge. His stomach clenched painfully at a stab of increased fear. What if she hurt him too? Killed him and took the money? He pulled futilely at his bonds again; ignoring the pain of chafed wrists, trying hard not to sink further into the despair of helplessness.

H&MCH&MC

Hardcastle drove because he needed to keep his mind focused on something other than the last few despairing seconds of the phone call. It had been a necessary cruelty to record and play it back. The state he'd been in on hearing McCormick's voice, he could have missed something, could have. . . and he hated that weakness in himself. The weakness that allowed emotion to take over from rationality, and logic, and practicality, the weakness that only manifested when you allowed yourself to care deeply for someone, and he did. He cared deeply for McCormick in a way that he would never have expected. The kid had got so far under his skin that the emotional connection had power, and he couldn't deny the good of that power. It provided him with strength and clarity and confidence, someone to share his passions with, to vent his frustrations on, someone who mattered to him and someone to whom he mattered, but under the present circumstances that power was doing damage.

He tried to ignore the churning of his gut and the tension in his shoulders, tried to loosen the white knuckle grip he had on the steering wheel, but his body wasn't cooperating, his mind frequently losing focus as he relived his short conversation, trying to quiet the voice that kept reminding him that it might be the last time he would ever speak to the kid alive. His mind argued the point with itself. They had been in tighter spots, been in greater danger, and they had always come through. So they would this time, but every attempt at a reassuring thought was met with McCormick's cry of pain echoing through it.

H&MCH&MC

Mark woke with a start and hissed in a breath as new pains fired spikes up through his spine and into his brain. He was hot and achy and confused, and his mind didn't want to focus. Caught between the curiosity of wanting to return to the world to find out what was happening, to work out a real escape from this nightmare, and resigning itself to retreating to the deepest darkest corner, to a false escape, hiding from the world of pain and terror inside itself, ignoring the physical world because he could hide where he couldn't be hurt.

If only it was that simple, that logical, if only he had that choice, but it wasn't a choice that he had any control over, any more than he had a choice over what she did to him next.

He blinked open heavy eyes and resigned himself to feeling the pain of the still raw burns. He'd lost count of how many, as the searing heat of the cigarette end, pressing against his flesh, burnt each new raw weal to throb with the others in a mass of exploding nerve endings. He'd ignored her smiles, her pleasure at his pain, bit back his screams when he could, and had endured the cruelty until his mind finally overloaded enough for the welcome fall into unconsciousness, but it hadn't been long enough, not nearly long enough.

He turned his head slightly and saw Melissa flicking idly through a magazine looking bored. She hadn't noticed that he was awake and he prayed it stayed that way. He kept as still as he could, controlled his breathing against the pain, but a cramp made him shift and he couldn't completely stifle the gasp as his eyes closed and his head tilted back, muscles tensing. Sure enough when he looked back she was watching him, and a hand clamped down on his chest as she smiled.

Curling her leg from underneath her and closing and discarding the magazine that she was past bored with. She dropped it on the dresser beside her. "Oh good you're awake," she said, drawing out an exaggerated stretch as she raised her hands over her head and yawned. Her arms dropped to her sides and she stared at him again. "Let's play a game."

H&MCH&MC

"Do you want me to help carry that Milt?" Frank asked, more as a way to get the distracted Judge talking than from any expectation that he would accept the offer. From the look on Hardcastle's face the thoughts he was buried in were unpleasant at best and Harper hoped to provide a temporary distraction from his worry. The last half hour had shown him just how frazzled his friend's nerves were, as he demanded that his bank manager find him the money.

"I don't care where it comes from or what you have to sell to get it. I want fifty thousand dollars in small bills and I want it as soon as you can get someone to transfer it from the vault."

"May I ask what the money is for?" Mr Cheems had asked timorously, pushing his sliding glasses back up his nose.

"No you may not," Hardcastle answered his voice gruff, his anger and concern pervaded the room and explained the manager's anxiousness. An angry Milton C. Hardcastle could make men cower without even looking at them, and the Judge was positively glaring at the diminutive man behind the desk.

The manager sat back a little in his chair before recovering. He cleared his throat and looked down at the file open on his desk. "Well you do have considerable assets with the bank we could. . ."

"I told you I don't care how you do it." The Judge leant over, picking up the phone and placing it directly on the open file. "You can authorize the money, yes?"

Mr. Cheems nodded. "Yes, but. . ."

"No buts," the Judge said waving his hand dismissively. He sat back down. "Just do it, sort out the details however you want."

Mr. Cheems hesitated again. "I have to advise you," he tried again speaking hurriedly in the hope that he could get his point across before the Judge interrupted him. "It's really not in your best interests to. . . ."

"No, and it's probably not in my best interests to move all my business to another bank once this is over, but if you don't make that call.. . ."

That threat above all others seemed to do the trick and Mr. Cheems picked up the receiver.

