This lack of attention could prove to be an advantage, of course. Frank knew that if he could clear his mind enough to grasp an opportunity to escape, he was better off being ignored.
Still, he was uneasy about Samuel. It was not just the capacity for violence in the young man that disturbed Frank, it was the sense that the future meant nothing to Samuel — meant nothing, not in the way of the young — of disbelief or lack of ability to imagine it — but in the way of the very old or dying, who have simply accepted that it is not to be theirs.
Bret was the stabilizer. Samuel listened to him. Although he might be angered to some degree by Bret’s suggestions regarding Frank, he generally gave Bret his way.
And Bret was curious about Frank. No, there was something more than curiosity at work here. He was not asking questions just out of idle curiosity.
Indebtedness? For the rescue from the basement all those years ago? Maybe, but that did not explain Bret’s… how to name it? Concern? No, more than that.
It seemed important to him to know this, to name it. But as he considered and rejected word after word, he heard a voice behind him.
“Would you like to sit up?”
Bret’s voice.
“Yes,” he answered.
A different voice said, “All right, but I’ve got a gun pointed at you, Detective Harriman, and I’m quite willing to use it.”
Samuel.
Bret came around to face him, smiled, and unlocked Frank’s left wrist. Frank knew Samuel probably did hold a gun, and that if he did, Samuel was willing — perhaps even hoping — to use it. He knew the drugs would slow his reactions too greatly, knew this was not the opportunity he sought. Still, he found it nearly impossible to resist the urge to try to free himself.
Bret paused, and Frank looked into his face. As clearly as if he had spoken words, Frank knew Bret was telling him not to struggle, not to resist.
He was puzzled, unsure how Bret had conveyed this to him, but Samuel was saying, “He doesn’t have our understanding, you know. You have to speak out loud to him. Go ahead and warn him.”
“I don’t need to warn him,” Bret said, motioning Frank to lie on his back. “You’re the only one who expects the worst of him.”
The simple act of moving to his back sent Frank’s head spinning. He closed his eyes as Bret reattached his wrist to the opposite bed rail, waited for the dizziness to pass. He berated himself silently.
“Are you nauseated?” Bret asked.
“No,” Frank said, opening his eyes, seeing that Sam was indeed holding a gun on him. “Not sick, just a little woozy.”
“He’s thirsty,” Samuel said. “Give him something to drink.”
“No,” Frank said quickly, hearing the rasp in his own voice. “No, I’m all right.”
Samuel laughed, but Bret said, “We’ll give you just plain water this time. But let me move you up first, so that you can sit.”
He heard the whirring of the motor on the bed, felt it angling him up. A little more dizziness, but not as bad as before. Bret brought the glass of water to him, but he turned his head away. Spinning, spinning.
Move more slowly, he told himself.
When he turned his head back, very gradually, he saw that Bret still waited with the water.
He felt a primal rage, a blinding fury building up within him, a fierce, sudden anger that made him want to pull free of the goddamn railings and attack them both. Let them shoot him! Let them! His rage would keep him in motion, like a matinee monster. Bullets couldn’t stop him.
“You see?” Samuel said. “His fists are clenched. I think our hero wants to kill us.”
“Of course he does,” Bret said softly. “Don’t you remember how it feels, Samuel?”
There was silence. Bret said, “Samuel—”
But Samuel was already walking away. “Do what you want. If I come back and find you dead, I’ll kill him, and then myself. I’ll open the valve, then — bang. Right through my own head. Bang. I won’t care about anything then. You hear me? Not anything.”
Frank heard the outer door slam shut.
Bret still stood with the glass of water, but he was not looking at Frank. His face was solemn.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said. “That was my fault.”
“No,” Bret said, coming out of his reverie. “No, none of this is your fault.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, no, Frank. Don’t make that mistake. He meant every word of it.” He offered the glass. “It really is just water.”
What the hell, Frank thought, and took a sip.
“You have a choice,” Bret said. “You can allow me to give you a chance to survive, or you can die with us.”
