Wolfe Trap

by S L Shelton

  An angry sneer formed on Mark’s face. “The boy scout,” he said in a quiet growl.

  John smiled and nodded.

  “Do you want to get me killed?” Mark asked in a low voice.

  John’s expression changed to sincere pleading. “Mark, damn it,” he replied in a matched quiet tone. “I’m doing everything I can to keep you out of trouble. I honestly don’t know what you’ve uncovered, but it’s got some serious heavy hitters taking a swing at you.”

  Mark looked at him suspiciously, but John shook his head. “We didn’t get all of them, and we’re hitting dead ends on almost all the accounts we’ve queried.

  “Shit,” Mark muttered. The upstream fund source, whoever “they” were, has been covering their trail.

  “What about the names?” Mark asked. “There were dozens of media and government people on that list. What’s wrong? Justice can’t get the warrants?”

  John’s expression shifted briefly in uncomfortable tension before relaxing into a smile.

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  Mark squinted at John before realization struck him.

  “You didn’t have the names, did you?” Mark said accusingly. “Just the numbers.”

  John leaned back quickly as if he’d been punched. “Like I said, I don’t want any secrets…hold on to those to cut your deal with Justice,” John said. “But think about letting us know who might be compromised at Homeland Security. That could be the extra weight you need to swing this idiotic tug of war over to Justice. And then we can help.”

  “Why?” Mark asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why does the Agency give a shit what happens to me?”

  John smiled as he stood. “You’re a brother, Mark. And you were doing something good when this fell apart.”

  On the surface anyway, Mark felt John was being sincere…though there was always more to the story than there appeared when dealing with John Temple. He always seemed to be working an angle, three moves ahead of everyone else.

  “Think about it,” John said.

  “How’s Scott?” Mark asked, changing the subject.

  John furrowed his brow in confusion at the question. “He’s come into the fold,” John said. “He left for Peary yesterday afternoon.”

  Mark shook his head. “He didn’t listen to me.”

  John smiled. “In his defense, you weren’t making a whole lot of sense about anything at the time.”

  Mark nodded. “Fair enough,” he replied quietly. “Tell him I said hi next time you see him.”

  A burst of genuinely surprised laughter escaped from John. “I’ll make sure he gets the message.”

  John began to fold up his briefcase but stopped and looked at Mark with worry. “Do me a favor and don’t get yourself killed before we have a chance to get you out of here.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Gaines replied with a wry grin. “I’d hate to mess up your plans.”

  John chuckled as he closed the case and walked to the door. He looked back after knocking and nodded, smiling before the bolts slid aside from outside. When Temple left, the guards came in to return Mark to the isolation cell, which had been his home since he had recovered from the brutal beating Scott Wolfe had lavished on him in July.

  How the hell did you beat me? Mark wondered as he was escorted down the corridor. What the hell are you, Scott Wolfe?

  **

  Location: Unknown, Time: Unknown

  It didn’t feel like I had been out for very long, but I had no way of telling. The light under the door was no brighter or dimmer than it had been when I saw it last—it might have been artificial. However, it was pretty warm inside, so I assumed the heat of day was warming the interior.

  I kept my head still for fear there was someone in the room with me.

  Inventory, I thought. Four men, one with an injured wrist; one woman; I’m secured to a metal chair; my hands are restrained with zip ties; my feet are restrained with, I flexed a foot to test my bonds, zip ties.

  I tried looking up without moving my head and could see metal roof girders above me before looking to the side to see if I could make out anything of consequence in front of me.

  The light is powered by an extension cord that runs to the wall…out of sight in the dark.

  I could hear water dripping.

  So you have running water and electricity in here? Dangerous combination.

  The door opened, and I closed my eyes. I heard five sets of footsteps come into the room: four men and the woman—I noted from the sound that the woman was walking with a limp.

  You’re the one I hurt at the pick up site.

  Water splashed my face.

  “Let’s try this again,” Talking Man said. “What’s your name?”

  I didn’t answer, and after a few seconds, he gestured to the men who were behind me. They tipped me backward, and the towel was over my face before I could adjust my eyes to being away from the brightness of the halogen spotlight.

  The water poured. Unlike last time, I took a deep breath and held it as long as I could before I tried to shake my head away from the water. When my lungs began to burn, I began blowing out through my mouth, trying to create a bubble of space between me and the water before I was forced to breathe again, but the flow was expertly maneuvered over my mouth and nose to prevent that from being successful. I gulped large amounts of water, desperately trying to spit it out so I could take a breath.

  The chair slammed forward, and I began to spit and cough the water from my throat.

  “Name,” Talking Man said with a bored tone.

  When I didn’t answer, the chair tipped backward again. I gulped a panicked breath as someone slapped the towel over my face again.

  I tried to calm myself as the water poured that time, not waiting until my lungs burned before I started blowing the water away. Though the men behind me were holding my head in place, I could jerk it to the side briefly after blowing a bit and gulp some air with only a small amount of water entering my mouth. My biggest problem was that, because I was tipped backward, my sinuses filled with water and a breath of any sort was accompanied by flooding in my lungs and throat. The panic set in again as I struggled to maintain calm in my mind.