After that it had been like watching a caged animal. Hardcastle had stood and prowled around the room, stopping every so often to tap his foot on the floor in his impatience, and ask again how long it was going to take, whilst Cheems reassured him that things were being done as quickly as was humanly possible. At one point Cheems had tried to make a joke of the fact that the Judge appreciated the need for security since he'd thought to bring his own police officer with him for protection, but the Judge had reacted with only a stony silence. Still it was the one and only time he'd looked over at Frank and acknowledged his presence, just a quick look, a simple short nod, but it was enough to let Frank know that his presence was appreciated and needed, even if it wasn't acknowledged.

Everyone in the room had been relieved when the bag carrying the money had finally arrived. Hardcastle had checked his watch as though he was cutting it fine on his deadline but the truth was the ransom drop was still hours away, too many hours away, too long for McCormick to be in the company of a mad woman, way too long.

"Milt?" Frank spoke a little louder, stopping as he spoke.

Hardcastle got one stride ahead of him before stopping himself and turning to his friend.

"I asked if you wanted any help with that?" he gestured at the heavy sports bag that the Judge was carrying.

Hardcastle looked down at the bag and then back up again. "No, I'm fine I don't. . ." He got that far before he looked in Frank's eyes and saw the real question in them. He knew he wasn't handling this well, knew that if he carried on the way he was going he would be a basket case by the time the ransom call came, but he couldn't help it, for the first time, despite all of the dangerous situations they'd been through together, he really felt like he was in danger of losing McCormick for good, and the thought of never seeing him again, the thought of what Melissa could do to him, was somehow eroding all of his normal fortitude and optimism. His nerves stretched so tight he thought they might snap. He stared at Frank for a moment, he wasn't just worried about McCormick, Frank was worried about him too. The Judge dropped his head forward, closing his eyes briefly as he drew in a deep breath and tried hard to relax some of the tension from his muscles.

When he looked up again he forced a small smile of gratitude. "You don't need to worry about me, Frank, I'll be fine."

"I know that," Frank lied "I just want to know if you want any help with that bag, but if you don't, then. . ."

The Judge looked down at it again. "You, know you're right it is kinda heavy, here. . " He tossed it over to Frank who caught it against his chest with a slight groan as air was forced out of his lungs. It was symbolic, and both men recognized it's true meaning although it was never expressed in words.

Frank lowered the bag to his side, gripping the handle firmly as he watched a little of the tension drain from his friend. For the first time since he'd arrived that morning, Frank felt that he was finally being allowed to share some of the burden of concern.

"Come on," Milt said, "We should really get back to the house in case she makes that next phone call."

Frank nodded and as they moved off he shifted the awkward bulky bag to his other hand. "You know if I'd known it was this heavy I don't think I'd have volunteered to carry it," he grumbled.

The Judge turned to look at him, grateful to have such a good friend around to give the support he needed. "Oh yes you would," he stated.

H&MCH&MC

CLICK.

Mark's world froze in that click. His heart stopped, his breath chocked in his throat, his hot skin replaced by blocks of ice, every muscle tensed simultaneously and held, just past the edge of pain, of nightmare cramps that a terrified, petrified brain could not even register, because time was not moving forwards. There was no time, the moment hung, the instant held on the edge of death and the affirmation of life, nothing and then. . .everything.

Mark's brain overloaded with sensation, a world of contrasts, pain and pleasure, terror and relief, blood thudded though arteries and veins, with pulsing intensity, flooding his system with adrenaline and natural endorphins. Every sense grew stronger, he could feel every inch of his skin, every brush of air, every slight rub of cloth, nerves exploded, colours brightened. Time started again but he couldn't move couldn't react, confusion reigned, and then the terror cut back in, overwhelming everything else, and now the only thing he could feel was the muzzle of the revolver pressed against his forehead, and it finally registered that the chamber had been empty this time, that he wasn't dead. He looked up into the smiling face of his tormentor, and for just an instant he wished that it hadn't, then all of this would be over, and she wouldn't be able to do this to him anymore.

Melissa sat back and gave a slight chuckle, pulling the revolver away for a moment and staring at it. The rush she had gained from pulling the trigger was unequalled, to be this close, to have life and death in her hands, and yet also trusting to fate, the roll of a dice, the spin of a cylinder deciding the outcome. The realization that the outcome was irrelevant to the emotions of her captive, just the belief that he might die was enough to allow her to taste the fear in the air around him. This made the whole killing experience like drinking a fine wine or expensive champagne, small sips of ecstasy until you were completely intoxicated. "Oh that was good." Melissa dragged out the last word, running her finger along the barrel. "Shall we try that again?"

Part of Mark wanted to protest, wanted to try begging her to stop, but he knew it wouldn't work, knew that there was nothing he could do or say that would end this with anything other than his death. Hell, begging would probably just mean that she would enjoy it more. It was strange, earlier he'd been able to beg for his dignity, but he couldn't do the same for his life. Instead he watched in silent terror as she flicked the cylinder and it began to spin.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .