His shivering wouldn’t stop.
Pale light crept in some of the cracks around the door, and Truman figured it was morning. The concrete floor of the shed felt like a sheet of ice, and even though he knew the temperature was nearly twenty degrees above freezing, he was surprised he hadn’t frozen to death. He’d fully expected not to wake up this morning—because of either the cold or his head injury. He’d vomited three times yesterday, and double vision was making him dizzy. No doubt he had a concussion. Maybe something worse.
He’d woken still leaning against the wall, his right arm suspended above him, cuffed to a four-foot-long horizontal pipe along the rear concrete wall of the shed. His hand was long numb. He stood and massaged it, willing feeling back into the icy fingers. Pain finally shot through the nerves in his hand and he welcomed the discomfort. It meant he hadn’t destroyed the circulation to his hand. Yet.
The pipe was about three feet off the ground. Just far enough that he couldn’t lie down to sleep. Several times during the night he’d stood, gripping the bar for balance and letting the blood run back into his hand. He’d investigated the ends of the pipe. They were firmly embedded in the concrete wall. No hope of getting them loose.
Someone had left him a large jar of water and four empty jars. He’d made use of one empty jar during his vomiting sessions and used another to piss in. He suspected that if he could see better in the poor light, he’d see blood in his urine. His kidneys still hurt from his beating yesterday.
Everything hurt. His hair held several large patches of dried blood. The head injuries had swollen, and touching the spots made him hiss. His lower back felt as if shards of glass were in his kidneys. The worst pain was in his left arm, and he suspected a bone had fractured near the elbow. It hurt like a son of a bitch to move, which doubly sucked because it was his free arm. He licked his dry lips, tasting blood and gingerly touching the rough edges of a large gash on the side of his mouth. His teeth ached on that side but were all present. One positive thing.
Mercy must be going nuts.
It hurt to imagine her frustration and fear at the unanswered phone calls and texts. No doubt she’d gone to his house and wondered what happened.
At least Simon will be fed.
He’d get out of this fucking shed and back to her if it was the last thing he ever did. Pain be damned.
He hadn’t seen any people or heard any voices since the attack in his driveway. Apparently the beating had continued after he blacked out. When he woke, he’d found himself in the shed, handcuffed to the pipe, with no idea how he’d gotten there.
Who hates me enough to do this?
Plenty of people got angry when he arrested them, but most eventually understood they’d had it coming. No one had sworn revenge in his presence.
He remembered hearing one of the attackers call him a fucking cop. Hate had infused the word. Am I here solely because I was the closest available cop to wreak havoc on?
He’d been in his own driveway.
They must have followed me.
Twenty times over the last year, he’d sworn he would install security cameras at his home. It had never happened. He crossed his fingers that one of his neighbors had cameras and his officers had thought to check them.
Assuming they know where I disappeared from.
His truck would still be in front of his house. He hoped.
Assume nothing.
He had confidence in his men and Mercy. They would push until they tracked him down.
He closed his eyes as another wave of dizziness swamped him.
“Wake up.”
A pause.
“Wake up.”
Truman jerked and gasped for breath as cold water splashed his face. He tried to lunge forward but was stopped by the handcuff on his wrist. Pain shot up his left arm as he wiped the water from his face, making his vision blur. He sucked in a breath, struggling to stay conscious and look at the man standing before him.
He was tall and lean, with slightly stooped shoulders, wearing a heavy coat and holding a cowboy hat in one hand and Truman’s now-empty water jar in the other. Truman couldn’t see his eyes with the light streaming in the door behind his captor.
A memory of his field-training officer popped in his head. This man had the same stance and physical build, but Truman didn’t recognize him.
My hand. Numbness had set in again, and he slowly slid up the wall to let the blood run to his hand, never taking his gaze from the stranger.
A silent power struggle filled the small shed. Truman knew the stranger was waiting for his captive to ask who’d locked him up or where they were.
Truman kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want the stranger to know he knew nothing.
The silence stretched for thirty seconds as Truman stared at where he knew the man’s eyes would be.
“Stubborn, eh?” the man finally said.
Truman said nothing.
“Know why you’re here?”
Silence.
The man shifted his stance, frustration rolling off him. “Think you’re tough, do you? I bet you don’t feel so powerful now, chained up like a pig.”
In the pit of Truman’s belly a small snake of fear started to coil.
“You’ll get what’s comin’ to ya, fucking cop. Fucking pig.” The man snorted in laughter. “I was right. You are a chained-up pig. Damn, it stinks like pigs in here.”
“I’d like some food,” Truman stated.
“You won’t need food.” The man tossed the glass jar in his hand into a corner, where it shattered. “Won’t need that either.” He shoved his hat on his head and turned toward the door, giving Truman a clear view of a profile with a strong nose and chin. He slammed the door shut behind him, and a bolt scraped across the wood.
Truman slid back down the wall, his heart racing as rampant thirst instantly overtook him. He looked in the direction of the shattered water jar, unable to see the shards. Fuck me.
He shoved the image of drinking the only alternative fluid in the shed out of his mind.
What will he do to me?
Mercy’s face arose in his mind, and he ached to touch her, feel her warmth beside him. Several nights ago, they’d stretched out on his couch together and watched TV, sharing a bottle of wine and Chinese takeout. Simon had alternated between trying to paw food from their plates and wedging herself between them.
It’d been an intimate, calm evening. And looking back now, he realized it’d been heaven.
He wanted it again.
Hurry up, Mercy.