Chapter Five
It was nearly twelve—either noon or midnight, it was impossible to tell—when Dragonman and his men returned. Instead of immediately accosting their prisoners, they began prying up some of the floorboards, revealing murky, turbulent water several feet down.
Davy and Mike’s eyes locked on the water and Davy licked suddenly dry lips as Mike’s face went two shades of pale. Something was definitely up.
Then a cage was brought in—five feet tall and that much across. It was tied to ropes and suspended over the water. Dragonman’s eyes turned and he scrutinized the captive Winds. “Him!” he ordered, flinging a bony finger out toward Mike.
The rope keeping Mike upright was severed—leaving his hands still bound—and he was dragged forward. Halfway to the cage he started kicking and fighting against the arms that held him, but a firm arm around his neck and two more holding his arms prevented his escape. He hit the cage’s bars with a grunt and turned, trying to leap out, but the door slammed shut in his face. He crouched, unable to stand up straight, and steadied himself. “What is this, Dragonman?”
Dragonman pointed at Chang, who smiled and replied, “American version of Chinese Water Torture!” He waved his arm. “Lower the cage!”
Mike leaped up and grabbed the top bars as it approached the water. The heavy metal frame hit the water and sank slowly as the rope was let out by degrees. The bitingly cold water closed around his legs and rose inexorably to the seething burn on his side. He gasped, trying to pull himself up further to delay the inevitable.
Down . . . down . . . down went the cage. Mike felt the waters close over his head at last and he was suddenly five years old again, struggling against the undertow of an ocean determined to pull him down into profound darkness, his lungs bursting, aching, screaming for air. At last the waters parted and his head was above the water. He gasped and took a deep breath, his hands grasping the top bars of the cage.
“Again!”
Mike’s eyes met Davy’s as the cage started to lower. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, holding his breath as his ebony hair vanished under the water.
But in that instant Davy had seen a lifetime’s worth of primal terror.
This time the cage stayed down for nearly a minute; when it came up Mike was coughing and gagging, grasping the bars for dear life.
This time Dragonman let him stay out for a full five minutes, then ordered it lowered again. This time, Mike was shaking his head wildly, eyes wide, as the cage began its slow descent. Dragonman held out a hand as the top of the cage touched the water. “Hold it there.” He watched in silent satisfaction as Mike’s desperately grasping hands emerged through the bars, the long fingers perfectly expressing their master’s terror and pain.
Dragonman nodded. “Perfection. Chang!” When the torture master appeared at his side, he ordered, “Keep it submerged for thirty seconds more—and smash his fingers.”
Chang bowed low and gestured to his men. One handed him a rope and he knelt next to the hole, using Mike’s blindness and panic to his advantage as he threaded the rope through Mike’s bound wrists and tied them to the bars. Bubbles popped on the surface of the water as Mike attempted to withdraw his hands. Chang smiled and reached out his hand; a large wooden hammer slipped into his palm.
“No!” Davy screamed. “Aren’t you hurting him enough!? If you want to hurt someone hurt me!”
Dragonman looked over and smiled a smile of darkness. “Very well. Chang . . . raise the cage and take Mister Jones up on his offer. And make certain Nesmith knows of his sacrifice.”
Chang scowled, giving Mike’s hands a quick smash when Dragonman turned his back. The cage was hauled up, revealing a sagging, panting Mike who seemed to barely notice the water streaming from his hair and body, water that had turned the burn into a brilliant red mark that seethed on his skin. The cage was dragged up and away from the hole and dropped none too gently onto to the floor. It wobbled for a second before crashing onto its side, once again slamming Mike into the bars.
Mike lay gasping, shaking as his eyes screwed close. More water was poured into his face—fresh this time—and he raised his head, glaring at Dragonman and Chang. Fear still lingered in his eyes, but now rage burned there as well.
“Your friend is indeed brave, Mr. Nesmith,” Dragonman said, gesturing to Davy. “All the pain I had planned to give to you . . . he asked be given to him.”
Mike nodded. “I know . . . he’s brave . . . ” Then his eyes met Davy’s and he read something there. “No!” he roared toward Dragonman, eyes on Davy. “ No, don’t!”
“I can’t let them hurt you like that,” Davy said firmly.
“I can’t let them hurt you!” Mike shot back. He tried to struggle to his feet, yelling in rage as the torturers approached Davy.
Toto touched Dragonman’s shoulder. “Master, you said tell you when it noon-thirty . . . so we eat.”
Dragonman glared fiercely at Toto just as his stomach released an epic growl. “Perhaps food is a good idea. It will give these gentlemen time to . . . talk.” With a mocking bow he retreated, his men following closely in his wake.
The silence that followed was punctuated by Mike’s ragged breathing. At last, he gasped out, “Davy . . . no.”
“Mike, I can’t let him . . . keep doing that to you. You can’t take it.”
“And you can . . . take it? You don’t . . . need to. We’ll . . . we have to . . . ” He was interrupted by a round of coughing that brought stagnant water out of his lungs.
Davy sighed. “Mike, they’re going to torture me anyway. What’s the difference anymore?”
“The diff . . . ” Another round. “The difference is . . . is . . . ” suddenly he slumped. “You’re right . . . there isn’t any . . . but it’s killin’ me . . . that you did this . . . ”
“I had to. Watching you . . . Mike, it hurts worse than those canes and irons!”
Brown eyes locked onto brown. “And watching you . . . will hurt me worse . . . than drowning.”
“Then what do we do?”
Mike shook his head and lay it on his bound arms. One single sob tore into the room—agonizing though it was very soft.
~~~~~
Peter scanned the sidewalk as they went along, not sure what he was looking for. Blood, scraps of clothing, anything that would indicate where his friends had gone. For a while he looked for Mike’s hat before remembering it was back at the Pad.
“Anything?” Micky’s oddly quiet voice asked as he leaned on a decrepit “Bus Stop” sign.
“Nothing,” Peter sighed, slumping down on the bench. He put his head in his hands.
Micky sighed and leaned his forehead on his forearm against the sign. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, then opened them, gazing at the ground.
Something winked at him from the gutter. Frowning, Micky bent down and picked up a small pouch. “ . . . Peter?”
Peter looked up. “What?”
Carefully, Micky upended the pouch into his hand. “I . . . found something.” He looked up at the sign. “They were taken by bus. There was no way they would part with these willingly.”
He opened his hand to show Peter. In his palm rested three wicked-looking throwing stars.
On to Chapter Six
Back to Chapter Four
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
