FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 14]

[splix]

Title: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice: kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.





*

Rooms at McGerrity's were one dollar per night, one-fifty with supper. Sean paid for a week, ordered supper, and stowed his bags in his second-floor room. He trudged downstairs and slid into one of the narrow booths along the wall. Jack McGerrity brought him a pint of dark Stegmaier ale, unasked, and a plate of sausage and chips. Sean dove in hungrily. It was his second meal of the day, if he didn't count the few mouthfuls of fish stew he'd eaten at the boarding house.

The evening was still new, and the pub held only a few clusters of men here and there, still sober and quiet, drinking their pints and smoking, absorbed in games of darts or backgammon. Sean felt at home here: the dark, polished wood of the bar, the mirrored signs on the walls advertising Stegmaier, Neuweiler, and Yuengling beers, the faded and smoke-stained wallpaper, the red faces of the men at the tables – it felt comfortable to him. Would Viggo ever feel at home in a place like this, despite his humble upbringing? Did a man ever become accustomed to living low once he'd lived high? It would be nice to have a bit more money, true, but Sean would never be comfortable in grand society, mixing with the upper classes. They saw right through him and treated him like the working man he was. That wasn't so bad. But would Viggo be willing to take on a simpler life? If Sean ever located him they might have a long talk about it.

"Sean!"

Sean looked up from the few chips left on his plate. "Gavin! What are you doing here? I didn't think the missus liked you out drinking."

Gavin held up the bottle of Coca-Cola in his hand and smiled wryly. "I'm hardly likely to get drunk on this. Can I sit?"

"Aye, sit. Sorry." Sean moved his plate closer to make room at the tiny table.

"The bottle had hold of me a few years back. I was out every night, coming back pissed and with a sore head in the morning, every morning. We almost lost the house because I was drinking the payments away. Winifred threatened to leave and take the bairns if I didn't stop – so I stopped. I do still love the smell, though."

Sean was impressed. "How can you come here and smell it, and watch lads drinking and all?"

"I pray," Gavin said. "And this here Coca-Cola isn't too bad, you know. Well now, never mind all that. I came looking for you, lad, truth be told. Was curious about how things went in Philadelphia."

Sean snorted. "Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen put a boot up my arse and showed me the door."

Gavin shook his head and took a nip from his bottle. "I was afraid of that. So you've not got your job back?"

"Christ, no – far from it. Gavin, listen – about the other day. Mr. King said some things –"

"I don't want to talk about that."

Sean shrank from Gavin's stern tone and flinty eyes. "Oh."

"It's –" Gavin drank again and set the bottle on the table. He scraped his fingernail along the raised glass lettering, staring at the bottle as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. "You're a good lad, Sean, and so is Mr. Viggo. I can't bear gossiping and ugly talk. That Harry – well, I told other people the same. I won't hear it, and there's an end to it."

"Thank you." Sean felt small. Gavin didn't owe him a thing, and here he was trying to preserve Sean's reputation. He tried to swallow around a lump in his throat. "Thanks, Gavin."

"Well. Hmph." Gavin was brisk. "I rather thought you'd bring Mr. Viggo back from Philadelphia. Does he know about all these goings-on? I spoke to Mr. Harald on the telephone yesterday and he asked me if I'd seen the young fellow. Said he'd come back here. I didn't dare ask him about Mr. King or any of it, though. Sounded like family business. Maybe there was a row."

"You've not seen him, Gavin?"

Gavin shook his head. "I thought you might have, lad. Mr. Harald asked me to ask him to telephone home. Will you tell him if you see him?"

"Aye, I would, if I knew where the hell he was," Sean replied morosely.

At that moment a group of men burst into the pub, laughing and chattering. They crowded round the bar, keeping Jack McGerrity busy drawing pint after pint. Some of the men glanced over at Sean. He recognized them as miners from the Lynwood colliery and raised his hand in greeting, but they ignored him, or stared coldly.

"How's that, Sean?"

Sean wrenched his attention back toward Gavin. "I don't rightly know, Gavin. It's an odd thing." He explained briefly about Viggo's notes, his absence. "He didn't come to the mine at all?"

"I was at the office there with Mr. King for a good part of the day." Gavin had to raise his voice to be heard above the racket. "Nobody showed up. In fact, I told Mr. Harald not to bother with the Coal & Iron police, as it was so quiet. He said he might send someone mid-week, just in case there's trouble." He sat quietly for a moment, his pitted face somber. "You don't think he's come to some mischief hereabouts, do you, lad?"

"I wish I knew."

A new voice intruded. "Well, well. Sean Bean. Thought you'd run off like a frightened little rabbit."

Sean smiled sourly at Gavin, then half-turned to address the owner of the voice. "Harry. Aren't you a bad bloody penny?"

"Heard you got sacked."

"And where'd you hear that?"

"Word gets round. You'd be surprised." Other miners, as clean as a tepid Saturday evening bath could make them, came to gather around Harry. They glared down at Sean, looking hungry for a fight.

"You mind your tongue, Slater," Gavin said. "I'll not have you stirring things up. You've stirred up enough already."

"Shove it up your arse, Rowe. You're not my boss any longer." Harry kept his blue gaze fastened on Sean. "Been hearing quite a lot about you, Sean. Some right nasty rumors, in fact."

"Probably made them all up yourself," Gavin muttered.

A big blond man grasped Gavin by the collar, half-lifting him from his seat. "You watch yourself, pal."

Gavin reached out almost casually and grasped the man's ear, giving it a hard twist and digging his fingernails into the tender cartilage. The man yelped and let Gavin go, clutching his ear. "I know you, you little good-for-nothing. You're Tommy Gwynnett." His gaze took in Harry, Gwynnett, and the rest of the miners gathered round. "If you've come for a fight, you're out of luck, Harry."

"I haven't, as it happens. I just want a word with Sean here. In private."

"Sean's talking with me," Gavin informed him.

"I can wait." Harry took a sip of his beer and nodded toward the door. "Once Gavin's gone home, Sean – all right? We'll go somewhere quiet, you and me."

"You think I'm that bloody soft? I'm not going to give you another chance to thump me again. Sod off, you bastard." Sean looked Gwynnett up and down. "I know you too. I remember you."

Gwynnett shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. Several of the miners exchanged puzzled glances. "It was your friend Mr. Mortensen what closed the mine," someone grumbled.

"Who said that?"

"I did." A man with the build of a wrestler stepped forward.

Sean peered at him closely. "Johnnie Wildes, isn't it?"

"That's right." Wildes folded massive arms over his chest.

"You know why the mine was closed?"

"Yeah, I know. Mr. Mortensen is trying to starve us into taking lower wages."

"They closed the mine because the inspector discovered that explosion was deliberately set."