  When they pushed me forward again, I blew the water out of my sinuses as I gagged and coughed the fluid out of my throat.

  “Name,” he said again, not waiting as long for me to recover.

  Three seconds passed that time, faster than before, and the chair tipped backward for another round of simulated drowning.

  Bush and Cheney were full of shit…this is torture.

  When I was too exhausted to hold my breath, water began to fill my lungs. I had no choice but to let it rattle around inside between dousings.

  “Name,” Talking Man said again.

  “Walrus,” I said through the gurgling in my throat.

  A fist whipped out from the side and struck me in the sternum, leaving me gasping.

  “Name!” he yelled.

  Through my panting, I flung my head up and yelled in a disgusting rasping, bubbling retch, “Walrus!”

  I don’t know who hit me that time because the punch came from the side, jerking my neck sideways and plunging me back into darkness.

  This routine was repeated seven or eight times though I was uncertain over how many hours and days. The only thing that varied was the temperature in the room that I assumed—based on no solid evidence—was due to nothing other than the change from nighttime to daytime. My stomach was empty, so my hunger was no measure of time, and the light beneath the door was the same no matter when they came in to “simulate” drowning me.

  At one point, two of them woke me with an openhanded slap to my head so that I could eat several slices of white bread and drink a bottle of water. The woman fed them to me, slowly, so I didn’t choke. I noted, without being obvious, a stray lock of red hair protruding from beneath the black mask she wore over her head.

  “Thank y
ou,” I said after she pushed the last bite into my mouth and held the bottle of water up for me. She didn’t reply and instead left the room, turning off the light on her way out. Based on the number of cool air versus warm air cycles in the room, I guessed that was the end of my second day of captivity—though it seemed more like a week.

  I could tell I was losing strength fast, but I continued to show more weakness than was there. In fact, I made sure that my appearance of weakness grew exponentially compared to my actual condition—just in case I was handed an opportunity to escape.

  **

  When I woke next, I was lying on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold concrete. Talking Man had lost his temper last time and hit me hard enough to knock me over. I guess no one had bothered to set me up again.

  The mildew smell I had noticed from the first day was much more prevalent from this position. I shifted, only to find I was still strapped to the chair—and judging by the throbbing in my fingers, I had done some damage when I fell on them. I flexed them. Though they hurt, it didn’t seem anything was broken.

  I stayed otherwise motionless, unsure if I was alone in the room. It was dark, the only light I could see came from under the door. It was cooler than it had been the last time I was conscious.

  Night again? Early morning?

  Judging by my count of hot air versus cold air, I was now in my third day of captivity—that is, of course, if they had woken me to torture me on the first day. I wasn’t quite sure how long I had stayed unconscious after they had Tased my skull.

  I listened to hear anything else and heard scuffing on the hall floor outside the door.

  Don’t come in… I’m not ready yet.

  A light appeared in the door about head height; I immediately recognized it as a viewing opening. I closed my eyes quickly just before an overhead light flipped on.

  “He’s still out,” I heard someone say—a man, one I hadn’t heard before.

  That makes five. Shit! How many of you are there?

  I heard the viewing hatch close and then the overhead light went out.

  This has to be about Gaines, I thought. What do you think? I asked my internal mental hitchhiker.

  No response.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have suspected it was just being mysterious and coy as usual, but I hadn’t gone this long while in danger and not heard something from it.

  Did they fry you out of my head with that Taser? I wondered.

  Silence.

  Shit… I never thought I’d be missing my worrisome inner nag. I wondered what other brain damage might have occurred.

  A short time later, the door opened. I opened one eye to a squint. I saw that the extension cord powering the spotlight ran to a wall and plugged into a heavy-looking outlet, next to an old metal switch box…with no breakers. Nice!

  “Set him up,” Talking Man said.

  The spotlight came on, and two men moved around behind me, setting my chair up. I remained loose with the appearance of being unconscious.

  One of them touched his fingers to my neck.

  “Pulse is weak and slow,” he said. “Maybe we should bring Doc in here to look at him before we go again.”

  Doc, I thought. Have I met you yet?

  “Throw some water on him,” Talking Man replied.

  Others are talking now…if my head gets any fuzzier, I won’t remember who’s who, I thought, planning for my own reduced cognitive awareness. Talking Man seemed to be in charge. His new name is Boss Man, I thought to myself. I should be able to remember that.

  I heard one of the men walk away behind me—one, two, three, four, five paces to the water trough—and then the sound of a plastic bucket being dipped in the metal container of water. I listened as a spigot was turned on, water splashing into the metal tub, and then to his footsteps as he walked back, sloshing the water on the floor as he went.

  I mentally prepared myself for the water.

  Splash. The bucket emptied over my head. I fluttered my eyes open without reacting to the icy deluge.

  “Dude,” said Bucket Guy. “He’s seriously out of it. We should get Doc in here.”

  “Fuck that,” Boss Man scoffed. “Cotton is still in ICU. He’s going to give us his name before we do anything else.”

