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Chapter Four




It was dark. It was dark and he hurt all over. Trying to move only hurt more—his entire left side was stiff and ached with every breath.

Voices licked at the edge of his consciousness, but the pain blurred them into meaninglessness at first.

His stiff fingers flexed slowly; it took him almost five minutes to realize they were bound, the digits—sticky with blood—pressed against the rough fabric of a lumpy sofa. His eyelids opened with effort against something thick and black tied over his eyes.

The voice became clearer. “Very pleased . . . Tiger . . . pawn . . . ” was all he could make out at first.

Even though it sent flares of pain through him, Davy sucked in a breath. “Whaa . . . ” he gasped, his voice raw.

“Ah, he’s awake.”

“Can’t . . . see . . . ” he groaned.

“You are blindfolded,” the woman’s voice said.

“Where . . . ?”

“Over your eyes, of course.”

For a moment irritation overwhelmed the pain. “Why? Who are you?” The words were coming easier now.

She laughed. “My identity is irrelevant.”

“Sounds right cowardly to me,” Davy said. “It’s not like I can hurt you . . . though I’d really like to right now.”

“No . . . but I can hurt you.” A hand touched his ribs.

He trembled, sucking in a breath. “You . . . bitch,” he gasped out, unable to think of anything else.

“Thank you!” It pushed harder.

His bound body twisted painfully and he released a strained, gasping cry that whistled in the back of his throat.

“Consider this—you’re in my clutches now. You are helpless as a kitten.”

“I’ll escape . . . and you’ll be sorry . . . ”

Laughter greeted that.

“Mistress, are you sure this is a good idea? What if someone sees or hears him?” Davy listened to the new voice intently—he’d heard it before, he was sure.

“You’re right.” The hand moved off of him. “Thank you, Robert—my joy at seeing him like this overrode my common sense.”

Robert? “Rob Roy?” The name and voice clicked. “You!?” Davy wheezed, the cry taking its toll on his traumatized lungs.

“Ah, he remembers me, how touching.”

“When I get free . . . you and your woman are dead.”

“My woman? She’s not my woman—more like I’m her man!” He laughed in genuine amusment.

“Sounds like you keep her on a short leash,” Davy growled, tugging at his restraints.

A growl reached his ear and a furious, “No one commands me! I command!” was snarled before a fist smashed into his left side.

Davy arched, a nearly soundless scream escaping his chest. The pain rolled over him, starting at the grinding edges of his broken bones and shuddering throughout his body. A second blow slammed into the side of his neck. He panted, trying to keep conscious.

I command,” a harsh voice snarled into his ear as a hand tangled in his hair and jerked his head back painfully. “Remember that.” His head was shoved forward viciously and then released.

“Very good, Jones,” Rob Roy said. “Keep it up—this is quite entertaining.”

“Ah, you’re photographing again,” she laughed. “You were careful not to get my face in any shots, correct?”

“Of course,” he replied. “I will double check before I send them, of course.”

Davy’s ears perked up. “Send them?” he croaked. His tattoo began to twitch, a sensation that was barely noticeable through the pain.

“Yes, send them where?” the woman asked a little coldly.

“To the other Monkees, of course,” Rob Roy said. Davy could see the smirk even through his blindfold.

“And the purpose of this would be—?”

“Well, you did say you wanted to hurt them all. This . . . is hitting them where it hurts the most.”

“I must think on this.” There were footsteps and a door closing.

“You bastard,” Davy snarled. “You bastard! When I get loose you’ll pay for this!”

“Who said you’ll get loose?” As soon as the voice was done speaking a fist struck him in the solar plexus.

Davy retched, his stomach trying valiently to empty its nonexistent contents. Tendrils of spit trailed from his dry lips as he slumped, panting for breath.

“Face it . . . this time you won’t humiliate me.”

“No, I won’t,” Davy gasped. “I’m gonna kill you instead.”

He laughed and Davy heard the click/whirr of a shutter. “Doubtful.”