"Ha. That's a likely excuse."

Sean regarded the man coolly. "They found a long, burned-out fuse leading from quite a ways forward. I'm telling you it was deliberate. Whoever set that charge murdered five men."

Wildes' red face worked. "That's…I don't believe it. Nobody would do a thing like that."

"Murdered," Sean repeated. "Who'd do a thing like that, Johnnie?"

"Murder," Harry sneered. "The mine was unsafe, and you know it better than I do, Sean."

"I expect it'll be in the papers next week." Sean drained the last of his ale.

"Those inspectors are all in Mortensen Coal's pocket. You expect us to believe anything else?"

Sean gave a soft laugh. "You believe what you like. It's the truth nevertheless." He eyed the miners flanking Harry. "Viggo Mortensen was nothing but good to the lot of you. It's your own bloody fault if you didn't want to make yourselves heard. Not one of you at that meeting he called, and why? Because you let Harry Slater do your thinking for you."

The miners shifted and muttered. "He'd talk down his nose at us and use a whole lot of ten-cent words, him and his fancy college education," another miner said.

"Bollocks. When's he ever done owt like that? Has he ever talked down his nose to you, Johnnie? Or you, Stash? Kevin? Mike?"

There was more muttering, and some shamefaced negative shakes of the head.

"Aye, I bloody thought not," Sean said. "And hasn't he already raised your wages, and tried to make things safer for you lads?"

"Talk, talk, talk," Harry said. "Stands to reason you'd stick up for him, doesn't it? Your good friend Viggo Mortensen. Thick as thieves, the pair of you." The insinuation in Harry's taunt was clear; he smiled triumphantly at Sean, pleased to draw blood.

Sean half-rose from the booth, and Gavin grabbed his arm. "Don't do it, lad," he murmured. "He's not worth the trouble."

"Been to any union meetings lately, Harry?" Sean sat again, clenching his fists.

"Why should I?"

"Don't you want your job back?"

"You and your sweetheart will see to it that I won't find a foreman's job hereabouts," Harry shrugged. "Johnnie will just have to take my place." The men gathered round watched avidly.

Horrible, helpless rage bubbled up inside Sean. Only by the most extraordinary effort did he manage to stay in his seat and not throttle Harry. He cleared his throat and spoke loudly. "Aye, well, you would know, Harry. You don't stay in one place for long, or so I hear. You lads should ask Harry who Freddy Watkins is, and what became of him."

Harry's smile faded, and sudden hatred glittered in his eyes. Confusion, then boredom, flickered across the faces of the assembled miners. The conversation was beyond them. It seemed it wasn't beyond the man Gavin called Tommy Gwynnett, though; he darted uneasy glances between Harry and Sean, and moved a little ways from Harry's proximity.

Jack McGerrity shouldered through the crowd and set another pint in front of Sean. "Here you go, lad." He cradled a thin length of iron pipe in his free arm. "The rest of you ought to sit yourselves down. What do you say, Johnnie? Mike?" The miners shuffled off, still muttering.

Sean watched them go. He didn't fault them their anger; they were out of jobs, after all, and there was no question that most of them didn't deserve the punishment. The men who frequented McGerrity's were among the more established, experienced miners; the others were new immigrants, unfamiliar with American customs and the English language and eager to fit in, easy prey for a clever bastard like Harry Slater. Maybe the older fellows would get to thinking about Harry's lack of loyalty, and about Viggo's fair treatment of them. Maybe Johnnie Wildes would prove to be a fair man and a decent judge of character.

Harry was still standing beside Sean's table, examining him closely. His eyes burned with anger, but there was a strange glee capering behind the rage. Sean sipped at his pint. "Something to say, Harry?"

"I'm not finished with you," Harry said softly. "When you're ready to talk, come over to my table." He jerked a thumb toward the window, where Tom Gwynnett sat staring at them in visible discomfort. "I'll even buy you a pint. No hard feelings."

"Shove it up your arse," Sean said.

Harry smiled, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Gavin rubbed his eyes. "Great bloody glory."

Sean nodded in weary agreement. "Aye. I'm done in, Gavin. I'm for bed."

"I can give you a lift home."

"Nay, I'm staying here now."

Gavin didn't press for an explanation. "Well, maybe it's best. I don't like the idea of you walking about anywhere with Harry and Tom Gwynnett trailing after you. They might take it in their heads to lump you up a bit, or drag you off somewhere and bash your head in. Did you see the look in Harry's eyes?"

"Aye, I saw it." Sean yawned. "Look here, Gavin. Will you get word to me if you see Viggo?"

"Sure I will, lad. You take care of yourself." Gavin frowned. "I might stay on a bit at the mine tomorrow, just to make certain nothing happens. If Harry starts stirring them up –"

"Mind yourself," Sean said soberly. "He's nowt to be trifled with."

"Righto." They shook hands. "Good night, lad."

Sean dragged himself upstairs with a last glowering stare at Harry, who watched him with a peculiar smile on his face.

Back in his tiny, musty-smelling room, he lowered himself to the bed. His eyelids felt sandbag-heavy, and he longed to sleep, but worry gnawed at his insides. He hadn't slept more than an hour or two since Friday morning. Already the ugly incident at the Mortensen house felt like a bad dream. He'd run about like a fool all of Saturday and still Viggo was nowhere to be found. If he really had gone off by himself, Sean would box his ears but good.

But that hadn't happened. Sean knew that as surely as he knew his own name. Viggo had been eager to see him, chafing at the bit. Maybe it was vanity to think that way, but it was true. Viggo had come back to Wilkes-Barre from Philadelphia. He hadn't stopped at his house. Perhaps he'd gone straight to the office. He'd made some notes. And then…what? He'd taken the Chinese carpet outside to give it a good beating? Rubbish. Although, Sean admitted, it would be just like Viggo to roll it up and carry it to his house so the maid could clean it. But that was nonsense too. If the maid had taken it, she would have seen Viggo, and so would have Viggo's valet Pearce. And Pearce, even if he was a nasty bugger, was being truthful when he'd said Viggo hadn't been home.

His eyes drifted shut, but his thoughts continued to whirl unabated. The rug bothered him. Why would someone steal it? There were plenty of things, expensive things that Viggo laughingly called bibelots that a thief could grab by the sack – things like Viggo's silver pen and inkwell, the little clock on his desk, jade and porcelain figurines on the mantel. Even if the rug was expensive, it was cumbersome and large. Large enough –

Sean sat up. Gooseflesh broke out on his skin.

Large enough to conceal someone within its folds.

Had Viggo any enemies to speak of? Nathaniel King had wanted to know. And Sean had answered truthfully. Viggo hadn't enemies. But Sean had. One in particular.

