It had been so long since he had last tried to stretch his aching arms and Detective Murdoch knew it would be even more difficult to try again but even he was taken aback by the severity of the pain that encompassed his shoulders with even the slightest movement. On the one hand he knew he had so little time available to him, but if his current pain level was any guide, he suspected that any sudden movement would likely have him spiralling into unconsciousness once more.

Gingerly he moved the fingers of his right hand, repeating the motion with his left as, to his relief, there was no increase in his discomfort. Moving his wrist proved equally possible but the involvement of his right elbow brought a marked increase in his degree of suffering - so far remaining as a dull but widespread ache. As it stood, it was bearable but any more would be a challenge, and he was well aware that he could expect more, almost certainly significantly more. Steeling himself, he began to slowly extend his left elbow.
Immediately, the muscles around his shoulder gripped in a tight spasm; his body's own defence mechanism against what it sensed would be excruciating pain. Murdoch's face contorted in agony as his whole arm seemed to lock in defiance of him, holding him on the brink of torture.

A white-hot stabbing sensation spread across his upper back and into his neck, swamping his concentration with agonising searing pulses. His eyes rolled back and he heard the rushing of blood inside his own ears. Aware that he was on the verge of passing out, Murdoch closed his fingers in a tight fist, digging his nails into his palm and turned all his thoughts and effort into simply remaining conscious.

After what felt an age, his racked body began to feel a dullness wash over it reducing the stabbing sensation to a stinging then down to a throbbing ache. Now, with some of his focus returned, he began to concentrate as hard as he was able on forcing himself to relax. His only release would be to ease the spasm in his muscles to prevent his shoulder-blades from rising still further. But even as he was realising this, the tightness was already increasing with each clipped breath and Murdoch knew he was fighting a losing battle. The worst of the agony would, of course, come from extending his shoulders, but he had no choice. He knew he would simply have to bite the bullet.

Closing his eyes, he grimaced as he fought against the debilitating and excruciating pain across his back and shoulders that now shot in repeated sharp shocks into his neck and head as he tried to move his entire right arm. Gasping as the severity of the pain took his breath away, Murdoch's head flopped back against the wall causing further distress as the bruising from Gillies' earlier attack caused a blinding pulse to spread behind his eyes.

Twisting, almost collapsing, his body to the left so that all the effort didn't have to come from his shoulder, Murdoch drew his legs into his chest and closed his eyes so tightly that tears of anguish and frustration dampened his lashes. He couldn't stop now; he had to keep going. All the suffering he had already endured would be for nothing if he gave in now. Snatching at a breath, a tight sound emerged from his lips that grew into a desperate scream as he straightened his arm as far as the chains would allow. Slumping forward as the muscles of his right arm finally responded to the movement and the pain slowly subsided caused him once again to groan as his left shoulder objected to the sudden motion. Pressing himself back against the wall, exhausted and weak, Murdoch turned to look at the left arm, hidden through a misty veil of unbidden tears. Swallowing hard he repeated the action, biting down on his lip to muffle the sound of his tortured cries. Finally with both shoulders mobile, he gently rolled both, alternately back and forth and as the pain subsided he wiped his eyes. Pulling shuddering unsteady breaths into his lungs as his body recovered from the shock, Murdoch allowed his eyes to survey the room. There had to be a way to escape and he was determined to find it.

oOo

George Crabtree stood across the street from Gillies' home. Somewhere in that building was the man who had abducted Detective Murdoch, possibly even the detective himself. Briefly he became aware that he was alone. Yes, Higgins had returned to the station house to inform the inspector and chief constable so it seemed likely that he wouldn't be alone for long but in the first instance, he had the element of surprise. Rupert Gillies wouldn't suspect a thing, he was certain. Once inside the house, he would arrest him and take him to the station for questioning, making sure not to let him near anything that might be used as a weapon. Once there, they could search for Detective Murdoch. Tear the house apart if they had to.

Crossing the street, Crabtree's mind raced as he pondered a convincing line of questioning that hadn't yet been covered and, more importantly, didn't hint at Rupert Gillies' involvement. Anything to make sure the man couldn't flee the premises before he got to him.

As he approached the door, a movement at the curtain in the drawing room caught his eye. Someone, presumably Rupert Gillies himself or more likely the butler, Heath, had seen him approach. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door. Looking down at his shoes, he braced himself for another confrontation with the obnoxious butler. He didn't like to be unkind or abrupt with anyone; it was simply not in his nature and he couldn't fathom why anyone else felt the need. But, as he had on so many occasions experienced, not everyone felt the same way.

Looking up as the door opened, Crabtree blanched as he saw the gun pointed directly at him.

"Constable Crabtree," James Gillies grinned broadly. "I saw you approach and I just had to greet you personally. Won't you come in?"
"You won't shoot me on the doorstep," Crabtree's voice sounded much braver than he felt.
"You're certain of that, are you, Constable? I do owe you a bullet, after all." He added nodding to his right shoulder, still in the sling.
"You'll attract attention."
"You mean I'll be arrested?" He laughed. "We both know how that always works out, don't we? No, you step inside, Crabtree or after shooting you, I'll kill your detective."
"Detective Murdoch is here?" Crabtree replied with surprise, much to Gillies amusement.
"Of course, you clearly didn't search the place very well, did you? You didn't find either of us. But then you are just a simple constable. Come in. Let me take you to him, I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you."

With a tightly clenched jaw, Crabtree stepped through the threshold. Even though the gun was held in Gillies' left hand, his right still in a sling from the gunshot wound, Crabtree couldn't be certain that he could overpower him without being badly hurt or worse. And what then? What would become of Detective Murdoch? No, better to place his faith in Higgins and Station House Four. As the door closed behind him he felt the gun jabbed hard into his ribs pushing him forward. Grimly, he complied; what else could he do?

