"Five." Lawrie said, breathlessly, and sat down heavily in his chair. That damned chair. Robbie was having trouble staying awake, could feel himself slipping. The intensity of the pain in his left side had made him start to realize that, after Lawrie's last few punches to his ribs, something had become wrong inside. Very wrong. Breathing was more difficult, more painful. Lawrie was a small man, but what he didn't have in power he made up with frequency. He had to face it, he wasn't exactly a young man anymore, either.
How long did he have left? How much more of this could he take and remain whole? Or was his mind already fractured? Would he be a complete raving loon by the time someone found him? If anyone found him? Was anyone even looking? How long had it been, actually? It could have been hours, or, as Robbie suspected, months. It was months that he had been down here, in the moldy cellar, freezing cold but burning hot. Around thirteen months, that sounded about right. No, wait, that couldn't be right. Could it? Maybe. Maybe he was insane, just like Lawrie. Maybe they would have padded cells next to each other in the cracker house.
He watched through the narrow slit of his right eye as Lawrie stared at the knife, becoming transfixed. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to see. When his one open eye finally swelled completely shut, would he panic more? What would enduring this in the darkness do to him? Lawrie was blocks of color and shape, not really in focus, but he could swear he saw him touch his fingertips to the blood on the knife, his blood, and then taste it. Yeah, insane, padded cell, thirteen months. He was so very tired. He couldn't hold his head up any longer and his chin touched his chest. Tired and cold.
"The problem, you see, is that thirteen is an odd number. I'm looking for something symmetrical. How are we going to do this, Lewis?" Lawrie's hands played over the cuts he had made but Robbie didn't feel them anymore. It was hard for him to feel anything except the burning, stabbing in his insides, the pounding in his head, and the need for air. Just a little more air, and he would be much better. Some water, that would do it. Then, there was this darkness that kept roiling around him, bubbling and reaching for him. His thoughts turned inward as his vision finally blackened. He focused on being home with Laura, watching her fill a glass with wine and hand it to him. He could smell it. The way she smelled after a shower. The scent of her skin as he slipped her blouse off her shoulder and kissed it lightly. The heady musk of her when they made love. He focused on her, looking up at him and saying something only slightly suggestive, smiling mischievously. He focused on his kids, on his grandson. The life they would all live together growing in his mind, becoming real, and he sank into it.
\m/
James followed closely behind DI Alan Peterson and his bunch of merry riflemen. "Jesus, Hathaway, watch it," Innocent hissed as the car rattled in the ruts of the road. Laura swung back and forth in the back seat, hanging on, eyes wide in fear and full of hesitant hope. Police cars and medics followed him and he glanced in the mirror to make sure they were still there, hitting another rut. "Hathaway, watch where your going, calm down, let's get there in one piece, please."
"Yes, ma'am." He didn't slow down. The house had belonged to a pair of maiden women that had somehow been related to Pamela Carson's family, James didn't know the details and didn't care.. They had called and gotten permission to enter, the homeowner not having been to the property in years. James wasn't sure how long it would have taken them to find that connection without Burgess spilling his guts. Henderson had left him crying. James didn't know Henderson, but he thought he owed him a pint. Or, maybe not, the guy scared the shit out of him.
The front of the convoy had stopped and Peterson was looking at the house in the distance with binoculars. "That's it," he said as James walked up. "We are going to set up, then get a plan for entry." James went to protest and Peterson put a hand up. "I know, Inspector, but if they know we are here before we can rush them and overwhelm them, they might hurt Robbie, if he is still alive in there." James nodded.
\m/
Burgess hadn't come back, and Lawrie knew he had to go. He should have gone when Burgess didn't return when he was supposed to, but he just didn't want to leave Robbie Lewis. He could try to take him, but honestly, how would he manage to get him even out of that cellar? Lewis was nearly dead weight, hell, he couldn't even get anything from him more than a mumble. He cursed Wilkins and the little shit Luke Burgess. There was no way he could get Lewis out of the cellar by himself, without spending time he didn't have. He paced. Carson was also dead weight. He'd leave the crazy bitch here, give the coppers someone to deal with. He looked into the open cellar and cursed. The world around him exploded with sound and light.
\m/
James watched as Peterson and his officers rushed the small home. He turned to Laura, standing next to him, and said, "wait here." He heard Innocent's protests as he ran in behind the men entering the house and ignored them completely.