"Oh, Christ, Viggo," he moaned. He threw the covers back and hurried into his clothes and boots. He pounded down the stairs and into the taproom, and started for Harry's table.

He stopped short. Harry and Gwynnett were gone; the table was occupied by two young fellows in sack suits, their hats pushed back on their heads as they argued over the sporting page in the newspaper. Despairing, Sean went back to the bar. "Jack, where did Slater and that other fellow go?"

Jack McGerrity shook his head. "Don't know, lad. They left almost as soon as you went upstairs."

Uttering a vile obscenity beneath his breath, Sean started for the door. He turned back. "Jack – if you don't hear from me in a day or so…I've gone to look for Harry Slater."

Jack frowned. "Don't go looking for trouble, Sean."

"No need," Sean said. "It seems to find me."

Sean jammed his cap on his head and strode out of the taproom into the narrow corridor, then pushed the outer door open. He looked west and saw nothing but the empty street, the smoky yellow glow of the coal lamps shining dully off the streetcar track. He turned to look east and saw a checked vest beneath a grey coat.

"Sean, Sean," a familiar voice said.

He stared up into the face of Thomas McClure. Beside him, a thin, dark shadow, was Angus Hart. Dread flowered in Sean's stomach. "Oh, no…."

"Oh, yes." McClure's voice was tinged with reproach. "We've been looking for you." He grasped Sean's upper arm, and Hart stepped forward. The dull gleam of a set of manacles flashed in his hand.

*


There were far worse things, Viggo told himself, than being trapped in the darkness beneath thousands of tons of unstable earth, parched, half-starved, bound, and mute, with no possibility of escape and only the merest chance of rescue. He could be dead, after all. Harry Slater could have murdered him straight away, or tortured him as he'd tortured poor Freddy Watkins. The roof could have fallen in on him already, or he could have choked on the wadded cloth in his mouth, or he could have suffocated on blackdamp. He was still alive, though, and he clung grimly to an ever-attenuating strand of hope, praying it wouldn't break and take his sanity with it.

It had almost deserted him some hours before. Tom Gwynnett had come to check that Viggo was still secured to the timber, as if he were able to break through dozens of sturdy lengths of wire. Viggo had refused to vocalize, as it was pure ignominy to attempt to make himself understood, but he had begged with as much eloquence as a gaze could muster. He would have given his entire inheritance for ten minutes of freedom and a drink of water, even the coal-fouled water that sat in puddles on the rough, cold ground. Gwynnett had studiously avoided Viggo's eyes as he checked the bindings, and had left quickly. Viggo's resolve had crumbled, and he'd voiced smothered pleas as Gwynnett's footfalls and the tiny light had receded in the distance. Afterward, he'd wept in rage and frustration, wrenching furiously at the wire, freshly awakened to every cramp and twitch in his aching frame.

Never before had he been subject to enforced stillness. The sensations it produced ebbed and flowed from discomfort to numbness to outright agony and back again. Several times his abused muscles had cramped, and his body shook with spasms that frightened him. His wrists and ankles were raw circles of pain from hours of fruitless chafing against the abrasive copper wire. His injured knee had swollen and throbbed like a rotted tooth. The pain in his head had abated somewhat, but he was conscious of tender spots on his temple and cheek. His jaw was sore from the gag, and his throat parched from the muffled cries that had brought no reply. Unable to help himself, he'd voided his bladder. He was cold, and the swallowing blackness was terrifying, as were the ominous creaks and groans of the settling earth. His hunger and thirst were dreadful. Dull but persistent pains assailed his midsection, and his entire body seemed centered round the gaping hole inside him.

Terrible as all that was, it wasn't the worst of his suffering. In the dark and chill of the mine, time's ordinary pace slowed and stretched to a sluggish crawl, taunting him. He listened to the monotonous drip of water and tried to measure time against its rhythm, but that only made matters worse; not only did the water remind him of his thirst, it refused to drop at a steady pace. Long, agonizing seconds passed between single droplets, then too many to count all at once. He attempted to make time pass by inwardly reciting a Cicero oration that had always given him trouble in college, then by conjugating every irregular Latin verb he could remember, but his physical discomfort and a stealthy, growing fear interrupted him, along with the
distressing images of Harry's promised revenge upon Sean.

Fear eclipsed his reason, and he threw himself forward against his bonds. The timber didn't budge, but a menacing groan sounded above him, and he halted in terror. Sweat stung his eyes. He leaned back and composed himself with difficulty.

Harry was an inveterate liar. He had to be. Sean would no more kill anyone, or try to, than Viggo would. And even if he had accepted money to do so, compassion had won out in the end – to their misfortune. Viggo closed his eyes and prayed urgently. Don't let him hurt Sean. I can bear this. I'll offer it up for the poor souls in Purgatory if only You keep him safe.

He felt a bit better. Sean was canny, and rightly suspicious of Harry; he wouldn't put himself in a vulnerable position the way Viggo had, for he understood Harry's true nature. Viggo would never forgive himself for not paying closer heed to Sean's warnings. Exhausted, he sat still for a long time, his eyes closed, and finally slipped into a twilight slumber that brought no true rest.

*

The sound of footsteps against stone echoed down the corridor. Viggo's eyes flew open, but he
still saw nothing but blackness. The noise, though, was unmistakable, as was the soft, growing light. Viggo waited fearfully, afraid to cry out. It was doubtless Gwynnett again, or Harry, come to crow. What kind of monster gloated over a man's slow death? As the sound drew closer, he couldn't prevent a soft moan of distress.

The light shone in his face, and though it was an ordinary carbide lamp, it was as though someone had pried his eyes open and forced him to stare at the sun. He turned his face aside.

"Mr. Viggo – oh, dear God!" The light dipped down, and sturdy fingers fumbled at the gag, yanking it out of his mouth.

Viggo turned back and saw Gavin Rowe's homely face, furrowed with anxiety. He let out a sob of relief that came out as a harsh caw. "Gavin…" His tongue was thick and clumsy, his strength inadequate to his will.

"Hush now, sir, don't try to speak. Let me get you free of this."

"Water – please."

"Righto. I haven't – ah, here we are. Let me cool this a bit." Gavin unscrewed the top of the lamp and dipped it into one of the puddles nearby. He held it to Viggo's cracked lips. "Nice and slow, sir. It's going to taste nasty, I'm afraid."

It did. It was oily, muddy-tasting, and flat, but to Viggo, it was ambrosia, and he drank it eagerly. "More – please."

"All right. Slow, sir." He tipped more water into Viggo's mouth. "It was Harry Slater what brought you down here, wasn't it?"

Viggo nodded. He felt the water trickling through him, irrigating his body. Even if the water was polluted, it was an astounding sensation. "Yes. He's planning to extort money from my father. Gavin – where's Sean? Have you seen him?"

