He smiled and the sweat running down his face got into his mouth and tasted salty. He didn’t mind. He was on a bed somewhere, alive, and that beat being in hell by a long shot.
He tried to get up off the bed and found he couldn’t. He wasn’t paralyzed, he knew that. He could lift the trunk of his body several inches off the bed, maybe half a foot. He wasn’t paralyzed.
What, then?
He lay there and breathed deep, slow, trying to let his mind clear, which it did, gradually. The fuzziness went away and he realized he was bound, he could feel the rope around his wrists, around his ankles. Rope was looped around ankles and wrists, not tight, but secure. His circulation wasn’t cut off or anything, but working with his fingers he found the chance of slipping the loops up around over his hands was nonexistent. The rope he was bound with was not thick and coarse, but more on the order of clothesline, and didn’t scrape his skin or make him particularly uncomfortable. There was a lot of leeway in the rope, which he’d decided was tied to the bedposts, and he actually had his arms free at his sides and could lift them or his legs in the air and do just about anything with them except push himself up and walk off — without taking the bed with him, anyway.
So. His situation was this: on his back, on a bed, tied to the bedposts, God knew where.
Where? Was he in Ainsworth’s office? That was where he last remembered being. Not likely, unless Ainsworth had taken to collecting antique beds. Antiques! He’d been taken back to Planner’s and tied to an old antique bed! But the only one in the shop was Jon’s, and it was small, with a box spring. Planner didn’t have any other antique beds.
Planner. Planner was dead. Planner was more than dead. Planner was murdered. Murdered by that son of a bitch Charlie.
Charlie.
Jon hadn’t recognized Charlie immediately. Jon’d come to Ainsworth’s office early, but not by design; he was just walking by on his way to grab a quick sandwich at the Hamburg Inn and saw Ainsworth’s lights on and thought what the hell and stopped. He’d just been standing there saying hello to Ainsworth and Ainsworth had been getting ready to show him into the private office to fill out some forms and such and that madman had come tumbling out into the hall, waving an automatic that looked like the Gun of Navarone. It took Jon a few seconds to recognize the man, but the pieces had fallen together quickly: gun and bandaged thigh had gelled with Nolan’s mention of Charlie, and Jon had known.
He had only seen Charlie one time before — that night when Nolan got shot up by Charlie and his men — and then only for moments and not close up, but the image of the wild little man had stuck in Jon’s mind: short and dark with powder-white hair and two black little eyes stuck together close like beads on the face of a cheap rag doll.
And so Jon had jumped at the crazy gun-waving madman in the hallway at Ainsworth’s office, leaped at him, mind full of Nolan bleeding and Planner dead and got knocked cold to the floor by a backhand blow from Charlie’s gun-in-hand.
He had come to twice after that, both times in Ainsworth’s examining room. The first time he’d come out of it, he’d looked up at Charlie and fingered the sucker and told him what Nolan would do to him. And Charlie had whacked him to the floor again. The second time he woke up, just half woke, and saw Ainsworth coming down on him, and it was like some fish-eye camera angle in a monster movie, distorted, out of focus, Ainsworth as Dr. Frankenstein bug-eyed and sweaty above a hypo the size of Cleveland. And as the needle jammed into his arm, he glanced up and saw that little asshole Charlie sitting, sitting way up there like some court jester who’d made his way to the throne by poisoning the king and queen.
That was the last thing he could remember, and it wasn’t a pleasant memory to dwell on, though it was vivid enough. How much time had passed since then? He could feel his watch on his wrist, right under where the rope was looped, but in all the knocking about the thing had probably conked out on him. Why couldn’t he be a normal person and have a Bulova with a luminous dial? But no, he had to be different — he had to wear an antique Dick Tracy watch that ran when it felt like it.
Never mind that, he told himself. Never mind superfluous thoughts. Think. What could have happened? Where was he? Why had Ainsworth stuck a needle in his arm?
To put him out, of course. He’d been doped. But why? Getting knocked out, or just tied up, would keep him indisposed long enough for Charlie to get away. Why dope him and tie him up and clobber him? Just for the sheer hell of it? Why not just kill him?
Jon tried to make sense of it, tried to develop logical theories about where he was and who had put him there, but all he came up with was questions, more questions. He had the feeling that Charlie had not only done all this to him, but was still around, that Charlie had taken him off somewhere and was keeping him captive. He even remembered, vaguely, delirious, strange dreams of travel, a ride, dreams of an ocean voyage that might have been a drive in a car.
But there was no sense in it, none at all. Why would Charlie have any interest in Jon?
Fuck it, he thought. He decided to concentrate his efforts on getting loose. Prospects were dim, but he had to try, didn’t he? He started out slowly, tugging first at his right wrist, then moving to the left, then each foot got a prolonged effort. He spent a good while at it, kicking, tugging, struggling, making absolutely no progress at all. Finally he heaved up off the bed, came down hard, repeated the process, again, and again, at the same time thrusting his legs upward and outward and every way, flailing his arms, pounding his butt on the springs, hoping to break the bed if nothing else and maybe, somehow, slip rope over broken bent bedpost and...
But in the end all he got was tired. Very tired, and he found himself getting drowsy, and found also that after staring up at the darkness for a time there was little else to do but sleep. So he did.
“Wake up.”
Jon’s eyes opened. Light. It was light in the room now.
“Hey, wake up.”
Jon’s eyes focused. He saw a young guy of maybe twenty, twenty-two years, about his age, sitting on a chair by the bed. He was thin and pale and had the same close-set eyes as Charlie.
“Who the hell are you?” Jon said. “Some relative of Charlie’s?”
“I’m his son.”
“You got my sympathy.”
“I brought some food for you. You want some food?”
Jon sat up.
“Hey,” he said. “I sat up.” He shook his hands; they were free. His legs had been freed, too. The ropes hung untied on the bedposts of, yes, an old antique bed, a brass one, and quite attractive; the nicest bed Jon had ever been tied to. The room was still dim, but light was creeping under the drawn shade on a window directly across from the foot of the bed.
“Look,” Charlie’s son said, “I’m sorry about the ropes and everything. I didn’t know he’d tied you up like this. Dad has a tendency to be overdramatic. He’s... he’s been acting a little strange lately.”
“Like killing my uncle, you mean,” Jon said. “What’s he going to do to me? What’s going on? Where the hell am I?”
“Do you want this food?”
The guy had set up a tray by the bed and on it was a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and some milk.
“Sure I want the food,” Jon said. “I feel like I haven’t eaten for hours.”
“You haven’t. You been out fifteen hours. First five or six hours you were unconscious, from the stuff that doctor gave you. I suppose you woke up sometime in the night and squirmed a while, then fell back asleep.”
Jon frowned at the guy. “Give me the food.”