Guilty

Chapter 2

Perry lay very quiet, listening to the sound of someone moving around the room. The overhead lights were off, but it wasn't so dark that he couldn't make out the shape of the man from his prone vantage point. And then, unexpectedly, the room was flooded with light, and he could see all too clearly. The shock he experienced at seeing his captor nearly stopped his heart.

This is how it ends. I'm a spectator in my own death. And there's not one thing I can do about it.

Still feeling the effects of the drug Jason Ainsworth had given him, Perry tried his best to take stock of his situation—within the limits of his restraints. He narrowed his eyes in an effort to focus on objects around the room. Gradually his mind started inventorying what he saw. He was in an operating room and lying on an operating table. The walls were concrete. Concrete and white, like the kind of sterile environment found in hospital basements or medical examiner's surgeries. There were no windows, not even in the only door he could find. The table underneath him was smooth and metal and . . . cold. The floor was a colorless gray concrete, but there was something there, something stained . . . A drain!

I'm in trouble. That stain on the drain . . . I'm not fooling myself. This is where Ainsworth took the others. This is where he . . .

He closed his eyes but resisted the urge to shudder. No matter what, the details mattered. If by some miracle he found a way to stave off this madman's attack, he would need every bit of information he could glean. It was with a stern effort of will that he opened his eyes again.

To his right he noticed the wall held storage cabinets, a sink and a bank of what appeared to be monitors, like those used in hospitals for blood pressure and heart rate. In front of the cabinets stood Ainsworth himself, his back to him, either oblivious to his return to consciousness or, more likely, unperturbed by it.

Ainsworth, humming tunelessly, pulled out surgical instruments, holding them to the light before placing them on a rolling tray. He was wearing a surgeon's smock and mask, and his hands were sure and quick.

Perry's insides clenched, and the spasm forced the air out of his lungs in a low exhale. There was something about the man's calm, placid demeanor that made the situation all the more surreal. Ainsworth was a man who made few mistakes, and by the look of things, he wasn't about to allow another. When he pulled out a syringe and vial of colorless liquid, all thoughts of getting something to aid his escape evaporated.

I am not leaving this room alive. The thought wasn't entirely derived from hopelessness. All reason and logic seemed to confirm it. With that truth before him, Perry decided to use what time he had left to face what he had always tried to shove to the side. I don't have many regrets, but I do have one. I wish—

"Now Mr. Mason, let's begin." The voice, as flat and emotionless as the room itself, shattered Perry's thoughts. "You're awake. That's interesting."

Pushing the tray over to him, Ainsworth pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, giving each an ominous snap. He placed a rubber strap around Perry's upper arm, then began feeling for a vein.

"There it is," he confirmed, pushing the needle into Perry's arm. He watched with fascination as the plunger emptied the syringe. "First I am going to make an incision in your thorax." He picked up one of the sharp scalpels, placed a hand on Perry's chest, and brought the tip of the blade to within inches of the skin.

This time there was nothing Perry could do to control his shiver. His eyes were wide, wild and desperate. But his voice was nowhere to be found. The drug had already started to take effect.

"Damn, damn, damn! This will never do." Ainsworth's temper, the first sign of emotion he had displayed, flared.

He slammed the scalpel back on the tray, making the other instruments bounce in disarray. In one fluid movement he removed the gloves and mask and scowled. With his naked finger, he touched Perry's chest, then frowned in distaste.

"All of that manly chest hair will just ruin the effect. Something must be done about this."

He moved back in front of the cabinets. Perry knew he had seconds at most. He gritted his teeth, reached as best he could with his hand, and moved the tray a little closer. One of the scalpels was teetering on the edge. Ainsworth's pique had given him just a sliver of hope and the seed of a plan. The tray jiggled silently. The blade slipped.

Gripping his treasure in his hand, Perry said a swift prayer of thanks, then managed to position it under his thigh.

Please don't notice, please don't notice, please don't . . .

"This won't do!" The calm demeanor was gone, and the rage was in charge. It was the same rage Ainsworth had shown in the courtroom after the sentencing.

He was opening cabinet doors, searching through the shelves, then angrily shoving the doors shut. Unable to find what he wanted, he pounded his fists on the counter like a child throwing a tantrum. He turned back to Perry, his face contorted in anger.

"Did you take it, Mr. Mason?" Perry didn't answer. "Of course you didn't." His voice returned to a regular tone. "You will just have to wait. I don't seem to have the, uh, needed equipment to deal with you right now. I hope you use your time wisely, Counselor. You might want to make out a last will and testament." There was no humor in the statement. Then the man's eyes glistened and he leaned close to Perry's ear. "But rest assured, I will not be gone long. And then we will continue this little game."

His evil laugh bounced off the walls of the room. He opened the door, then reached for the light switch. A moment later the reverberation of the door slamming combined with the sudden, total darkness sent a wave of despair through Perry. Blade or no blade, he was just as helpless as before. The drug took over then, and all thoughts—escape or otherwise—vanished into the ether.

The door opened quietly. A figure stood in the doorway of the room, staring at the naked man strapped to the table. He saw the strength in the well-toned muscles, the brawny physique that confirmed the unconscious man was a fighter. A slow, teasing smile played along his mouth. This was going to be a pleasure.

A real pleasure.