"Yes indeed. Saw him last night at McGerrity's. He's worried about you, lad, and rightly so, it seems. And so is your dad. I spoke to him on Friday, and he was anxious that you weren't about."

"Friday," Viggo whispered. "What day is it now?"

"It's Sunday morning," Gavin said. "I followed that bloody no-good Tommy Gwynnett here. Waited for him to come out because I thought he might jump me. Well, he came up from the slope looking like the dog's dinner, and I figured he was up to some kind of mischief. Thought he'd set another charge or sommat like that, so I waited a while. Took me hours to find you. They hid you right proper, didn't they?" Gavin scuttled forward on his knees, holding his lamp close to Viggo's chest. "Good God almighty, is this copper wire? I'll have to get a set of snips, sir. Did he tie your hands with that as well?"

"Don't leave," Viggo begged.

"Have to, sir. I've only got my knife, and Harry's knotted this too well to work free. I'm only going to the office below. I'll be back inside half an hour. I promise." Gavin stopped and scrutinized Viggo's face. "My God. He's starved you, hasn't he? That bloody bastard. Don't worry, sir. We'll see he's brought to justice for this. Your mum and dad must be frantic. We'll telephone them right away, after we call the police."

Viggo leaned back against the timber and ruthlessly suppressed his rising panic. It was preposterous, but he was more afraid now that Gavin was here than when he'd been alone. He could wait half an hour. Of course he could. "Please hurry."

"I've got to take the lamp, sir," Gavin said apologetically.

"I understand. Please don't think me ungrateful. I only –" Viggo pressed his lips together to stop their trembling. "I'm so terribly hungry."

"I know. Poor lad." Gavin touched his shoulder awkwardly, then stood. "I'll be back as quick as I can, sir."

Viggo closed his eyes and listened to Gavin's footsteps disappearing. "Eo, is, it," he whispered. "Imus, itis, eunt. Edo, es, est. Edimus, estis, edunt." He wet his lips with a tongue now coated in coal dust. The taste of the water had settled in his mouth, foul and oily, and he was thirstier than ever. His body cried out for nourishment. "Possum, potes, potest. Possumus, potestis, possunt. Oh, Lord, hurry, Gavin."

Long moments passed. The water dripped unsteadily nearby. Another spasm racked his body, setting off a sharp pang in his belly. He drew his knees up to his chest. He smelled his own stench now, a disagreeable mélange of sweat and urine and a peculiar sickly odor he couldn't identify. "A bath. I'll have a long bath. And bacon and eggs, and fried potatoes, and pancakes. Coffee." He rested his head against the timber and shuddered. "Poteram, poteras, poterat. Poteramus, poteratis, poterant." He was going to end up bawling like an infant if Gavin didn't return soon.

"Never mind," he whispered harshly. He'd think of pleasant things. Sean! Sean was safe, and worried for him. It was a comforting thought. Even if Gavin hadn't become suspicious, Sean would have realized that Viggo had been missing for far too long. He envisioned their reunion – after he had bathed and shaved. A little manly sweat was a perfectly acceptable smell, but his present disreputable and aromatic state would drive poor Sean out of the room. A smile curved his cracked lips, and he winced. "Ouch."

"Coming, sir!" Gavin's voice was a faint, queer echo, but if a chorus of angels had descended from the heavens, Viggo thought their voices wouldn't be half as sweet. He smiled again, and waited, taking heart as the light drew closer.

"Hurry!" Viggo called hoarsely. "In here!" He beamed as the light reappeared. It was still too bright. He squinted against the stinging tears. "I never imagined that a carbide lamp would be so brilliant."

"I reckon it is, if you've been in the dark for two days and nights." Gavin placed the lamp near Viggo's feet. "Now then, sir, we'll start by getting this wire off your ankles and knees, so's you have a bit of blood in them again when we have to leave. You can lean on me, but I don't know that I can carry you the whole way."

"I'll dash out of here, believe me."

"I do at that. Then we'll telephone the police and your parents, and then I'll buy you the biggest breakfast in Wilkes-Barre." Carefully, Gavin slipped the blade of the wire cutters beneath the twisted copper strands. "Heavens, they're tight. Don't want to injure you, sir."

"Never mind. A little cut isn't going to cripple me. I'll make certain to disinfect it." Viggo held very still. "I was just thinking of what I'd eat when I got out of here. Right now I think I could happily gnaw on a piece of shoe leather, but –" A sudden movement in the corner of his eye stopped him. He looked up in time to see a flash of metal swinging downward. Something warm and wet splashed his cheek, and the blade of the wire cutter sliced into his ankle.

"Bugger," said a soft voice.

"What –?" Viggo strained to see what had happened. He peered at Gavin, who was staring at him with wide eyes. A sudden horrible croaking noise came from the man's mouth, and he fell sideways, knocking the lamp over. It rolled toward the rock wall, but it briefly illuminated the bright blade of what looked like a pickaxe embedded in Gavin's back.

"Oh, Jesus," said another voice.

Bewildered, uncomprehending, Viggo sought the source of the voices. "Who's there?"

Gavin uttered another gurgling cry and batted at Viggo's leg.

"Gavin?"

"It's just us chickens now, Vig boy."

Viggo froze as another lamp flared to life and Harry Slater smiled down at him. "You…." He looked at Gavin again, at his wide, staring eyes, at his mouth, gasping like a fish plucked from a lake, at his uselessly flapping hands, moving in ever-diminishing circles, at the shining bit of metal emerging from the center of his chest around a spreading patch of glistening dark wetness.

It wasn't real. It couldn't possibly be real.

"Jesus. Jesus, Harry. Did you have to?"

Gavin's hand clutched convulsively at Viggo's leg, breaking the momentary illusion. Viggo heard a peculiar keening noise and realized it was his own voice, a steady moan from deep inside his chest. Horror gathered strength, surging up through him, and he knew he was going to scream at last. It would be a relief. He would roar himself into utter derangement, and never have to return to this living nightmare.

He opened his mouth, and Harry was beside him in an instant. He clamped a hand over Viggo's mouth and pinched his nose shut. Viggo twisted and thrashed, heedless of the weak roof, of Harry's proximity, of the sight of Gavin struggling for his last moments of life. He fought to bellow his terror and fury and desperation, but Harry's hand stifled him, cutting off his air and his screams, hard fingers digging into Viggo's jaw.

"Shut up. Shut up and I'll let you breathe, Vig boy." Harry's voice was quiet, almost gentle.

Viggo tried to wrench his head away and failed. Sparkling red and black fireworks exploded in his vision through a greying mist. Harry was going to kill him, and part of him was dimly grateful for it even as he continued to writhe for freedom and air. He made one last attempt to gather even the slightest bit of breath, and a wave of faintness overtook him.

