Who?
Chapter One
He couldn't move. Well, that might not be altogether true. He would rescind. He couldn't move, much.
Shoulders given a flex, he then rotated his neck so that it crackled away the long-suffering position. It helped very little. The tension still tight around his throat, he looked down at the reason. Twelve binds, some overlapping another, locked both arms to his ribs, pressed against his waist and up to his chest. There must have been at least three knots. He could see two of them. One near his bellybutton, one along his left side, and the third had to be in the center of his back. When the slimy smile came near to his ear, whispering through his laughter that he would never escape, the outlaw's fingers moved in nimble fashion where he couldn't see. Yes, there were three knots.
He would not escape.
In defiance, his body fought against the rope that strangled his torso and threatened to cut off circulation to his hands. With a puff of hot air pushing past his kerchief-shrouded lips, he ended the huff with a choked sigh.
He truly would not escape.
"Ah, thought I heard you shuffling your carcass around," said his captor, walking into the dimly lit room. "I told you there was no use trying."
He tried to push a retort out, but the blue and white printed bandana stifled everything but his grumble.
"Now you see why I gagged you. I hate listening to dogs. Some whine, some howl, but you bark. Ain't that right?"
He wouldn't give the man the pleasure of a single nod. It was too bad that he couldn't pull his eyes away from him though. It would have been nice to show Joel Peavey that he wasn't even worth the flicker of his lashes. But he had to stare at him, had to look over the man that wanted him dead.
Peavey inched closer. "Or maybe you'd beg?"
It was useless to keep grinding his teeth against the soggy fabric, but it worked the proper sound out of his throat. Peavey would know exactly what kind of snap he would give if free, and it would be nothing off of his tongue. A bullet. That was what Peavey deserved. And if the outlaw made one mistake, that was what Peavey would get. Preferably by his hand, but satisfaction would still be there if someone else was behind the trigger.
Now his lashes did start to drop. Would there be someone else?
Peavey already hinted that he wouldn't be the only one falling into his hands. He had gone the full length, mentioning their names. Sneering as he said one, scoffing at the other. But what his pounding chest couldn't know, had they already been taken?
They weren't here, but that didn't mean that Peavey hadn't left them somewhere else, trussed with similar constricting binds. Then there was this thought. What if Peavey had already killed them?
Fear made him writhe.
Anger, or maybe it was nothing beyond Peavey's depravity, made him put a boot in his chest.
The air knocked out of his lungs, his eyes swelled with pain's panic. Sheer need for what gave him life, he attempted to suck its return through his covered lips. This only burned more. His nose taking over, he started the draft, but it was immediately cut off.
Peavey's fingers pinched across his nostrils. "I told you before, but I'll say it a hundred times if necessary. This ain't no town picnic you're on. You're my prisoner."
"Jrrpt," he sputtered, his head desperately trying to pull away from the tight hand that was turning his cheeks red and his mouth blue.
"What's that?"
"Jrrrrpt!"
Peavey laughed. "I can't make it out. Try again."
He couldn't. Whatever remnants were inside of him had wasted away. He felt like he was inside a closed coffin, suffocating by a pair of torturous arms holding the lid tight. And the only way out was death. He was all right with dying, wasn't afraid of it, he even expected it to come sooner than later. But not this way. He wasn't willing to cross the final threshold like this, unless Peavey went right along with him.
The need to carry on for even one more hour gave him the power to jerk his neck back and the hand flew away from his face. His nose pulled in a short draft, all that the ache could take. Then slowly, slowly he increased his breaths until the black circles that were swirling like the ruffles at the bottom of a saloon girl's skirt over his vision faded away.
If the do-si-do hadn't been welcoming him underneath a longer shroud he might not be so grateful to see real color again. Considering the alternative was Peavey's teeth, opening and closing with his laughter. And what might have been worse, the beady, almost glass-like look that was permanently etched in Peavey's blue eyes.
It was beneath him to shudder, but with the cold stare boring into his own, he couldn't prevent the course from head to toe.
"No worries." Peavey patted his cheek. "If there's anything on that tongue that I really wanna hear, I'll cut it out and take it with me."
He would have produced another tremor, but this time fear used the freezing method on his frame. Gone stiff, he looked at the man that was starting to pull away from him. Peavey had made several threats since he had been captured. This one might have been more gruesome, but it couldn't be dismissed. Nothing that Peavey said could be dismissed.
