Vendetta
A collection of drops splattered onto him from the rusted grill overhead. He shook his shaggy head, raising a hand to wipe his eye once more. A rattle from the heavy iron bracelet and chain that imprisoned his wrist accompanied the movement. The links were thick with rust, damp from the rain that trickled in from above. He faded back, sinking deeper into his soaking wet coat as if it would somehow provide warmth.
He tilted his head back and to the side, letting the rain hit his shoulder instead. “Come on, guys.”
From the sky outside, it was impossible to tell if it was early morning or late afternoon. It was overcast, sending down sheets of cold rain that dribbled through the grate and quickly soaked deep into his bones. He shifted on the narrow stone ledge, the tiny underground pit he was locked in not even big enough for him to stretch his legs out.
There was no sound except the rain. Nothing.
He knew there was a house up there, a large stone mansion, the kind you pictured when reading Jane Austen novels, with ivy clinging to the sides and cantilevered windows. He also knew that he was sitting in a window well, one where the iron grating had been modified to open on a hinge and have a lock to secure it—he also knew it by the drain between his feet. But that knowledge didn’t give him any idea where exactly he was, how to escape, who had him, or how the others would have any hope of finding hm.
But he knew this—they were doing everything they could. And more.
He shivered as more rain dripped down, wishing he could take his jacket off and use it to shield his head, but the chains on his wrists made that impossible.
He remembered leaving the pub; the massive amount of drinking he’d done that night had been enough to make him wobbly on his feet, but that was okay because Dougal was waiting outside for him. He’d said goodnight to the bartender and waitress, opened the door, and that was all he remembered until he’d awakened in the pit with chains on his wrists and a throbbing lump on the back of his head.
He could feel congestion building and feel himself being pulled toward Sleep. He hoped that when they got here, he wouldn’t be dead.
Don’t be so dramatic, Entwistle, he thought. Whoever had nabbed him hadn’t done so with damaging violence—besides the lump and a few minor bruises, there wasn’t a mark on him. But the cold and wet was a concern, even for someone with his health and constitution. His lips twisted in bitter irony that for all the beatings he’d taken and all the physical dangers he’d been through, that it might be cold and rain that did him in in the end.
He tested the manacles again—hoping against hope that they’d slipped a little, but they held tight. With a snarl he jerked harder, rage and frustration beginning to well up, along with a hint of panic; he was trapped in a tiny place with no room to move, stretch, or even stand up. What would happen if he’d been left there? How long before he went completely insane?
At least the rain was beginning to let up.
He sneezed, shivering violently. “You guys had better hurry up,” he said, his voice trembling. “Dunno how long I can sit here waitin’.”
Keith flung the glass across the bar. “We can’t just sit here waitin’!”
Pete winced as it smashed. “Where do you suggest we go, Keith?” he asked.
“Where he was last seen!”
“We’ve been there. He was the last one in the bar and we’ve talked to the barkeep and the girl cleanin’ up. They said he walked out the door and that’s all they saw.”
“There has to be something . . . let me go talk to them again.”
Pete shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Instead, Keith went back to the bar and waited. He and Pete had gone from impatient to worried to completely unnerved the longer they waited for John. Though they still spent time apart, they always met each evening at the Crown, which had slowly morphed from a second home to their primary one—Keith had completely given up the flat he’d had before their transformation, and though John still had his, he rarely spent time there. Likewise, Pete and Roger still paid for flats that they rarely visited; Pete had finally decided to give his up and move into the Crown permanently, but he hadn’t gotten up the energy to go through the whole moving process. It was something he was waiting to discuss with the others—he’d actually been waiting for John to get back so he could mention it.
Roger came in a short time later, dripping wet. Both Pete and Keith turned to him hopefully, but the grim expression on his face sent their hopes dashing as hard as the glass Keith had thrown.
“There has to be SOME way!” Keith roared.
“Nothing,” Roger said, answering Pete’s questioning look. “Dougal was waiting for an hour and John never showed up. He said he was watching the door the whole time and never even saw John come out.”
“But the barkeep and the girl said they saw him leave!”
“Yeah, they did. So someone’s lying.”
Keith’s eyes narrowed. “We need to question them again.”
Roger nodded, taking off his wet leather jacket and draping it over a nearby chair. “Dunno if they’re in on it—or maybe they are telling the truth and something happened to Dougal.”
“I think they’re in on it.”
“That may very well be. I trust Dougal more than two strangers,” Roger said. He looked to Pete and Keith, unsure which one would give the order.
“Do it,” Keith snarled.
“We’ll all go,” Pete said. “This might be a trap to pick us all off one by one, so we stay together.”
“That sounds familiar,” Keith sighed.
Pete grabbed his coat. “Let’s go. Anything’s better than sitting here waiting for who knows what.”
Keith grabbed his as well. Roger grabbed another jacket from the coatrack by the door and waited for them, his small body holding tense and anxious, his hand never leaving the doorknob. Keith tossed him an apple as they went out. The Dog couldn’t help but take care of his partners, even now. Roger stared at it, then absently stuck it in his pocket as he followed Pete and Keith.