A splash of oily water in his face brought him around. Spluttering, he blinked and coughed, unable to see through a sticky film of wetness. His eyes teared and burned, and finally cleared enough to discern Harry Slater and Tom Gwynnett examining him. He shifted his gaze to Gavin, now mercifully still.

"Going to keep that trap of yours shut?"

Viggo turned his face away. "Murderer."

Harry laughed. "Well, I shan't quibble with you there, sir. Took him a good long while to die, though. I thought I'd hit him in just the right spot. But never mind about him. How are you holding up, sir? You don't look much the worse for wear. You smell a bit ripe, though." When Viggo refused to answer, Harry grasped Viggo's ear and yanked his head round, grinning at Viggo's gasp of pain. "That's what Gavin did to my friend Tommy here last night. Tommy didn't much care for that, did you, Tommy?"

"No," said Gwynnett in a flat, hollow voice.

Harry grasped either side of Viggo's head and slid his thumbs across Viggo's cheekbones. "I don't like being ignored, sir. I want your eyes on me when I'm talking. You ignore me again and I'll gouge them out."

"Go to hell," Viggo whispered.

"That's as may be. But not today." Harry drew closer, straddling Viggo's legs, and brushed wet lips over Viggo's throat, holding his head still as he tried to twist free. "No, you don't smell pretty at all, sir. Not that I mind so much. You and I could have some fun if it weren't for Tommy."

"Harry," Tom Gwynnett said uneasily. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

"Sean didn't know the half of it," Viggo said. "You're a monster."

Harry clucked his tongue. "That Sean. He and Gavin were in cahoots last night – did he tell you? I thought I might be able to get him here myself, but he's not as stupid as he looks. I think he might have come with Gavin this morning but for one thing."

Viggo's heart plummeted. "You've killed him." A dry sob caught in his throat. "You filthy, filthy bastard." Heedless of Harry's threats, he closed his eyes to shut out the sight of Harry's foul, leering grin.

"No, I didn't kill him. Pity, that. No, sir. He was arrested last night by those coppers from Leeds. So it's back to England with him, then a trial, then the rope. Oh now, don't cry, sir. I see tears swimming in those pretty eyes. Tears are for women. And poofs." One hand insinuated itself between Viggo's legs, fondling with obscene tenderness.

Viggo leaned his head back, then brought his knees up with all his strength, catching Harry squarely in the groin. His injured joint howled in protest, but it was worth it to hear Harry's high, ragged scream – a very satisfying sound indeed.

Harry rolled off Viggo, clutching his crotch with both hands. He writhed for a moment, his mouth moving wordlessly. Tom Gwynnett tried to right him and got an elbow in the face for his pains. "Oh, you cunt-licking, cock-sucking, arse-fucking prick." He shoved Tom off and started toward Viggo. "I'm going to cut your balls off with those snips, you little son of a whore."

Gwynnett grabbed Harry's upper arms and held him tightly. "Harry, no. No."

"Let me go, you stupid cunt. I'm going to kill him."

"Go on. Kill me," Viggo said. "You're going to no matter what happens, aren't you?"

Harry stilled. "What's that, you bloody little poof?"

"Even if my parents pay the ransom, you're not going to let me live. I've seen you murder Gavin. You confessed to murdering Freddy Watkins." Viggo let out a harsh laugh. "You'll kill me one way or the other, so what does it matter if you do it now?"

"As it happens," Harry said, "I'm going to Philadelphia tonight. Your dad will be at the Broad Street Station tomorrow morning with the money. I'm sure one of his pals at the bank opened the safes for him. Then I'm headed West, none of your blood on my hands."

"So you'll leave Tom to kill me."

"Tom will be on his way to join me tomorrow morning," Harry said. "As soon as he sees that all the loose ends are wrapped up." He smiled at Viggo. "So to speak."

"He's lying to you, Mr. Gwynnett," Viggo said. "He's going to take the money and abandon you. Where did he tell you to meet him? Pittsburgh? Cleveland? Chicago?"

Gwynnett's brow contracted. "Cincinnati," he murmured.

"If you don't get caught by the police, you'll be penniless, and a murderer besides. I hope your conscience can bear the strain. Poverty doesn't cushion guilt exceedingly well."

"I've heard about enough from you." Harry shook off Tom Gwynnett's hands. He knelt beside Viggo, took the gag that still hung around his neck, and shoved it back into his mouth. He tied the ends cruelly tight. "I'll let you die in perfect health. If the rats haven't come yet, they'll come when they smell a corpse. That's a bloody Christmas feast for them. I'll just leave old Gavin here so you can listen to them, eh? And maybe when they tire of him, they'll start nibbling at you."

"Harry, maybe we shouldn't –"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Harry bellowed, wheeling on Gwynnett. "Get your fat, lazy arse up to the top and make sure nobody else comes down until Monday morning. Got that, you fucking toad?"

Gwynnett cowered. "You've got the lamp, Harry…."

All the rage drained out of Harry's face, and a benevolent smile shone forth. "Well. So I do. But we have an extra now, Tommy." He pointed at Gavin's overturned lamp. "Grab that. I'll be along directly."

Obediently, Tom Gwynnett picked up the still-burning lamp. He shuffled to the doorway and stopped, peering over his shoulder, his brow still creased with worry.

"Go on, Tom," Harry said gently. He waited until Tom's light and footsteps faded to nothing, then sat more comfortably. "Christ, you thumped me a good one. I knew you had spirit. Oh, don't wear yourself out glaring at me, sir. You'll need your strength, until Tom comes back, anyway. He's not very bright – even now he believes me, not you. He really does think I'll meet him in Cincinnati. Poor bastard. And he's not what you'd call creative. He'll probably just beat you to death. Sorry for that." He rested his hand on Viggo's shoulder with deceptive informality.

Viggo tried to squirm away, but it was no use. Harry's hand trailed down his chest and came to rest on his lower belly.

"I haven't time to do the things I like. Pity. And it's a pity about Sean, too." Harry sounded genuinely regretful, and rubbed his chin in a reflective fashion. "I'd have loved to finish him off on my own. Still, that's life and no mistake. There'll always be another fellow round the corner, eh? It's a big world." His fingers drummed against Viggo's abdomen.

Enduring was the only answer to this assault. He held perfectly still as Harry's hand crept lower. Then blinding agony seized Viggo as Harry reached between his legs and squeezed. He convulsed against his bonds, sure he would vomit and choke to death. The gag muffled the loudest of his screams, but they echoed throughout the chamber nonetheless. Tears poured from his eyes.

