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Collectable
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Chapter four
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When his heart starts to beat again, Neal brings a hand up to feel where the knife had skimmed his face. A few trickles of blood meet his hand but nothing deep. He looks to where the knife is now wedged in the wall. He can see now how the trap was rigged, with monofilament line, the invisible kind that magicians use in their levitating acts. Neal is pretty sure this isn't a magic act. That knife is very real and had he not ducked in time he would have been really dead.
Neal took in a deep breath and carefully got to his feet. Looking around the room he, sucks in his bottom lip nervously. Now that he knew it was there the illusion was ruined, he could plainly see the 'invisible' monofilament line zigzagging around the room in different patterns in different places, mostly over any possible exit, but also attached to random things.
"That's it Caffrey, we are coming in to get you." Peter's voice sounds in his ear.
"No!" Neal whispers in an exclamation, as much as anyone can exclaim in a whisper. He isn't going to tell Peter what was going on, he doesn't want the man to rush into the house half cocked in a valiant rescue attempt and get himself killed by one of this psycho's booby traps…Elizabeth would never forgive him.
"Neal," Peter breaths "What is going on in there?" he asks.
"Honestly Peter, I don't really know." Neal whispers into the watch, holding it to his mouth. He doesn't really care how he looks any more.
"Well, get out of there!" Peter ordered.
"I'm trying!" Neal's whisper is definitely exasperated, but then he gets very quiet, listening to the footsteps he can hear approaching again.
He moves back quickly to hide in a dark corner made by a large book shelf that doesn't quit touch the wall. Tripping backwards over a thin line of monofilament, Neal falls and an ice pick flies at him, aimed right at his chest.
Falling sideways, as he tries to catch himself on his dominant hand, he upsets the trajectory of the sharp pointy object headed straight for his heart. The ice pick lodges itself in his left shoulder. Neal has to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from shouting.
His tool bag flies from his hand and skids across the floor and into another trap line sending a meat cleaver across the room, where it lodges itself in the wall at about the height Neal's neck would have been at if he had been standing. Neal's heart stops again for a brief moment and he isn't sure he has ever been so scared before in his life.
Tears prickle the corner of his eyes, but he still doesn't trust himself not to scream, so he doesn't move his hand from his mouth just yet.
Neal bites down on his own leather clad finger for a moment, trying to overload his brain with pain messages in order to knock all of them out. It only somewhat works, but it's enough to allow him to remove his hand from his mouth a moment later. Pulling his hand away, he can see that he has bitten himself hard enough to leave permanent teeth indentations on his expensive leather glove, but honestly, he doesn't much care. It's about to be stained with blood anyway. He grabs hold of the ice pick's handle, stealing himself a moment before he gives an all mighty tug, yanking the pick out of his shoulder.
There is a lot of blood but it seems the pick has just gone through the fleshy part, right under the shoulder joint. With a lot of effort and practically one-handed, Neal rips a strip from the bottom o f his expensive dress shirt- heck, it has a hole in it anyway- before he manages to wrap it around his wound and tie it tight. It HURTS, how he has to move is injured shoulder in order to use both hands to tie the make shift bandage, but he has to stop the bleeding.
Panting and with tears in his eyes, Neal canvases the room again. He had missed the last trap, but he won't miss the next.
Only when he is positive he has the room memorized, every line of filament imprinted in his mind, does Neal scramble to his feet. It's a daunting task, one arm not quite as useful as Neal would like.
Brining his right hand up, he wipes the tears from his eyes. The leather feels awkward, like it doesn't quite get rid of all the moisture so much as spread it around and Neal resorts to using his arm, not caring how uncouth it is to wipe his face with his sleeve like a sniveling toddler.
He makes his way slowly through the living room and into the dining area, eyes open, taking in any and all changes to her surroundings. He notes more monofilament line attached to the windows and various objects and he makes a mental inventory.
He steps over the line that booby traps the opening to the kitchen and peers at the kitchen's back door. It isn't locked up like the front, but there are trap lines criss crossed over it. He might be able to wedge out between them, he has made it through tighter spaces then that, but the kitchen floor is covered in a thick yellow goo, starting just a few inches from where he stands on the linoleum. He doesn't know what that is but he isn't sure he can or should walk through it. He stands just inside the opening right before the start of the goo, and gives a sniff… acid, well- just- fuck!
Carefully, Neal steps backwards over the trap line and out of the kitchen. He makes his way around the bend of the wall and to the bathroom. He scans the room, it seems un-tampered with, that alone set off alarm bells in Neal's head, but the window is clear and as far as he knows, the only accessible exit in the entire house. There is a chance that the maniac had not gotten to this room yet. The window is small, he may not have felt the need to guard it. After all, he had many other places to booby trap and limited time to do it in if he wanted to prevent escape.
Weighing his choices, not that there were many, Neal takes a tentative step into the bathroom, and when nothing happens he pulls himself in all the way and towards the small window. A blood curdling scream of pain comes from the vent above the large mirror and he trips over the vanity bench, stumbling forward. The door slams shut forcefully and Neal gets to his feet fast, noticing only to late the trap wire hidden under the vanity, attached to the bench. He dashes to the door which he finds locked, from the outside, and he doesn't even know how that could possibly happen.
"Neal! Neal what was that screaming? That's it; we're coming in for you." Peter's voice is frantic in his ear and Neal has to fight to think coherently, himself, through the fear.
"No, Peter, no, Look… I don't know what's going on here. Whatever it is, it isn't good. The place is booby trapped and locked down tighter than fort Knox. You can't see the trip wires from outside because they are all inside, placed differently over each window and door. If you send someone in they will be killed and I still won't be out. Look, I-Ill find a way out…" It sounded like a lie even to his-own ears but he keeps going with it "I always weasel my way out of sticky situations."
"Neal…" Peter's voice is plaintive, pleading.
"No, Peter, I won't let you kill of good agents on a hopeless suicide mission, besides, I'm the only one slick enough to get me out of this place." His attempt at levity falls flat but Peter still relents. Neal isn't quite sure why, but that hurts.
"Okay, Neal." Peter's voice is suspiciously tight, and Neal wonders if this is goodbye.
As Peter's voice fades away, a thick ploom of gas bursts out of the vent accompanied by another scream of agony, from where ever the vent leads.
Neal scampers to the window and tries to push it open, it won't budge. It may not have been booby trapped but it seems it had been glued shut. He pushes harder looking up and out. He nearly falls backwards in fear as he sees that the window; was not, in fact glued shut but instead, standing by the window, holding it closed, from the outside is a man in a black leather mask staring at him with hungry sadistic brown eyes.
The sight makes Neal scream and cower like a cornered animal before turning back to the door. He claws and wails blindly white, freshly painted door, the one he himself painted the previous day. In his blind panic he doesn't see the short trap wire leading from the door knob to the light switch… he should have canvassed the room better instead of being blinded by the hope the clear window gave… A large metal meat tenderizer comes, flying at his head. He hasn't time or space to move out of its way so he crosses his arms over his head to protect himself, the heavy kitchen tool hits his left wrist hard, shattering the watch as well as some bones.
He cries out in pain and pulls his wrist to his body protectively. Tears trickle down his cheeks and he coughs, the air getting harder to breath. He tosses himself to the floor as more gas filters into the room, burning his lungs and making it hard to breath.
He can feel the edges of his vision blur and he bangs on the bottom part of the door, the strength of the banging fleeting away with his consciousness.
The screaming follows him into the darkness.