The outer courtyard was empty save for the Rolls Keith had bought and kept parked out front for quick access instead of around the back in the garage that had been converted from a carriage house twenty years before. They climbed in, Roger getting behind the wheel. Though Pete also had a license, it was an unspoken agreement that Roger did most of the driving because he was the least likely to have an accident. He started the engine, letting it warm up for only a few seconds before pulling out; Keith stood by the open gates, slamming them shut as soon as the car was clear and jumping in the back. “He was at the Leaping Lizard in town.”
Roger nodded and pressed the accelerator, heading that way. In the very early morning, all the houses stood shuttered and dark, the businesses likewise dark as they drove into town. Unlike in America, where many businesses left signs lit or some dim internal lights on, the shops in England shut everything down, making it seem as if the entire world were asleep to those who still happened to be awake in those nether hours.
They reached the pub, Roger pulling over to the curb and parking the car; the pub’s lights were out, both inside and out, with a man standing outside the front door, locking it.
Keith fell into the shadows behind him, intent on following. Pete and Roger, meanwhile, went around the building, looking for any clues, anything that might indicate where John went—or was taken to. The man didn’t seem to notice Keith—indeed, didn’t seem to notice anything wrong at all. He walked casually, as if he were nothing more than a regular person on the way home from work.
And Keith was in step with him in the shadows every step of the way.
They had just passed a darkened alley when something hard struck Keith in the back of the head with enough force to pitch him forward to the pavement. He shook his head, rolling onto his back. There was no one behind him, and when he turned the other way, the man he’d been following was gone. “Fuck!” he groaned, getting to his feet. He staggered back to the pub, a hand to the back of his head.
“Anything?”
“Nothing,” Pete said. “Not even a bloody scrape.” He looked at Keith. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I followed him to Trenton Street and got cold-cocked.”
“By who?” Pete said, pulling Keith over to a nearby street lamp to inspect his head.
“The fuckin’ invisible man. OW!”
Pete hissed when he saw the rapidly rising lump on Keith’s head, as well as the messy gash where whatever had hit him had torn the skin open.
“He was heading west on Trenton.”
“Roger!” Pete hissed, nodding in the direction from which Keith had come. Roger nodded and took off running, his small form rocketing into the darkness.
“Should have been a greyhound or a cheetah sign in the Chinese zodiac,” Keith said, watching as Roger quickly vanished.
“What, haven’t you ever seen a rooster run?” Pete quipped.
“No,” Keith said honestly and with such innocence that Pete almost laughed.
“They’re fast. Trust me. VERY fast.”
They waited together, only realizing about ten minutes after Roger was gone that if there was someone out there trying to pick them off that they’d just presented him with another lone target. But at nearly a half hour after he’d run, Roger came jogging back, looking out of breath but none the worse for wear.
“Well?” Keith asked.
“Nothing. It’s like he fuckin’ sprouted wings and took off.”
Keith shook his ringing head. “We have to find him . . . we have to find John . . . ”
“Right now we have to get you home and patched up,” Pete said. “We’ll come back and talk to that guy tomorrow. We all know what he looks like.” Keith nodded and swayed his way down the road back to the car.
Roger followed behind, his fists at the ready just in case. Pete stayed next to Keith, helping to keep him steady. He could tell that Keith was growing progessively more worried about his best friend, but at the moment he had no comfort or reassurance to provide. So it was Pete who caught Keith as they crossed the threshold of the Crown and Cushion and Healing Sleep slammed into the Dog before he made it across the foyer.
Thankful for the daily workouts that had gradually added muscle to his lanky frame, Pete carefully picked Keith up and carried him upstairs. Once there he and Roger took Keith’s jacket and shirt off, Pete laying Keith on his stomach while Roger fetched the first aid kit.
Minutes later, Roger was pouring water over the back of Keith’s head, cleaning off the blood before applying mercurochrome. “Oh yeah, it’s Healing Sleep,” he informed Pete unnecessarily. “He didn’t even flinch.”
Pete didn’t answer, watching as Roger tended to the wound. Words weren’t necessary—Roger knew that Pete was just as worried; saying it aloud would make the pain and worry too real. Roger finished up and drew the covers over Keith’s insensate form.
“Have we ever considered,” Roger said as they drew the door closed, “that John might not be in trouble? Maybe he decided to go off somewhere else for the night, or maybe he passed out and someone took him home? Or maybe he found a bird to go home with? It’s not like this is the first time he’s been out all night.”
“Considered,” Pete nodded. “But since this started he’s found a way to let us know. And everything in me is screaming that he’s in trouble.”
“Nothing we can do now,” Roger said, his usually infuriating pragmatism now a cold, terrifying comfort. “I say we go to sleep, and go back tomorrow when it’s light and get some answers. One way or another.”
On to Chapter Two
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