"That's just a taste, sir. Eye for an eye, as it were. You're bloody lucky, you know that?" Harry got to his feet, picked up his lamp, and strolled to the door. "Well, you've got Gavin to keep you company for a while. I should have thought to leave a lamp for you – that way you could look at each other. Good job it stays cool down here – he'd smell worse than you in no time."

Through his tears, Viggo saw Gavin's dead, staring eyes. He moaned softly.

"Ah well. So long, sir. Mind the rats, now." Harry walked down the hewn corridor, taking the light with him.

Viggo waited, listening to the dripping of water, the now-familiar creaking of the rock above him. He no longer cared about the loose ceiling, or the rats, or his hunger and thirst and pain. Gavin was dead not three feet away from him, Harry was off to extort ten thousand dollars from his father, his family was either estranged or befuddled or gone, Tom Gwynnett was too cowed to stand up to Harry, and Sean was on his way back to England to swing for a crime he hadn't committed. And Viggo, who now knew the full truth, was hopelessly trapped in this miserable, dank hole.

Not a hole, no. A tomb.

Despair stole over him, inexorable, engulfing, and absolute.

*


"For Christ's sake!" Sean grunted as Hart shoved him up against the wall and wrenched his arms together. "You've got to listen to me. It's Harry Slater you want."

McClure's thick, broad hand braced itself against Sean's chest. "Hold still, lad. No fighting."

In answer, Sean tried to heave himself back away from the warm brick. The detectives slammed him backward. His untucked shirt rode up, and he received a broad, raw scrape against his lower back for his efforts. "Bloody hell – you don't know what you're doing! We've got to go after Harry."

McClure pinned Sean to the wall easily until Hart had secured the manacles around Sean's wrists. He looped an arm through one of Sean's, dragging him toward a buggy that waited beside the curb. "You've caused us far too much trouble already, Sean. Come along now. Don't make me lump you up, eh?" Hart climbed into the driver's seat, then the two detectives manhandled Sean into the back. "You all right there?" McClure asked, settling in beside him.

"I'm right as bleeding rain," Sean snarled, swaying as Hart touched the whip to the horse's flank and the buggy rolled away from McGerrity's. "Look here, Viggo Mortensen's gone missing and I think Harry –"

"You can stop pretending," Hart said without looking over his shoulder. "Young Mr. Mortensen's parents got the note this morning, along with his ring."

"What I'd like to know," McClure said, "is if you've connived young Mr. Mortensen into cooking this up with you, or are you really holding him against his will? Or have you murdered him already? Eh?"

Sean gaped. "Note? Ring? What the hell are you on about?"

McClure shook his head in disgust. "We've been quite patient with you, lad, but it's not going to last much longer. After you sent us on that wild goose chase –"

"What wild goose chase?"

"Harry Slater. There's nothing to connect him with Freddy Watkins, and you knew that. I'm not best pleased with you, son. In fact, I'm right angry that you managed to rook us with that sad story of yours."

Sean's heart sank. "Don't tell me you didn't find owt. Someone must have known about them."

"No one at all, according to our London correspondent. In fact, Harry Slater's got a wife and two kids in Shoreditch. Abandoned them a few years ago. The wife said he went out for a pint one night and never came back. So while he may have a taste for the lads, there's no record of it, no arrests, no rumors of violence, no witnesses. It was a fair try, though. You threw us off the scent for a while, I'll admit it."

Considering, Sean sat still for a moment, listening to the even clip-clop of horseshoes against cobble as they rode through the dark streets. Here and there the sounds of music and laughter drifted from the pubs that had flung their doors open to catch the sweet summer air. A balmy, pleasant breeze brushed against his cheek. "You think I left a ransom note? Daft as a brush, you are."

"You went to Philadelphia, didn't you? Came back this morning? Though why you'd tell us that is beyond me, and if it's a case of hiding in plain sight, it was a damned poor decision on your part. We just got back ourselves. Another wild goose chase."

"Did you speak to his parents?"

"They're beside themselves with grief. If the two of you did cook this up, you've a lot to answer for."

"We didn't cook owt up! Jesus!"

"So you did it on your own. Then where are you hiding him?"

"I don't know where he is." Sean sagged against the seat. "I've been looking for him since this morning."

McClure sighed heavily. "You're a damned good liar, Sean. We all know that. Now why not give it a rest? You're not going to be at Broad Street Station on Monday, and if you've arranged for someone else to get the money, he's going to be caught. Either way, you're going to be on the boat back to England on Wednesday to stand trial for Freddy Watkins' murder, and Viggo Mortensen's, too, if he can't be found."

"So you're taking me back to hang, is that it?"

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen wanted you kept here, but we convinced them that justice would be better served back home. What you did to that poor man – mollie or not, I wouldn't wish that sort of death on anyone."

"I didn't kill him!" Sean cried. "I swear! It was Harry. It –" He choked back a sob and stared miserably down at his knees.

"All right. Now then, get hold of yourself." McClure produced a big white handkerchief. "Go on. Take it. You look right silly blubbering away."

Resentfully, Sean snatched the kerchief from McClure's hand and blew his nose, then wiped at his eyes. "Want it back?"

McClure snorted. "Keep it."

Stuffing the handkerchief in his trouser pocket was an operation that took some maneuvering with manacled hands. Sean glared at the big man sitting so placidly beside him. "It weren't me, and you know that well. And while the pair of you are laiking about here, Viggo's in some wretched flat waiting for someone to help him." He desperately hoped that was true, and that Viggo wasn't already beyond help.

"The Philadelphia authorities seem to believe Mr. Mortensen's captor is holding him in the city. His mother believes you had a hand in it. His father isn't sure what to think, but he says that if finding you brings the young man home, then he would spare no expense to have you found and brought to justice."

Sean stared in disbelief. "You don't care a sixpence about finding the guilty man, do you? You're just lining your bloody pockets. First Mr. Watkins, and now Mr. Mortensen. What a piece of work you are."

McClure folded his arms. "Despite what you think, lad, I do want to see justice done. It so happens that you are closely connected to both Freddy Watkins' murder and Viggo Mortensen's disappearance. Believe me, you'll receive a fair trial. Ah, here we are."

The buggy stopped in front of the Wilkes-Barre Hotel, and Hart alighted to hand the reins to a yawning stable hand. McClure descended from the buggy with ponderous care and held out a hand to Sean. "Careful getting down."

Sean refused the outstretched hand and jumped to the pavement. McClure took off his coat and draped it over Sean's manacled wrists. "What's this?" Sean snapped.

"Some of the guests might be uncomfortable at the sight of those," McClure said.

"They'd be a bloody sight more uncomfortable if I kicked up a fuss in the lobby."

