Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“And what did you do?”

“I moved both bodies, made it look like Adams—that was the cop—and Billy were a thing and Adams shot Billy and then himself.”

“But?”

“But there were cameras in every room of James’s place, and I guess he gave the tape to Hartley for safekeeping.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I dunno. Maybe James had something on him as well.”

Perhaps he did.

“If it ever came out, I’d be finished in the FBI.”

“You’d go to prison,” I told him. “You know that. You were an accessory.”

“Yeah.”

I knew why he’d told me. I was a dead man. There was nothing to fear.

“Why did you bail on me after just the couple of times?” Wojno asked.

Now there was a time to talk about closure—when the person you wanted it with was cuffed naked to a cot. “No,” I answered.

“No, what?” he asked, leaning over me, his lips close to my ear.

“No, we’re not having a talk. Fuck you.”

“I—”

“For the record,” I said, my voice bottoming out, tears welling up in my eyes. “I would get you out of here. I wouldn’t leave you to die here.”

He stood up fast. “There’s nothing I can do. He’d kill me if I tried to set you free.”

“Okay,” I replied, swallowing my tears. “We know where we both stand, then.”

“You’re an idiot. I could give you some comfort.”

“I don’t need any,” I snarled as I heard a door open.

“What’s going on?” Hartley said accusingly, his dress shoes clipping across the cement floor, the leather bottoms rubbing over the grit so it made a loud scratching sound when he stopped beside the cot. “Why are you in here?”

“I wanted to explain things to Miro.”

“He doesn’t need anything from you,” Hartley assured him, “and I need to see him.”

Wojno left quickly. Hartley squatted down beside the cot and tipped his head sideways so we were sort of eye to eye.

“They broke your nose when they beat you, but I reset it, so you shouldn’t have any trouble breathing.”

“Okay.”

“I splinted your ring finger and pinky of your left hand because one of the men broke two of them before I realized what was happening.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying desperately to remain calm. I was close to having a panic attack—I remembered what they were like because I had quite a few when I was younger. It had been years, but the signs were there: the nausea, my racing heart, feeling overheated and freezing at the same time, and the spots in front of my eyes. If I couldn’t catch my breath, I was in real trouble.

“I drank some of your blood yesterday and ate a piece of flesh from your shoulder the night before. I apologize about the divot.”

Jesus. “It happens,” I replied, swallowing down the revulsion and fear.

“Originally my plan was to pull off all your flesh, but it’s much harder than skinning other things and would take far too long.”

My stomach rolled ominously.

“I of course have pentobarbital and thiopental on hand and would have put you into a coma before I did any of that.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know, I think the lorazepam I’m giving you—”

“What else is that called?”

“Ativan or Orfidal.”

“Ativan,” I repeated, “that’s the word I know.”

“Yes, well, I think I might be giving you too much. You’re a bit too calm. You’re not scared at all, are you?”

“I’m resigned,” I mumbled, even though I wasn’t. If I saw any glimmer of a chance to get out, I would take it in a heartbeat. The problem was, between the beatings and the sedation, I couldn’t really feel my body and wasn’t altogether sure what was working.

“Well, that’s no good. I want to hear some begging.”

“I’ll beg now,” I told him as he straightened his head and curled over me. I felt his lips between my shoulder blades. “Please don’t get rid of my body when you’re done. Leave something for someone to find.”

“Of course,” he assured me as he slipped his hands around my neck and squeezed.

I held on to consciousness as long as I could.

IT WAS one of those things. After the guys beat me so hard that my entire body throbbed and I could only see out of one eye, I was left hanging there, feeling like a side of meat, and that’s when I noticed the door.

It was open.

Not hanging ajar, not enough so you’d notice—enough like someone had meant to close it behind them but had not hung around long enough to hear the click. And no click meant it was not locked.

I had to gauge my motion, because after nothing but glucose and saline for I wasn’t sure how many days, my body was not mine anymore. It was ravaged. He had me full of drugs, I’d been beaten, bitten, strangled… tortured… the baseball bat to the ribs had gone on for what seemed like days on end, and now… now I needed to move.