  Cotton, I thought. Someone I injured when they abducted me.

  “Look at his scars, man,” came the voice behind me, pleading with Boss Man. “He’s not going to talk. Think of the shit that’s gonna fall on our heads if we kill him!”

  “Tip—him—back,” Boss Man said quietly through clenched teeth.

  The fourth man moved around behind me, and two of them tipped me backward, followed by the scent of that woman again; the only moment of pleasure I’d experienced since before Nick was killed. A surge of recollection and then rage washed through my body—I can’t believe Nick is dead! You fucking bastards.

  I shook my head. As delirious as I was, it was increasingly harder to keep the rage—and fear—at bay. That’s not helpful, Scott… No, no, no. Shhh! Don’t give them your name, I thought as panic momentarily replaced anger. Did I say that out loud? —No. They aren’t reacting. Good. Calm down.

  It worried me that even without the presence of my nagging inner voice, I had drifted into two-sided conversations inside my head. Bad sign. I thought and then, You’ve got bigger things to worry about than that. —Right! Yes. Focus.

  The woman stepped up behind me, her stomach pressed against the top of my head, and I smiled involuntarily—it was the only non-violent contact I’d had in days. Days? Or has it been weeks now?

  In her hand, the woman held the towel from before.

  Before…when was that? I wondered trying to push my completely unhelpful rage down; I had to keep my mind calm and focus on gathering information. How long was I out?

  I continued to sandbag on my condition, letting my head lull backward as if I had no strength. Before she placed the still-wet towel over my face, I saw that she, and everyone else, still wore their masks. It didn’t smell mildewy yet, so I must not have been out for very long.

  “Name,” Boss Man yelled in my face. I could feel his warm breath and smell the onion from his last meal through the towel.

  “Walrus,” I muttered nearly incoherently.

  Water poured over my face. I didn’t struggle this time, instead focusing on using short breaths to blow the water away from my mouth between sloshes. I still swallowed a good amount, but I was able to keep it from going into my sinuses and my lungs that time.

  When he began to ease up, I swallowed a good amount on purpose, letting it run out of my mouth as they pushed the chair forward on all four legs again. As soon as my head fell forward, I contracted my stomach muscles and wretched as much up as I could, coughing and sputtering the whole time.

  That was easier, I thought.

  My head stayed low on my chest as I wheezed past the mucus and the last bit of water in my throat. Nevertheless, inside, I was the picture of calm, willing my heart rate to remain slow, avoiding panic. I didn’t have much strength left to do anything about an opportunity to escape if it was handed to me—I had to create my own before I had no strength at all. The best way to do that would be for them to think I was weaker than I am.

  One of the men behind me touched my neck again.

  “His pulse is still slow,” he said after a second. “We should stop.”

  “Your name!” Boss Man yelled. He walked toward me and grabbed me by my hair, jerking my head up sharply. “What’s your fucking name, you piece of shit?!”

  “Walrus,” I muttered.

  He punched me in the face while still holding my hair. This guy didn’t have an injured wrist.

  Twice more his fist crashed down into my nose and then my jaw.

  “NAME!” he yelled.

  I could feel one of the guys move around from behind me. For a split second, hope rose in me that he was going to pull Boss Man off, but instead, he punched me in the stomach. On the plus
side, it allowed me to vomit more of the water I had swallowed—all over his sleeve.

  “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, rewarding me with a hard backhand across my face. I didn’t even try to raise my head when it rolled back forward. Though I would have left it hanging anyway, at that moment I wasn’t completely convinced I could pull my head up even if I’d wanted to. I fought against the closing darkness that was sweeping up my neck and enveloping my head like a warm hug.

  “Enough,” the woman said. “Go get Doc.”

  “Stay put,” Boss Man said.

  “Ray, you have to stop,” the woman whispered.

  Five men. Boss Man is “Ray”, one woman. Doc makes six… He’s not in the room. Cotton is seven, and he’s in the ICU, I thought, proud that my brain could still recount the details. Are the details right, though? I suddenly questioned. Did you remember them correctly?

  “I don’t care if we have to go all week,” Ray said. “you’re going to talk.”

  “You’re gonna kill him,” Punching Guy said. “Doc’s already said he wants to be here if we go again.”

  Ray jerked my head up by the hair. It was time to change the dynamics in our dysfunctional relationship.

  “Ray,” I sputtered.

  Anger washed across his face as silence fell around me. “What did you say?” he asked as his grip tightened on my scalp.

  “It only took me three days to get your name,” I rasped with a weak grin.

  He punched me in the face three times and pushed the chair backward again. Someone caught me, but I heard the bucket crashing to the floor.

  “Fill it,” Ray said loudly.

  “We need to get Doc in here if we’re going to do it again,” Punching Guy said.

  “Fill it!” Ray yelled.

  “Dude. If I were you, I’d tell him your name,” the guy behind me whispered into my ear. “He’s out of control.”

  “Shut up,” Ray yelled at him. “Hold him.”

  Ray climbed on my lap and pulled the towel across my face very roughly.

  “You’re going to tell me your name, or I’m going to kill you right now,” he said into my ear.