Hart laughed quietly, but McClure gave a reproving click of his tongue. "And then what? The Wilkes-Barre police would take you into custody, and I promise they'll be far less kind to you than ourselves." He took Sean's arm and propelled him toward the hotel entrance. "Be sensible, lad, and spare yourself a sore head."

Sean submitted, but with no good grace. He dragged his feet through the lobby, slowing the detectives' stride. Dispiritedly, he saw that making a scene wouldn't do him a bit of good; the only occupants of the lobby at this hour were the desk clerks, a few waiters with their coats off, fanning themselves with newspapers and drinking tall glasses of lemonade, and an old man in a wheelchair, his legs covered by a blanket. He sat at a table beside the window, reading a book. Across from him, a nurse in a striped pinafore dozed with her chin on her plump bosom.

They reached the elevator. The operator, sweating in his blue wool uniform, bowed them in and closed the cage.

"Third floor," Hart said.

"Yes, sir." The young operator pulled the lever, and the cage rose smoothly on well-oiled pulleys.

Sean watched the young man surreptitiously wipe his upper lip free of sweat. "Bloody hot in that getup," he said with some sympathy.

"It's a warm one, sir."

"It is," Sean agreed. "It's even warmer when you've got a couple of –"

"Shut it," McClure murmured.

"Just making conversation," Sean protested with an injured air.

"Well, don't."

The elevator operator chivied the lever until the car slid to a stop at the third floor. "Third," he said, glancing uncertainly at his passengers.

McClure gave the young man a coin and hauled Sean out of the car, dragging him down the corridor. Hart followed in laconic silence. "Now, look, lad," McClure said. "If you keep giving me trouble, I'm going to give you a beating. Are you listening to me?"

"Oh, aye. Now you listen to me. If anything happens to Viggo, it's going to be your bloody fault."

"Spare me the lecture. I'm too tired." McClure halted at a door and produced a key with a metal tag. He fumbled with the lock, then waved Sean into the room.

It was dark, but only for a moment. McClure switched on an electric light, revealing a carpeted chamber with two beds and a cot pushed into a corner. A little desk sat in the opposite corner. The walls were papered in a green and cream-colored stripe, and botanical prints hung over the beds. It was fancier than his room at McGerrity's, but then again he didn't have to sleep with unwelcome company at the pub.

"I suppose one of you lads will be taking the cot," he said.

"Not bloody likely." McClure took his coat from Sean's manacled wrists and hung it in the tiny closet. Unknotting his tie, he opened another door, this one to a tiny but immaculate bathroom. "Come on. You're going to have a piss, then you're going to lie down and go to sleep." He unlocked Sean's manacles.

"You're not bloody watching me."

"I bloody am. Get in there."

Muttering under his breath, Sean went into the bathroom, unbuttoned his trousers, and relieved himself. He buttoned up with elaborate slowness, washed his hands, and sauntered back into the bedroom, bestowing a glance of infinite scorn upon the detectives. "How'd I do?"

Hart shook his head. "Boots?"

"Right," McClure said. "Sit down, lad." Sean sat, and the two men knelt and unlaced his shoes, easing them off and placing them at the foot of the cot. "Want to get undressed?"

"Why not?" Sean said. "Can't show up for my trial in rumpled clothes."

"Good God, man. Don't you wear underwear?" McClure chided.

"Weren't time," Sean said. "I was off to find Harry when you two showed up."

McClure let out an exasperated huff of breath and led him to the cot. "Lie down." With a glare, Sean lay supine. He watched McClure lock one bracelet around his wrist and the other around the iron slat of the cot. "There, now. You won't be too uncomfortable." McClure took a light blanket and draped it over Sean's body.

"No bedtime story?"

"Splendid idea." McClure folded his arms. "Why don't you tell me where Viggo Mortensen is?"

"I don't bloody know."

"It'll go easier for you if you tell, Sean."

"Harry Slater's the one who took him. Who cares if he's got a wife and kid? Freddy had a wife, for God's sake."

McClure turned out the light. "Sleep well, Sean." The detectives stripped down to their underwear in the dark and crawled into their narrow beds. Soon, the room was filled with the sound of snoring.

Sean waited until the snoring became deep and even. He worried his wrist and the fingers of his free hand raw trying to detach himself from the manacles, or the manacles from the cot. Failing that, he lay awake, staring into the darkness, his mind moving in fevered circles.

What next? He would have to get out of here somehow. Find Viggo, or Harry, or that stupid Tom Gwynnett. Was it good that he'd seen Harry? Did that mean he wasn't off somewhere, tormenting Viggo? Or did it mean Viggo was already – oh, Christ, no. No. He wouldn't permit himself to consider that possibility. If Harry had harmed one hair on Viggo's head, Sean would thrash the daylights out of him. If…if something worse had happened, Sean would finish the job he'd been paid to do – that he should have finished that night in Winsley. He'd have murder on his soul, but Freddy would still be alive, and Viggo would be safe. It would be more than a fair trade.

Sean turned fitfully onto his side. He'd change his tune with the detectives tomorrow. He'd be as sweet as treacle pudding if it persuaded them to listen to his side. Harry, married? A wife and two children in London? There was something wrong with that, somehow. And the police were looking for Viggo in Philadelphia – that was wrong too. Viggo had been in Wilkes-Barre on Friday. He was still in the area, Sean was certain of it.

He skirted the horror at the edges of his consciousness. It didn't bear thinking about. Not at all. He diverted his thoughts to happier times, turned them over and perused them like much-read and many times folded love letters. He thought of their first few meetings. How suspicious he'd been of Viggo's candor and open heart! How surly and unpleasant he must have seemed. Bless Viggo for his persistence and patience.

Sean wouldn't rest until he found Viggo alive and well. Thinking that, he finally fell asleep as dawn brushed the horizon with soft pink and gold.

*

The following day was Sunday. Sean had no opportunity either for escape or for persuading the detectives to his cause that morning. They ignored him thoroughly, and allowed him up only once, to use the toilet and wash himself. They behaved with perfect nonchalance toward the waiter who wheeled in a tray with breakfast and the Sunday papers, and who stared in bewilderment at the spectacle of Sean manacled to the iron cot. Despite his anxiety, Sean ate heartily of bacon and eggs, porridge and tea, and felt some of his energy return. He badgered McClure relentlessly for information, until McClure grew impatient.

"Look, lad," McClure said, "just relax. Nothing's going to happen until tomorrow afternoon, and even if you're innocent – if Mr. Mortensen turns up alive and well and someone else is to blame, you're still headed back home. You might as well resign yourself to it. Do you want to read the paper?"

"No, I don't want the bloody paper." Sean lay back on the bed, then sat up again. "Anything about Viggo?"

"I'm looking," McClure murmured, puffing on a cigar. "Doesn't seem to be. I expect his parents paid handsomely to keep it all out of the papers."