The pair walked in silence down the hallway and Crabtree noted the unusual quiet in the house.

"Where is everyone?" He asked. "The butler?"
"Dead," Gillies replied calmly, unnervingly so. "You're quite alone, Constable."
"Station House Four know I'm here," Crabtree announced, then frowned, wondering if admitting that was such a good idea.
Gillies laughed. "They won't find you. Well, now, Constable, where did you forget to look?"

Crabtree walked ahead silently, occasionally prodded forward by Gillies' gun.

"Come now, Constable Crabtree, will you not even guess? We're almost there."
"I don't know," he muttered quietly.
"You're no fun," he sighed. "The cellar of course."
"No," Crabtree half turned as he walked. "We checked the cellar."
"You checked half the cellar. We split it into two. You only checked one side and all the while Detective Murdoch was chained up on the other side of a dividing wall. You could have only been standing twenty feet away." He chuckled lightly. "You see Constable, nobody will find you.

Gillies stopped as they reached what was once a doorway, but was now bricked up and plastered over. Crabtree turned and aimed a puzzled eye towards Gillies; it was obvious to anyone that the doorway had long since gone out of use.

"It's solid brick and plaster," he frowned. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"Yes," Gillies laughed again, "I do. But it's only to be expected, I suppose. Just because you work with a genius, doesn't make you one too. And of course, I am much more intelligent that even Detective Murdoch."
"I doubt that, Gillies; he's always got the better of you," Crabtree snapped back then immediately wished he hadn't as Gillies swept the barrel of the gun across his left temple causing him to collapse back against the wall. Automatically, his hand went protectively to the side of his head as his vision blurred and his senses reeled from the blow. Momentarily his legs gave from under him and now his hands went instinctively to the dado rail to help support his weight. As his right hand pressed down, a section of the rail gave way and the wall within the doorframe moved slowly backwards and to the side, revealing a flight of stairs.

"A secret panel?" Crabtree remarked as his mind cleared once more.
"Ah, if only you'd had the sense to try that when you were here earlier," Gillies mocked. "You know my father was an engineer, Constable, and yet you never put the two together. He assisted me in all my ventures. How else do you think we got the good detective here? Now, downstairs, if you will."

Crabtree inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Gillies didn't seem to realise that they had worked out that his father had been involved in his crimes. He and Higgins had even realised that it was Rupert Gillies who had abducted Detective Murdoch. Now, as he descended the stairs reluctantly, he knew that Higgins was on his way back to Station House Four. Rescue was at hand, provided of course that they found the entrance to the cellar. The chances seemed slim, but he had to believe.

"Detective Murdoch!" He cried as he saw the detective chained to the far wall of the cellar.
"George!" Murdoch cried hopefully, peering through the gloom toward the staircase only to have his hopes dashed as he saw the smirking face of Gillies walking behind the constable, gun in hand. "Are you all right, George? You're bleeding." Murdoch asked, concerned by what he could see.
"I'm fine, sir," Crabtree confirmed in a somewhat dulled tone, raising an eye in the direction that the gun had crashed so painfully against his temple. He couldn't see the bleeding, obviously, but he wasn't remotely surprised by it.
"How very touching!" Gillies chuckled. "But maybe not for long," he added, shoving Crabtree from behind.

Losing his footing and with nothing to hold onto, the constable fell forward. Stretching his arms out to break his fall, he landed heavily on his left hand, emitting a sharp cry of pain as he pulled it into his body for protection. Continuing down the stone steps, he seemed to roll and tumble like a rag doll, tossed carelessly down, coming to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the staircase, stopping only as he collided with the body of Heath, the butler still lying at the foot of the stairs.

"George!" Murdoch cried, straining on the chains, desperate to see if his colleague and friend was even still alive. "George!"

Gillies laughed loudly, almost uncontrollably at the sight of Constable Crabtree lying at an awkward angle at the bottom of the stairs. Detective Murdoch's obvious concern only seemed to amuse him more.

"What's the matter, Detective? He's had a soft landing," he continued to laugh at his own sick joke. "He should be fine. In fact, I sincerely hope he is."
"Why?" Murdoch snapped angrily, through gritted teeth. "So you can hurt him more?"
"Not at all, Detective," he grinned as he stepped over Crabtree. "So I can hurt you more. You see, I've long since realised what motivates you, and more, what hurts you. Isn't that true, Detective? I know what hurts you, but you have no concept of what hurts me! You can't beat me, Detective Murdoch, because you simply don't know me well enough. But you? You're transparent. You're much less challenging than I thought you'd be. A little disappointing, if I'm honest."
"You always think that, and that is always your undoing."

Now standing over Murdoch, Gillies reached down and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up.

"That may have been true in the past, Detective, but not this time. No, this time, I have you exactly where I want you and not a soul can help you. I realise that last time my mistake was allowing you movement. This time," he snarled, sharply pushing Murdoch's head back against the wall. The injury from earlier caused a further spike of pain that almost obliterated Gillies' words as he continued. "This time, I'll stop you moving, I'll stop you thinking, I'll stop you breathing!"

He paused as he stared in Murdoch's eyes, looking for signs of fear. Desperate not to give him satisfaction, Murdoch stared impassively back, gritting his teeth with determination. Contrary to what he expected, Gillies threw his head back, letting loose a cacophony of raucous laughter.

"Oh, Detective," he grinned, gently slapping Murdoch's cheek, "if I didn't find you so amusing, I would be very angry indeed. But perhaps I do need to teach you a lesson?" Interrupted by groaning noises as behind him Constable Crabtree slowly began to wake, Gillies paused. "However, first I'll deal with your lapdog."