The cellar was off to the left of the entrance to the home, and it didn't take him long to see the wooden door open, revealing the darkness below. He looked around at the officers wrestling with Lawrie and didn't see a sign of Robbie. He carefully picked his way down the cellar stairs, trying not to fall or hit his head, but stumbled on the dirt floor as he saw the form barely illuminated at the end of the cramped, dark hole. He pulled a torch from his tactical vest and clicked it on.
He paused to settle himself and to let relief and hope wash over him and started forward, surveying the floor in front of him to keep from falling. "Robbie?" When he didn't get an answer, he rushed forward. His heart clinched and froze when he saw the bloody form confined to the wooden chair. "Jesus, Robbie?" His voice cracked and was too high, panic began to wash out his vision. He lifted Robbie's head and cursed. He was unrecognizable, face swollen, bruised purple and blood streaked. Deep cuts around his eyes were spread open and crusted with old blood. He briefly held out hope that this was someone else, not his boss, not his friend and mentor. But the hairline, the shape of him was unmistakably Robbie. James fumbled at the man's neck for a pulse. It took him what seemed like minutes before he felt something faint. "Hold on, Robbie, I'm getting you out of here." He dug in his pocket for a knife and dropped it before closing his eyes and willing himself calm. He picked up the knife again, opened it and carefully began sawing at the tape that had been so liberally applied to Robbie's legs. He heard shouting and turned to see familiar legs at the cellar opening.
He turned back to Robbie and shouted, voice thin and cracking, "Laura! I have him, get the medics!" Laura was already coming down the stairs, fighting Peterson off of her while she stumbled forward. He heard Laura gasp and Peterson yell orders to hurry up clearing the house so the medics could enter. He freed Robbie's legs and moved to work on his arms. Laura crouched before Robbie, crying and reaching for his neck. James said, "I felt a pulse, Laura, but we have to get him to help, quick." She sobbed, tried to answer, and put shaking hands to the injured man's face. James moved around her to the left and cursed again when he saw Robbie's left hand, swollen and bloody.
Laura cupped Robbie's face in her hands, trying to see anything in his face that was familiar, that was her Robbie. Suddenly, Robbie tilted forward as James freed him and she took the weight of him in her arms and sat back on the floor, cradling him in her lap. She could feel shallow, ragged breaths, barely enough to sustain life. She felt crepitus in his ribs and the analogy of a bag of broken glass came to her, unbidden. She heard James scramble behind her, stumbling calling out for medics. Laura stroked back Robbie's hair and tears fell on his face. She saw his smashed lips move, almost imperceptible in the darkness and leaned into him. "Robbie, we're here, we got you, you are going to be ok." She wondered if platitudes of that type ever worked on victims, they seemed so meaningless to her ears as she spoke them. "Just, hold on, I've got you, just hold on."
His lips moved again, "Laura?" A small burst of happiness forced its way through her sobbing. It was hard to make out, low, pained, forced, but she was sure it had been her name and not just wishful thinking. "Yes, Robbie, it's me, help is here."
"Love. You." It was such a simple statement, but it had taken so much of his effort to say. Barely a whisper, dragged out until the sounds almost lost meaning, but it had been there. Simple and perfect.
"Oh," she sobbed and laughed again. "I love you to."
"Tell." She leaned in and kissed his head, fevered and damp with sweat and crusted with blood.
"Don't try to talk, Robbie."
"Tell. Lyn." He mumbled into her, and she felt a hand, his hand, weak and shaking, grip the back of her shirt. "Ken. Jack." He struggled. "Love. Them." His words halting, low, weak.
She nodded before realizing he couldn't see her. "You can tell them yourself, we are getting you out of here." She felt the last of his breath escaping his chest, his body trembling and cold and damp and sticky with blood. The hand on her shirt loosened and fell away. "No." she said to him, pleading. "No, Robbie, please hold on for me. Please."
James and Peterson were there, crouching, moving her away. Peterson said, "Laura, we have to get him out and up so the medics can get to him. They can't get down here. Let us have him." Laura stared, unblinking, shaking so badly that her teeth were chattering as James and Alan picked Robbie up and moved toward the cellar door. The tears had stopped, her eyes opened wide with terror and loss. Laura could only think that she had just felt Robbie die.