"Why?" Sean wondered aloud. "You'd think they'd want all the help they could get. Maybe someone's seen Viggo with Harry."

"You are persistent, I'll give you that." McClure said. "I expect they don't want the scandal. If it came out that you two were friends first –" He shrugged eloquently.

Sean flushed. "That's nobody's business."

"Don't be a fool," Hart said. "The scandal-rags love that sort of thing."

"You're lucky we're taking you back," McClure said. "Once this gets out, they'll never let you be."

"Bollocks." Sean closed his eyes, heavy and drowsy after his large breakfast. The cot and thin pillow seemed very comfortable. "Are you going to keep me chained here until Wednesday?"

"No, we leave tomorrow morning for Philadelphia. Our ship sails on Wednesday."

"Going first-class, I suppose."

"We are." McClure's voice was dryly amused. "You, my fine fellow, are traveling in the brig."

"Lovely." Sean turned onto his side. Sleep seemed irresistible. He'd been up most of the night worrying. "About Harry…did you check his lodgings?"

"He's still there, Sean. Wouldn't he leave, if he was under suspicion of abduction and murder?"

"I didn't bloody leave, and you suspected me." Sean's tongue felt strangely thick. "And would I leave a bloody note that I was leaving if I'd done murder?"

"I'm not certain. You're a strange one, lad."

"I'm as ordinary as water," Sean said. "Harry's the strange one. He wouldn't have a wife. Freddy would have known."

"Why do you say that?"

Sean tried to answer, but before he could, he slid down a velvet-soft black well. His last thought was that it felt good not to worry any longer.

*

"Sean." There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

"Go away." Sean swatted at the hand.

"Come on, get up. We'll take a constitutional."

He opened his eyes, scowling. The two detectives stood over him, watching him thoughtfully. Sean rubbed at his eyes and peered toward the lace-curtained window. Something was amiss, the light was – "Christ. I haven't slept all day?"

"We thought it best under the circumstances." McClure drew a little vial of clear fluid from his pocket. "I'm sorry for it, but you would keep pestering us."

"You drugged me. You sneaky bleeding buggers!"

"It's for the best. The time passes much more quickly. See, it's eight-thirty already. We'll go downstairs and walk in the evening air for a bit, then have a bite of supper. If you promise to behave yourself, we'll even sit in the dining room."

"Eight-thirty!" Sean nearly choked on his anger. "You – you let Viggo languish another whole day? You frigging bastards!" He struggled up from the cot, making an ungainly grab at McClure's coat. "If he dies, you're to blame, you know that?"

McClure seized Sean's wrist and increased his grip until Sean gasped with pain. "Calm down. Calm down, I said. Listen to me, lad. After breakfast I went to Harry Slater's house. He was there, reading the newspaper and eating toast and tea. He let me have a look about the place, and I inspected it from cellar to attic. There was nothing – stop your squirming! – there was nothing to indicate any sort of foul play."

Sean sank back to the cot. "He's got you all fooled," he said hoarsely. "All of you."

"Why won't you see reason? He's got nothing to do with this. He maintains that you never assaulted him in Winsley. There isn't a shred of evidence to tie him to Freddy Watkins. That letter you gave me – how many young men are named Harry? I'm tired of trying to fight for you, Sean, and I frankly don't see why I bothered at all."

"Because you know I didn't kill Freddy, and I didn't make Viggo disappear. Deep down, you know it."

"I don't know it," McClure muttered. "Not any longer. Now, are you going to come for a walk? You'll get the sand out of your legs. And then we'll have a good dinner, but only if you promise not to make a scene."

"Fattening me up for the hangman? And what if I don't promise?"

"Then you won't get any supper at all, and I'll force another draught down your throat instead of putting it in your tea."

Sean leaned back on his elbows, disconsolate. He still felt cloudy. Christ, why hadn't anyone found Viggo yet? If he wasn't with Harry, then where could he be? "All right," he mumbled, and swung his legs off the cot. McClure was right; they did feel full of sand.

"Now, we'll leave off the cuffs, but if you give us any trouble, you're in for it," McClure said.

"I heard you the first time."

McClure rested his hands on his hips. "I wonder that you were friends with Mr. Mortensen at all, Sean. He seems such an affable young man."

"I'm a lot sweeter when I haven't been drugged and chained to a cot all bleeding day."

"Touché. Very well, let's get you dressed." Hart unlocked the cuffs and gave Sean a nudge toward the bathroom. "Go on."

"Bloody generous of you," Sean said as he shut the door. When he was finished, both detectives helped Sean with his clothes and shoes.

"Steady on," said McClure, adjusting Sean's celluloid collar. "How are you feeling?"

"Thick," Sean admitted. "Are you going to fetch my bags from McGerrity's? I've been in the same clothes since yesterday morning."

"We can go there after supper. All right, ready?" McClure took Sean by the elbow, and they left the hotel room.

Sean trudged between the men, achy and drowsy. Whatever they'd administered had left him feeling terrible. His mouth was dry and tasted foul, and his eyes hurt. His brain was coming back to life, though, ticking off a million questions and worries. Somehow the veil he'd been able to throw over ugly reality had disappeared; he envisioned Viggo suffering at Harry's hands, pealing forth scream after scream as Harry tortured him. He saw Viggo trying to protect himself and failing, the light ebbing from his eyes. There was no way to shake the images; they crowded around him, cacophonous and dark, taunting him with a thousand needle-like jabs.

They stood at the elevator, waiting. At last the car rose to the top. The operator stopped it, straightened it flush with the floor, and opened the gate, stepping aside so the men could enter.

It was the same operator from the night before, Sean saw. Blinking, he studied the young man's dark skin, cleanly shaved and smelling of bay rum, his spotless uniform, his welcoming smile.

"Evening, sir."

A tiny, vivid spark came alive in Sean's chest. He felt more awake now. "Evening."

"Well, get on, Sean," McClure said impatiently.

Sean nodded, took a step forward, and sagged, nearly falling to the floor. He put a hand out, grabbing the gleaming brass gate.

"Sir! Are you sick?"

"Sean –"

"Maybe we'd better get him back to the room."

"Nay," Sean murmured. "I'm all right." He leaned against the gate a moment longer, eyes half-lidded. He put his free hand to his forehead and let out a quiet groan. He noted the operator's hands, away from the levers, outstretched to render aid if need be.

"Sean," McClure said, and stepped forward.

Sean acted. He swung to the right, seized the operator's coat, and yanked him from the safe confines of the car, sending him plowing into McClure and Hart. All three went stumbling. Sean dashed into the car, swiftly pulled the gate shut, and tugged the lever. The car slid up into the darkness.

"Sean! Sean Bean!"

TBC...