“Chase?” Alex called, lifting his face. He heard his voice echo, and silence.
But then a distant, faint voice called back, “Uncle Alex?”
He felt his hopes rise.
There was another voice now, raised in sharp reprimand, and a brief argument. He heard it more clearly a moment later. “If you’re really his uncle Alex, shut up, okay? He’s too dizzy to stand out here. He’ll fall and crack his head open again.”
“Spooky?”
“You know Kit?”
Behind him, Everett suddenly screamed, “Put out that match, you idiot!”
Alex paled. “Yes. Spooky, honey, put the match out, okay?”
“Don’t call me ‘honey,’ you macho asshole.”
But apparently she blew the match out, because Everett sighed in relief. “I wish I had known she was a girl,” he said.
“Who said that?” she asked. “Is he the one who called me an idiot?”
“The man who put you up there. Listen-there are explosives in here, so no more matches, okay, Spooky?”
She was quiet.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I want down from here. Where’s Kit? Where’s Meghan?”
Before he could answer, he heard the sound of a small chime. In the quiet that followed, he heard a click and the sound of a silver ball rolling. It seemed to him as loud as a gutter ball in a bowling alley. It came to a halt with a snap.
“Where the hell is that woman?” Everett said angrily. He jabbed Alex’s back with the barrel of the gun. “We’re wasting time. I simply wanted you to be aware of the risks.” Alex felt a painful grip on his shoulder. “Now, Detective Brandon, step up onto the sandbag directly in front of you.”
He continued to call directions, and Alex followed them, trying to memorize them. The nervousness in Everett’s voice forced him to abandon any hope that there were no pressure-sensitive devices, that it was only a ruse. He could smell the sharp scent of Everett’s sweat, feel the other man’s palm dampening on his shoulder. Alex tried to rid himself of his own dread of tripping over the uneven surfaces of the bags by telling himself that he had a better sense of balance than most and that Everett wouldn’t risk a fall. But the fear of setting off an explosion was never far away.
When he stepped down into the cleared section, Alex found that he was shaking with relief. He forced himself to breathe more evenly. Everett turned him around several times, like a child playing blind man’s bluff. Then Everett removed the blindfold.
As Alex blinked up at him in surprise, Everett smiled.
“Take the end of the rappelling rope and sit down on the floor,” Everett ordered. “Tie that around your ankles.”
“How am I supposed to do that with my hands bound?” he asked.
“Don’t take me for a fool. You can do it. Hurry.”
He took hold of the rappelling rope and awkwardly sat down. This, he realized, was why Everett had insisted on his being handcuffed in front. As he tied the knots, he felt his hands trembling, his fingers growing clumsy and numb with fear. In the next instant, he again felt a surge of anger and bitterness overpowering that fear, raw fury at being made to do Everett’s bidding. But he thought of Chase and Spooky, and kept himself in check. If he could delay long enough for Kit to come in through that door, or bring help…
When he had finished, Everett took something that looked like a television remote control and aimed it toward the winch. There was a click, and suddenly he felt a sharp pull on his ankles-the winch had been turned on.
He quickly lay flat on his back to avoid being yanked off balance, and felt the slow, inexorable pull of the rope as it began to lift him. His heart hammered.
Get a grip, he told himself, and felt himself calming. You can get out of this. You will get out of this. Think.
“I thought Ciara wanted you to wait for her to have all this fun,” he said, as his hips began to feel the pull of the rope.
“She’ll get her turn with Kit,” Everett said absently. He was staring up at the staircase.
The rope went higher, and Alex’s hips left the floor. Change fell out of his pockets, jangling as the coins struck the concrete floor below him. Then his spine and shoulders lifted, and with his blood already rushing to it, his head. His jacket fell around his shoulders and neck, covering his face and dropping pens and his PDA to the floor with a crack. The scent of dried blood on the jacket came to him with every breath. He had visions of being dropped onto the floor headfirst. Let the rope hold. Let the knots hold. Let them hold.
He felt as if he were on the rack, felt the pull of his weight on joints that weren’t meant to sustain it in this direction for long. The rope pinched and abraded his skin, and his injured shoulder began to throb as his arms stretched beneath him. He gritted his teeth as he was pulled higher. The rope began to slowly twist and spin, he with it, in a motion that soon became dizzying.
He heard the winch stop.
Everett had to dodge him-Alex was swaying slowly like a human pendulum, and still spinning as well, about three feet above the sandbags. Alex’s blood had already rushed to his head. He felt the strain on all his joints and was certain that his ankles were going to rip away from his feet. They burned from the pressure of the rope.
“What are you doing to him?” Spooky called.
“I’m okay,” he called back. “Don’t worry.”
“Kit!” Spooky shouted frantically. “Kit!”
For a brief moment, Alex wondered if Kit and his rifle were inside the tower. But the echoes of her shouts faded into silence.
But her cries had distracted Everett, who lost track of Alex swinging near him.
“Look out!” Alex yelled.
Everett quickly ducked to avoid being hit. “God damn it! Don’t!” he screamed.
“What the fuck do you think I can do about it?” Alex shouted, already swinging back toward him.
Everett ducked again and then quickly stood and tucked the gun into a holster at his hip. He planted his feet a little apart, grabbed onto one of the bell ropes, and as Alex came by this time, grabbed onto him. Alex felt the impact and Everett’s loss of balance, felt the young man’s strength as he used his grip on the other rope and Alex’s body to both halt the sway and prevent himself from tumbling over. They tottered back and forth together for what seemed to Alex an eternity. When they finally came to a halt, he was so dizzy, the room still seemed to spin. He clamped down on an urge to vomit. Everett stepped away from him and looked into his reddened face.
“Have a headache yet? Maybe I should kick you in the face for almost knocking me over.” He glanced up.
Alex lifted his head and saw a camera. The red recording indicator light was on. He thought of the videotape from Oaxaca.
Everett pulled a knife from his military-style belt. Alex felt himself go cold. Terrified of the style of torture he had seen inflicted on Everett’s other victims, he considered trying to disarm Everett. Everett had been cautious until now, but he was now within range of Alex’s hands, and Alex might be able to do it. But unless he killed Everett with one blow, Everett was likely to be able to recover a weapon, and Spooky and Chase would remain in danger. Or he might knock Everett onto one of the pressure devices. He prayed that Kit, who had been smart enough to see the trap, would somehow set them free before Everett blew them all to hell. Or before Everett decided to play surgeon with him.
Everett grabbed hold of Alex’s jacket and cut it off of him in a few swift strokes. The knife was sharp. He did the same with his shirt. Alex tried to keep himself still, but when Everett grabbed hold of his belt, he brought his fists up hard toward Everett’s groin.
Everett anticipated it just in time, shoving Alex away from him so that the blow landed on his thigh. Still, he doubled over in pain, his face twisted in anger.