He was that evil. He was that sick.
And what was more, among his arsenal of weapons, the gun on his hip, the other at his waistband, Peavey wore a knife's sheath along his ribs. There was no doubt in the hammer that was his heart that it could be used to slice off his voice. He could use it for anything.
Seeing the direct point of the eyes across from him, Peavey ran a thumb over the leather layer. "I like that you know what I'm capable of. But just so we're clear on something. You won't die fast. If I have to pull this baby out, it won't go for that main line on your throat. Whittling you down to size is what'll suit me fine."
He wanted to ask when, but this time he wouldn't put his thoughts into a muffle. Kept in silence, he watched Peavey walk toward the only door and toss it open. Well, this was a first. He had been there a day, maybe longer if his head had been caught in an unconscious fog for more hours than he figured, but his eyes hadn't yet been allowed to wander past his personal square, until now.
So he was in a house. A shack, more like, but he had originally labeled his place of captivity as an outlying shed. The creaks and cracks that let in the wind had been the origin of the thought. He had been wrong. There was a kitchen out there, a table and chairs, too. And it wasn't because his nose was still focused on taking urgent breaths to heal the near suffocation from a few minutes before that made him know immediately what was sitting on that fire-warmed stove.
Steak.
Blast that Peavey. He had to be cooking something that would make his mouth water on purpose. Likely that was the reason why the door hadn't been pushed back into its seal. He wanted him to suffer all the more.
It wasn't easy held together by too many strands of rope, but he rotated his frame. He didn't want to give Peavey the added satisfaction of longing for what was currently being stabbed by a fork and dropped on a plate. In fact, he was so determined to not be lured by beef's aroma that he twisted his frame another notch. This put his head away from the sight completely.
Take that, he thought.
As he was unwilling to flicker his lashes in the door's direction, he couldn't know if there was any real satisfaction in turning away from Peavey's newest taunt. It didn't really matter. Anything other than looking at Peavey was a better view, even if the only focus was the thin line on the wall. He gave it his full attention, and rightfully so. It was letting in enough outside light to know the hue was out there, but it was obvious that it was fading. Night was going to be upon him. And the way he felt, the desire to sleep as far away as help was, it was set to be a long one.
He had missed the entire night before by the welt on the back of his skull. A rifle's backend had done it. The first part, anyway. The rest of oblivion came later. His eyes remained in slits as Peavey pulled him into a saddle. He was doing pretty good, keeping up with the direction that Peavey was leading him until a wobble of hooves made the trickle of blood drain into his face instead of dripping past his ear.
Lifting his hand to give his forehead a wipe, the reins in front of him were suddenly pulled to a hard stop. Slipping in the leather rocking chair, he landed with a thump on the ground. Arms splayed out to both sides, he watched through lowering lashes as Peavey walked to his position.
"Looks like I don't have to try too hard with you," Peavey said, frowning, yet still somehow able to show his teeth. "You're already done-in."
"Not." He had to take a breath. "Yet."
"Oh, I think you are."
That was when the real darkness kicked in, brought on by a real kick into darkness, courtesy of the tip of Peavey's boot into his head. From that moment until he woke, whenever he woke, he had known nothing. There was no distance, no location, not even an inkling of where they were.
Just this.
His eyes wandered away from the graying line to the ceiling, the opposite wall and then with enough reluctance that he grew a wince, landed his gaze on Peavey through the door. The no-account was watching him. Leaning back in his chair, he held a finger up to his mouth, chewing as if in thought. It would have been nice to label the man's mind having enough severe damaging that he didn't know that the steak had been polished away to a T-shaped bone, but it wasn't this. The lust proved otherwise. Whatever was in Peavey's mind was for him.
This was where he should have turned his gaze away again, searching for the dimly lit line on the wall to test if its darker shade had taken over, but somehow he was held captivated by the stare coming across from him. Unfortunately, that arctic chill wouldn't remain across from him. Standing, Peavey's position became clear.
"Thought you might be thirsty," Peavey said at his entry.
He looked at the amber liquid, creating a line of bubbles at its top line as Peavey sloshed the bottle back and forth and promptly shook his head.
"Of course you are. But coffee, now that'll just keep you awake. And water, that'll just run its course through your particulars and make you wanna use the outhouse. But this." Peavey pulled out the cork of his offering and waved the scent under his prisoner's nose. "This is poison in its prettiest form. It goes from your belly straight into your veins and then into your head. You ever down a whole bottle before?"
