“And here I thought FBI guys were so tough,” the voice said. “Detective Dillon got out of her ropes. She even got her cuffs in front of her and tried to fight me. Not that it did her any good, but I have to say it was impressive. I expected more out of you, Agent Anderson, but here you are—still all trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”
“Where’s Jen?”
“Now, now, be patient. You’ll see her in just a few minutes. In fact, she’s about to star in a show just for you. It’s going to be so much fun.”
“If you’ve hurt her—”
“You’ll what?” The humor was gone from the voice. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make threats, Agent Anderson. Now get out of the trunk. In case you think you can try something, know I’ve got a gun pointed at you. I won’t shoot to kill because I have other plans for you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t shoot. A foot, a hand—that would probably hurt, don’t you think?”
It was a struggle to maneuver his way out of the trunk with his hands behind his back and his legs tied together, but Will finally managed by hooking his bound legs over the edge and pushing from behind with his hands. He’d just made it to his feet, lightheaded and swaying unsteadily, when Artie kicked him in the back of the knees, knocking him face-first to the ground.
“Oops,” Artie said and burst out laughing.
A second later Will felt his feet being lifted off the ground. Artie had taken hold of the belt or the rope—Will couldn’t tell which—and began dragging him across the gravel. Will arched his neck, keeping his face off the gravel most of the time, but as his body slid across the uneven ground, he wasn’t always successful. The thin T-shirt Artie had made him change into provided little protection to his chest and shoulders. He felt the cloth tear first and then his skin. It seemed to go on forever, but when he felt himself being dragged across the wooden threshold of a cabin, he opened his eyes and saw the car was only thirty or so feet away. Gravel covered the ground between the cabin and the car. Artie could have pulled right up to the door, but then that wouldn’t have been as much fun.
He was dragged into a room empty except for a single wooden chair facing a long wooden table. Artie was panting hard after his exertion, and Will felt a bit of satisfaction at that. The overhead light was on, and the only two windows in the room were covered with plywood. Two closed doors broke the smoothness of the wall opposite the door. Was Jen behind one of them? He had no doubt she was alive. Artie was saving her to torture in front of Will, but had he already hurt her? He opened his mouth to call her name, but before he could get a sound out, Artie yanked his cuffed hands and pulled him to his knees.
“Get up.”
“How do you expect me to get up with my legs tied!” Will spat out the words, unable to control the anger that filled him.
“You’d better try.” Artie began lifting up on the cuffs, and Will felt his shoulders protest. “It might not be easy now, but it’s going to be a lot harder when I shoot you in the foot.”
Will sat back on his heels, his toes bent, and using every muscle in his legs, began pushing himself upward, while Artie pulled on his arms. He finally made it to a standing position.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Artie laughed again.
With one hand, Artie kept hold of the chain connecting the cuffs, and with the other, he slid the chair against the back of Will’s legs.
“Sit,” he ordered and pulled back harder on Will’s arms.
Will started to protest that he’d sit, that Artie didn’t need to dislocate his shoulders, but then he felt the chair back between his hands and back. As he sat down hard on the chair’s seat, his cuffed hands slid farther down over the back. He might not be cuffed to the chair, but his position would make it difficult to get up, giving Artie plenty of time to thwart any move Will might try to make.
“Comfy?” Artie giggled from behind him.
“You know you’re not going to get away with this, don’t you?” Will said the words, but he realized the emptiness of the threat. Artie’s laughter proved he recognized it, too.
“I don’t plan on sticking around after I’m done here,” Artie said. “It’s a shame, too. I like this identity, and I like my job. But sometimes you just have to suck it up and move on. Know what I mean?”
His job? His identity? Will had tried, but he’d been unable to identify the voice.
“What identity is that?” he said, trying to sound calm. “The least you can do is show me your face.”
Artie gave an exaggerated sigh, the sound of a man giving serious thought to something and finally making a decision.
“I guess you’re right, Agent Anderson. It’s the least I can do. I had thought about waiting till after the show—you know, like a playwright taking a bow after the final curtain. But that would be pointless, wouldn’t it? You and the lovely Detective Dillon won’t be in any shape to applaud after the curtain comes down.”
The laughter again, filled with so much evil Will couldn’t suppress a shudder.
“So—ta da!”
Artie stepped around the chair and took an exaggerated bow, hiding his face for a few seconds more. Will started, recognizing the form, but before he could put
