The second time Peter awoke, he was met by the blinding glare of a spotlight. The rest of the room had also been lit, he noted, squinting fiercely and trying to diffuse the laser sharp pain lancing through his head. When he could finally open his eyes with a minimal amount of pain, he peered around at his surroundings. The room he was in was nondescript, void of any furniture other than a single tripod, and empty. He was, for the moment, alone. He drew in a deep breath to steady his emotions and suppress the fear and began taking stock of his injuries. He knew from the pain that both of his shoulders were dislocated, his nose was most likely broken, his lip was split in at least two places, and he had more than a few cuts and bruises in various locations across his face. Looking down at his unclothed body, he quickly determined that those were the least of his injuries. His torso and lower body were covered, back and front, in bloody, oozing welts. Unmercifully, the memories of his torment flooded back to him with ferocity.

The darkness was once again still and silent. Peter reached out with his senses to try to locate the madman who ruled his immediate world, but found nothing. Without warning, he felt a long needle being forced into his upper arm. The burning injection radiated quickly throughout his body and he felt his consciousness begin to tilt and fade. Unfortunately, it would not allow him the release he soon found himself begging for. As the razor sharp knife traced random patterns down his back, Peter whimpered. When the thick bullwhip kissed harshly across his bare chest, he screamed. When the scorching-hot branding iron drew its turn, he could not manage either.

He returned to the present with a shudder of pain, both real and remembered. Warily, he watched the man enter and cross the room holding a blanket, a bucket and a camera. He slipped the camera onto the tripod and turned to Peter with a smile that set warning bells off in the detective's head. The man pulled on a single rubber glove and reached into the bucket, which Peter assumed was filled with water, and took out a small, white washcloth. As the cloth made contact with his flesh, Peter decided he would never make assumptions again.

"Ammonia is such a good cleanser, wouldn't you agree detective?" The soft voice was lost in the raging sea of Peter's agony.

Immediately following the torturous sponge bath, a rough blanket was wrapped around his waist and secured at the small of his back.

"Modesty, little nephew-boy, is very important. We don't want to offend your female playmates at the precinct, now do we? Now, smile for the camera, detective."

A maniacal giggle followed Peter into blessed oblivion.

Far too soon, a sudden rush of water from above dragged him back to awareness. Part of him was grateful as the cool torrent washed away the remaining traces of ammonia and temporarily soothed his burning skin. A larger part, however, immediately tensed for the next round. He desperately wanted to remain strong and put on a brave front for his family and friends, whom he knew would be the recipients of this twisted home movie. As he recognized the object being aimed at him and felt the surge of electricity wrack his body, however, agony's voice would not be denied.

******

Kermit had been at his computer all night, using every bit of skill and every contact he could think of, looking for even the tiniest kernel of information. He found himself becoming more agitated and frustrated with each dead-end. Part of his agitation, he knew, was due to the strange sensations he had been experiencing over the past few hours. Without understanding how, Kermit knew that he was somehow sensing Peter's ordeal. If what he was feeling was only a very minute reflection of the kid's pain, as he knew that it was, then every second that he spent on fruitless searches brought them another second closer to Peter's death.

He was just about to hack into another file when the tape arrived. Everybody involved in the search for the missing detective gathered together in an empty interrogation room, without a single doubt as to who the star of the mystery video would be. Not even that certainty prepared them for the first image that faded in, badly out of focus at first, but gradually resolving into a sickeningly clear, crisp picture. It was not clear whether or not the figure hanging from the rafters in the center of the frame was even alive. A camouflage blanket covered the man from the waist down, but his chest was a spider web of angry red welts and burns and the face was barely recognizable. Audible gasps of horror were followed by dead silence.

"He is alive, but barely," Caine's soft words answered the unspoken question. There was a hard edge to his voice, one Kermit had never heard before, that matched the anger burning in the priest's eyes. Kermit unconsciously moved closer to his brother and father and stared intently at the video.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered. Something about the scene was familiar, but he could not quite place a finger on what had caught his eye. Before he had a chance to reflect further, a masked, sexless voice shattered the silence.

"Hello Griffin. I'm sure you are wondering what this is all about. Far be it from me to keep you in suspense. This is payback, pure and simple, sir. You took what was mine, and now I'm gonna take what is yours. First, however, I'm going to have a little bit of fun."

A figure cloaked in black appeared and began walking toward Peter as a rush of water descended from above, completely soaking the young detective. Peter came to with a hiss of pain and immediatly pinned his tormentor with startled hazel eyes.

"Ah man, come on. Enough already." The once rich voice was now weak and ragged, but his spirit was obviously still in tact. The figure turned to the camera, face concealed behind a black mask, and giggled. The insanity laced through the sound terrified everyone in the interrogation room.

"He has your spirit, oh captain my captain. Breaking it will provide me with the greatest entertainment of my life."

Returning his attention to his captive, the shrouded figure bent down and lifted an unidentified object from the floor. As he extended his weapon of choice toward Peter, the young man twisted awkwardly in an attempt to avoid the attack. As the probes reached their target, releasing debilitating amounts of electricity into Peter's already abused body, the detective bucked violently.

"Air taser," Karen growled.

Peter threw his head back and screamed in agony. The figure only giggled louder, obviously reveling in his captive's torment, and walked slowly back toward the camera.

"Enjoy the show Griffin? I do hope so, because there will be plenty of upcoming sequels."

The screen slowly faded to black to the steady soundtrack of Peter's agony.

End Part 8

Part 9
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