Hey, it's a new chapter! Philips, ARK, and Dana all get something unexpected.

Un-beta'ed, so quibble away.

- o – o -

Chapter six: And Sweetly She Did Sing

Philips awoke to darkness. Given that he'd woken up to darkness the past five times, it had ceased to be so terrifying or worrisome. He'd come to terms with his abduction, and was trying to focus on something other than being locked in a torture cellar. Or something other than the inherent wrongness that was being abducted by Mr. Fleming's personal psychiatrist.

Privately, the security officer wondered if being overpowered and then abducted by an older, slightly overweight man threatened his masculinity in any way. It probably did. He shuddered and rolled onto his side. His hands were going slightly numb, which wasn't as worrisome as it could have been.

There were worse things than that, though—like being kidnapped by Doctor Psycho, or the fact that he didn't have any clothes. The one nice gesture he'd gotten from the psychopath was a blanket pulled up to his waist, no doubt in an effort to stave off pneumonia or some other illness brought on by cold and damp. Despite this, Philips still would have killed for a pair of shorts; contrary to popular opinion, he didn't actually wander around his apartment in the nude on his days off.

Philips sighed and flexed his hands again, trying to maintain some range of motion. He shivered a little, wishing he had something to take his mind off the fact that he couldn't move and was slowly going insane from boredom. Was it really necessary for him to be tied up, given that he wasn't going anywhere without his clothes? Or, for that matter, going anywhere since he had no idea where he was. (He could have been in the state park, for all he knew. Although that was unlikely, given the psycho's primary dumping ground had been an empty lot in one of Palm City's poorer neighborhoods.)

The security officer coughed, and winced. He should have known better than to aggravate the bruising on the side of his face. He'd been abducted…three days ago, if he'd done his math right. The bruising hadn't healed, and the lump on the side of his head from where the crowbar had connected with his skull wasn't getting any better either. If anything, it had swollen and now it hurt like hell. It was an interesting shade of reddish-purple (infection red, he thought) now. He'd gotten a good look at it early this morning, when he'd been allowed to shuffle upstairs to use the bathroom.

The bruise covered most of the left side of his face, and it still twinged badly. The last time he'd had an injury that hurt this much and was that colorful, he'd sliced his leg open while hiking. He'd had to endure six weeks of bad jokes from the doctors. Hearing jokes about losing his leg if the swelling didn't go down had not improved his disposition towards doctors one iota. He had to wonder what kind of jokes they'd be making if they saw his current injury.

He groaned as he heard the floorboards creaking over his head. The bastard was back from work, or whatever it was he did during the day. While boredom wasn't something he wanted to deal with, Doctor Psycho wasn't much higher on his list of priorities at the moment.

Philips wondered how hard he'd have to press the bruise on the side of his head against the wall, and for how long, before he passed out from the pain. He discarded it as a bad idea a few seconds later as one of the crime scene photos rose to the forefront of his mind. He'd been unconscious too many times this week already, and God knew what the doc would do to him while he was out.

With that horrifying thought, Philips turned to face the stairs, wishing his blindfold was off. He'd probably be blinded if the doc came down the stairs, but it'd be worth it just for a little bit of light. (It'd been dark when he'd been half-dragged upstairs that morning; too dark to see anything, anyways.) Maybe if he looked pathetic enough, Samuels would release him long enough to pull off a surprise attack and…

The security officer's line of thought trailed off as he smelled food—real, hot food. His face colored dark red in embarrassment as his stomach growled. The man was fairly sure the sound had echoed around the basement, but he was hungry, damn it! The last thing he could remember eating was a dry sandwich and a handful of salty peanuts for lunch the day he'd been abducted.

He swore in pain as the blindfold was ripped away from his face. After a few minutes of being blinded by the light streaming in from an open door at the top of the basement stairs, his vision cleared. Samuels was standing there, framed by the light streaming in from the upstairs hallway. He was holding a covered tray, and something too large to be a towel or a napkin was draped over one arm.

"Good afternoon, Jacob," Doctor Samuels said pleasantly, setting the tray down on a small table. Now that the blindfold was off, the security officer could examine the room he was being held captive in a bit better. He was in what amounted to a cage that was comprised of about a third of the subterranean room. What he saw on the other side made him close his eyes as a wave of horror rushed through him. He really didn't want to think what the leather cuffs on the wall were for, or the massive collection of knives arranged in a glass-fronted cabinet.

Philips yelped in pain as Samuels pressed a far-too gentle hand against the side of his face. The doctor frowned. For a second, he looked almost like Philips' uncle when faced with a niece or nephew who was sick or had a scrape or bruise. (Of course, he hadn't liked his uncle, so the comparison fell a little flat.)

"That looks rather painful," Samuels observed quietly. Philips glared at him, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He would have made a snarky reply, but the gag prevented him from saying anything. The doctor smiled at him, a slightly paternal look on his face.

The security officer tracked his abductor as the man pulled the cover off the tray. There was food, which made his stomach growl again, and what looked like some minor first-aid supplies.