Keeping his head still was his answer. There was no point pulling one of Peavey's maniacal laughs out with truth. The sound would boil his belly more than what was in Peavey's hand would, guaranteed. And if he was wrong, he was about to find out.
The hand coming for his throat, he couldn't stop the recoil.
"Easy, now," Peavey said, pulling the bandana away from his lips. "This won't hurt."
"What…" Voice free for the first time in too many hours, he didn't carry his normal tone. At least it was stronger than a squeak, but the croak was too far from a bullfrog's to be impressive. "What do you care about hurting me?"
Peavey's grin flashed wide. "You're right, I don't."
The bottle's tip forced through his mouth, he jerked his jaw free. "Stop it, Peavey."
"What's the matter? Don't like home brew?"
"No."
"Well, you will," Peavey said, putting his grip into the hardened chin. "Hold still. Drink up, now."
"No!" The whiskey sputtered past his lips, but too much was going in to push back out. There was only one other place to go. Down.
"Glug, glug, there she goes, all the way down to the bottom."
He wanted to spit back at Peavey's singsong. He couldn't even form the proper purse of his lips. Not with a bottle continuous pouring into to his belly.
He coughed, he gagged, he even screamed, but it was no use. He was drowning without being submerged. And then came something much worse. Floating, his body bounced along on the sea of drunkenness. He would never stop. The amber liquid stretched out forever. It was forever inside of him.
For there went the last drop.
The hiccup's scent rushing straight into his nostrils to sicken him further, his head bobbled back, still floating, forever floating. "Pea…vey…"
"Oh yeah. I almost forgot one last part." The bandana making a return, Peavey stuffed it between his teeth and then tied the narrow ends at the back of his neck. One last act of spite, Peavey patted his flushed cheeks. "That oughta do it. Sweet dreams, my friend. I'd imagine they'll be doozeys."
Everything turning into a blur, his head began to throb. It was cruelty beyond imagination when the door slammed, its echo going on and on inside of his skull. But then it turned into mercy. Darkness all around him, save for that thin line on the wall that was now there in triplicate, he no longer had to watch the world sway. He wouldn't have to watch anything.
Well, that wasn't the truest statement to give. There was still the angry sea, now swelling, now pushing him under, now tossing him back upright, now upending him over a roll. He was drunk. And sick. Mainly he was drunk.
But the poison wasn't in full control, at least not yet. Maybe it was his perpetual float that wouldn't put him in the place of a sot's oblivion. Maybe it was something closer to his heart, something that whiskey couldn't whisk away. Peavey wanted him out this deep for a reason. The sickness growing in his gut before the booze was guzzled was the reason why.
Who would be Peavey's next target?
Who would help him?
Who would help any of them?
Who?
.:.
So. You might be wondering, what is this? Or maybe the bigger question is, who is this? I'll answer the second question first. I won't tell. And now back to the first question, in short, it is a work in progress. But, I have already written most of it, so waiting for days, weeks –gasp, months!? –No, it won't be that long of a wait between chapter updates. What I really want to do is have fun with my readers. (I hope) And so I have created a story where the characters names are hidden to tantalize your senses, to tickle your brain, maybe even to drive you crazy.
To help you along this adventure, this story is set in late season two, with three primary characters. Slim, Jess and Mort. In each chapter, one of these three will be featured. But I won't say who. While writing the scene, I'm trying not to describe this character so much that it's an automatic, "THAT'S JESS!" from you. When you finish the chapter, I want to know your guess of who it is. I understand if it might be confusing, but please hang in there. Eventually the story will shift to reveal the characters in their perspective peril, but there will still be a cliffhanging mystery to chew on your minds. If you don't want to play along, that's fine. It should have the same dramatic feel reading the whole story at once. But I would love to know what you think, chapter by chapter, update by update, death by death. Well, maybe I won't go that far, but somebody will have to die, right? But, who?
-CW
P.S.
And while the main characters are held in secrecy for now, the outlaw is not. While I have named him Joel Peavey after his character in "The Fugitives", (Joel Greevy) the two aren't related. But they are the same man. Please put in your imagination as you read the face, voice and complete evilness of Jan Merlin. Every sinister grin he performs here is for you, WillowDryad! I hope your skin is crawling, I mean… Enjoy!