Davy’s eyes closed under his blindfold. I wish the guys were here.


~~~~~



A single light burned in the Pad. The light above the kitchen table was on, even though it was way past midnight. Micky was slumped over the table, lost in an exhausted sleep.

Peter walked in and sighed. “Micky . . . ”

“Let him sleep,” Mike said, stumbling down the stairs. “Least he stopped pacin’.”

“Looks like he’s been going over the pictures again and again.”

Mike picked up the sheaf sitting near Micky’s elbow. “We gotta find him, Peter.”

“Any clues in those pictures? We gotta start somewhere.”

“I don’t see any. Can’t see anything but Davy and the street.”

Peter closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Here. That blow must have broken something.” He pointed to the kicking picture.

“His ribs, probably,” Mike said bitterly. “And he had to have lost a lot of blood.” The Texan’s voice lowered on the word “blood.”

Peter grabbed the pictures. “If there’re bloodstains on the street . . . ”

“Then they’ll still be there!” Mike looked around wildly. “But . . . there’s thousands of alleys in this city—where do we start looking?”

Thoughtful for a moment, Peter turned the pictures back over. “There’s some insignia on these jackets . . . gang related, do you think?”

“Probably,” Mike said.

“Find out which one—and we’ll have a general area.”

“We’ll still have to figure out where he was taken.”

“But at least it’s something.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

Peter nodded and lifted Micky. The drummer lashed out, eyes open and looking around wildly. “Get off me! I . . . oh.”

“Fine, thank you.”

“What’s happening?” Micky said, rubbing his face. “What’re you guys doin’ up?”

“We came t’put you to bed.”

Micky shook his head. “I’m fine.” Peter looked at Mike.

“Micky, you need to get some sleep. You won’t do Davy any good half exhausted.”

“He’s right.”

Micky sagged, too exhausted to argue, and meekly went upstairs to bed.


~~~~~



His tongue was dry. Moving it around his mouth didn’t help much, but it helped to take away the ache. He wondered if asking for water would earn him another punch to the ribs.

He could no longer hear the woman, but Rob Roy was still there, puttering around with what Davy assumed to be his camera equipment.

He decided to chance it. “May I . . . have some water?” It hurt his pride to ask the treacherous photographer for anything, but the thirst was starting to hurt worse.

There was a pause. “Sure—we don’t want you dying, after all.”

“You . . . don’t?”

“If you die, there goes my revenge! Here, easy now.” A cup with cool liquid touched his parched lips. He drank greedily, the metallic tap water as refreshing as any from some untouched mountain spring.

“Slowly, don’t make yourself sick!”

Davy ignored him, opening his mouth wider to allow some of the water to dribble down his chin and neck.

“Messy messy messy,” Rob Roy chided, wiping it off. Davy hissed as Rob Roy’s fingers hit the long scrape on his chin.

“You really are a pig, Jones.” He was definitely angry now.

Sharp stabs of indignation flared through him. “Well, excuse me. I’m lyin’ here tied up—sorry if I couldn’t manage the tuxedo.”

Rob Roy’s palm connected soundly with his cheek. “That’ll be enough of that.”

At that moment something, perhaps the ghost of Peter or Mike, swam up into his consciousness as the pain faded. “I don’t understand this change, Rob. You weren’t such a bad guy before. Now . . . you’re a kidnapper who’s smacking around an injured man. Why?”

“You’re not a man, Jones. You’re a thorn. You and your antics got me blackballed.”

“You were making us out to be something we weren’t. Just to put in your magazine. The fellas and I lost a couple good friends over that.”

“And I lost my career.”

“Then we’re even.”

“Not hardly.”

The shaky strands of reason snapped, freeing the anger. “What do you want, then? A pint of my blood? You already have that, so what else do I have to give you to turn me loose!?”

“Turn you loose?” Rob Roy’s laughter followed him out of the room.

Davy laid his head back on the cushions, panting softly. Think, Jones, think! How would Mike get out of this?

His heart sank. Mike wouldn’t have gotten into this in the first place.

On to Chapter Five
Back to Chapter Three
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