"This should feel better in a minute."

Philips resisted the urge to moan in relief as something cool was smeared along the bruises. The strong antiseptic smell made his nose twitch a little, but the burning sensation from the major injury had receded somewhat. He whimpered into his gag when Samuels withdrew his hand, hating himself automatically.

Damn it, you need to remain objective about this, Philips thought angrily. This psycho is a psychiatrist. Shouldn't he know all about Stockholm Syndrome and all that other associated crap? Try to at least maintain some detachment, dumbass.

"Are you hungry?"

Philips looked up in surprise as Samuels began unwinding the strip of cloth gagging him. He nodded, wincing as his stomach growled for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Samuels dragged the little table over and picked up a spoon.

"Wait," Philips croaked. "My hands. Could you untie my hands? Please? I can feed myself, you know." He added the last bit as a pointed barb, and regretted it almost instantly. Samuels looked at him, and reached for the tray's cover.

"I can feed you, or you can go without," Samuels said, using the same measured tone. He probably used it with patients, Philips thought morosely. The security officer sighed and closed his eyes.

"Alright."

And, cheeks burning in humiliation, allowed Samuels to feed him.

- o – o -

Fleming looked over the data again and resisted the urge to throw someone out a window. He particularly had to resist the urge to murder whoever was in charge of the Appraiser case. (He'd also finally learned why the team had named their killer that: Each victim had been wearing a woman's engagement ring, resized specifically for them. The single diamond had been untraceable to any jeweler in the city, and none of them—as of yet—could remember selling any of the rings or resizing them.)

Over the past day, a hundred-man team had been working around the clock to check in with any male ARK employee between the ages of fifteen (couriers and interns; Fleming wasn't stupid enough to break child-labor laws) and thirty (the oldest victim, a janitor named Alvarez). All of them but one had been accounted for. Thus, Fleming's wish to kill someone via defenestration.

One of the primary investigators on the case was missing. Fleming stared at the employee photo identifying the latest victim in the case: Jacob Winston Philips, age twenty-seven. He'd been missing for three days; no calls had managed to get through to his cell phone, which his girlfriend (some public defender) swore the man never turned off.

Fleming sat back and studied the photo, wondering what connected a mid-level ARK employee to the thirty other victims. So far, the list encompassed a janitor, five couriers, twelve interns (considering the high rate of turn-over in that area, it didn't really surprise Fleming that no one had noticed them missing), two secretaries—again, not surprising—and ten members of Research and Development. None of them had been working on any project with a critical deadline, and had been slated for moves to other projects anyhow.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by his phone buzzing on his desk. It was Reese. Hopefully the man had some good news; a little ray of light in the midst of this current insanity in Palm City.

A few minutes later, Fleming was staring out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, contemplating the city that he was now the de facto ruler of. It had been so easy to declare martial law, he thought morosely. But it wasn't exactly unwelcome…

He smiled.

- o – o -

Dana walked into the Public Defender's office, carrying a box full of case files under one arm. There seemed to be a riot in progress, which was worrisome. She set her box down on one of the benches and looked around for Kia, spotting her friend's raspberry-colored rain coat almost immediately. The lawyer forced her way through the crowd to her friend, who looked annoyed.

"Kia, what's going on?" she asked, staring quizzically at the mob. Kia looked over at her, arms crossed and a scowl in place. "That bad, huh?" Dana said.

"Oh, you have no idea," Kia replied, forcing a smile. "It seems that ARK, in its infinite wisdom, has somehow prevented Scales from getting access to his usual bottom-feeding attorney." Dana smiled at the joke. There were few people in Palm City, outside of the mob bosses that could afford his services, who actually liked Maurice Sestito.

"So…why is everyone up in arms?" Dana asked. "Are we in a competition to see who gets to defend our friendly local gangster?" She was smiling at the joke until Kia nodded. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly," Kia said. "Everyone, including our illustrious boss," she pointed at Travis, "has had their name entered into this little competition. On the upside, we get to pass our cases off to everyone who isn't working on this one. On the downside… We have to work with the circus freak."

Dana frowned at the comment. She might not like or even respect Scales (hell, she actually hated the man), but there was no call to insult him because of his…disability. Despite this, she had the same prayer on her mind as everyone else: Please, for the love of all things holy, don't let me be his public defender.

She, and the rest of the public defender's office, waited with baited breath as a janitor—dragged off of his schedule by a harried-looking Travis—pulled a name out of the giant bucket.

Dana turned to Kia. "Twenty bucks says it's Travis," she muttered.

"You're on," Kia muttered back. She actually held her breath as the man unfolded the strip of paper.

"Dana Faraday."

The rest of the public defender's office looked at Dana, looks of utmost sympathy on their faces.

"Shit." It was truly the only way Dana could have summed the situation up.

- o – o -

So, what did you think? Good? Bad? Think Dana and Philips are being tormented unnecessarily for the sake of plot? Drop a line and let me know!