far off light from the lantern and the dim illumination from outside that they all appeared to be handicapped, missing arms or hands or legs or feet.
He tried to free himself from the grip of those who held him, but his captors held him tight.
Captors?
He struggled mightily, lashed out with his feet, tried a backward head butt, attempted to jerk his right arm free and throw a roundhouse punch at the tall man before him. No one had yet spoken, the only sounds in the bunkhouse were his own grunts and exhalations and the shuffling clopping of feet on wooden floor, and he was starting to get seriously scared.
The grip on his left arm weakened for a moment as the man holding onto it was bumped by a fingerless figure approaching from the side, and Dylan took advantage of the opportunity, yanking his arm away and using it to claw the face of the tall man. For a brief second, he was almost free, then the hands on his neck tightened, and he slipped, almost fell. 'Fuck!' he managed to get out.
And then they were beating him.
When Dylan came to, he was gagged and restrained, strapped down with chains and bands of leather to what felt like a metal table. He was no longer in the bunkhouse, he knew that, but exactly where he'd been taken was not yet clear. He was able to move his head, and he turned it first to the left and then to the right, seeing only dark blurriness from between his puffy eyelids. Gradually, his brain adjusted to this altered vision, deciphering the scrambled signals and reformulating them into a more coherent picture. He saw a grimy stone wall, although his brain must have been having trouble judging distances because it looked as though it were several yards from where he lay. Next to him, on the table, was an old and obviously well-used machete, a hammer and a pack of nails, and a portable band saw with a rusted blade. Above, high and far away, was a black ceiling.
A woman walked up, dressed in dirty jeans and a torn, bloody T-shirt, a pair of yellowed plastic goggles hanging around her neck.
'One of the guests?' she asked.
An old man appeared next to her, a strange-looking individual with dry, crinkly skin and a face that owed more to the makeup wizardry of horror films than the biology of real life. 'Yes,' he said, his voice deep and filled with the offhanded authoritarianism of someone in power.
'What's the plan?' the woman asked.
The old man looked at Dylan dismissively. 'Do the hands and feet first,' he told the woman. 'We'll figure out where to go after that.'
'Rogerwilco .' The woman lowered her goggles.
Behind his gag, Dylan screamed as the band saw started to buzz.
When an hour had passed and Dylan wasn't back, Barry felt a slight twinge of unease.
When two hours had passed and Dylan still hadn't returned, he was filled with fear and a horribly familiar sense of panic. He gathered together Jeremy and Chuck, and the three of them headed out to the bridle trail to search for their friend.
They walked up and down the trail, following each fork, encountering only a pair of yuppie joggers and an old woman.
No Dylan.
It was nearly dark when they finally returned to the house, tired, angry, discouraged, and worried. The wives met them on the porch, and one look at their faces told Barry that Dylan had still not come back.
They went into the house, closing and locking the door behind them.
Maureen hurried upstairs to get drinks.
'You think the association got to him?' Jeremy asked, voicing the thought that was on all of their minds.
Danna turned toward Barry. 'He was off to see that armless, legless guy, right?'
But Barry was already shaking his head. 'Stumpy-Kenny--couldn't've done this. He's scary, but when you get down to it, all he could do is gum someone to death. He certainly couldn't take down a big guy like Dylan.'
Jeremy nodded. 'So it was someone else. Or several someone elses 'Whatever it was, we're not going to find out by guessing about it in the living room.' Barry looked at him. 'You want to call Sheriff Hitman or do you want me to?'
'I'll talk to that bastard.' Jeremy picked up the phone from the table, dialed 911, and waited.
And waited.
He hung up, dialed again, and this time someone answered. He asked to speak with the sheriff, and when the person on the other end of the line began asking questions about the nature of the emergency, Jeremy turned on the legalese and in his most serious and officious voice began berating and intimidating the person into transferring the call to the sheriff.
Barry had to smile. An angry and belligerent Jeremy was something to behold, and not for the first time he was glad the man was on his side.
But Jeremy's verbal pyrotechnics did not work on Hitman . Even listening to only one side of the conversation, Barry could tell where it was going. He'd been there before himself: Hitman was not empowered to intervene in association business, this was clearly an association dispute, and if he had any problems, Jeremy should address them to the board.
'God damn}' Jeremy said, clicking off the phone and slamming it down on the coffee table. 'What do they have on this sheriff? Video of him in bed with a pig? Jesus Christ! How can a law enforcement officer totally ignore his responsibilities like that? He's not doing his fucking job! And he's not even embarrassed or sorry about it!'
'That's what we've been wondering,' Maureen said.
'I'm definitely going to other agencies with this. Hitman's either completely corrupt or grossly incompetent, and if I have to sue his ass for malfeasance and dereliction of duty, then, goddamn it, that's what I'll do. There's no way he's getting away with this.'
Barry was silent, his faint hopes dimming. Jeremy was a resourceful opponent, but the association was a juggernaut, willing and able to flatten any obstacle in its path.
'What next, then?' Chuck asked.
Barry took a deep breath. 'I guess we wait for morning.'
He stood by the window, looking out at the road as if expecting Dylan to return any second, while a BMW filled with teenagers sped by, the driver honking his horn and yelling, 'Your mama sucks cocks in hell!'
Barry awoke at six, before Maureen and, from what his ears told him, before anyone else. He'd slept through the night as usual, but there'd been dreams, bad dreams, and he was glad to wake up. He slipped out of bed slowly, carefully, one foot at a time so as not to disturb Maureen, and put on his robe and slippers before opening the bedroom door and padding upstairs.
He was quiet. He intended to sneak silently up to the kitchen so as not to disturb Chuck and Danna, but he could see by the early morning light seeping through the mini blinds that the sofa bed had been folded up. The living room looked unused, the linens and pillows untouched.
He turned on a lamp, frowning, and made a quick tour of the house. The door to the guest bedroom was closed and locked, Jeremy and Lupe obviously inside, but both the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms were empty, doors open. No dishes had been used in the kitchen, not even a water glass, and through the windows there was no sign of anyone in the yard.
Chuck and Danna had disappeared.
They've probably gone for a walk, he told himself. They'd made the sofa bed, refolded the linen, and sneaked outside for an early morning constitutional. But there was a gnawing doubt in his gut, and part of him wanted to wake up everyone else in the house, rush outside, and start an immediate search.
He pushed those thoughts aside, did not allow his mind to proceed in that direction. To acknowledge that something bad had befallen them would be to acknowledge that someone something --had broken into their house and that he could not do. The possibilities were just too far-reaching, the implications too terrifyingly intimidating. Especially after yesterday.
It was an ostrich attitude, with its irrationally rational appeal, but something seemed to have shut down inside him, some sense of justice or outrage or responsibility, and he found that he could believe nothing untoward had occurred. He could honestly say that he thought it likely his friends had simply awoken early and gone out for a
