Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Fifty

When I was about nine, I read a Hardy Boys novel in which the climactic scene featured Frank and Joe Hardy secreting themselves in a corner of an old fort in the middle of the night.

The volume, appropriately titled, The Haunted Fort, had the brothers waiting in the dark for a suspected art thief who had been scaring naïve townsfolk by pretending to be a ghost.

One of the boys whispered as they waited that the fastest way to adjust their eyes to the dark was to squint tightly for three or four seconds.

I recall this story and curse silently, as I squint, open wide, and repeat for the fourth time, still unable to see anything in the silent, pitch-black space, where, as far as I can tell, I'm sitting in a rigid wooden chair  — either an old school desk chair or a very plain, dining table chair. The pressure in the crooks of my arms, just below my biceps, my numb fingertips, and the burning on the fronts of my ankles, just above my instep tells me I am bound to the chair.

If there are windows in this space, they're completely covered.

I'm guessing that it has been about fifteen minutes since I came to, but it could have been an hour.

Certain that the Hardy Boys will be of absolutely no use to me, I try to think of what McGyver might do. I'm positive the TV spy with handyman skills would never have been trussed in a way that prevented him from reaching a Swiss army knife or a random collection of batteries and electrical wires tucked into a hidden pocket in the seam of his waistband, beneath his belt. Commercial breaks every eight minutes or so wouldn't have allowed it.

As helpful as all these thoughts are to pass the time and to re-rank my list of most practical and most useless superheroes and action stars, they don't make my bonds any looser, and my crushing headache is getting worse. I'm starting to remember the car accident and wonder if my head hurts from the rollover or from being struck by whoever had seen fit to tie me up in a dark room rather than take me to a hospital.

Eventually, thinking begins to hurt too, and I start to grow drowsy again, a likely symptom of concussion, when I feel a hard slap across my face.

At least, I think it's a slap at first. It dawns on me, though, as I spring back to life and my head snaps back, that the sharp pain I felt came to the front of my face — my forehead, nose, eyes, and lips. Not a cheek or jaw. I haven't been slapped. I've been doused with ice-cold water.

To my pleasant surprise, after the initial shock, the splash felt great. For once, I don't feel self-conscious about how sloppy I might look eating or drinking, and shamelessly lick at the droplets running down my face.

"Still with us, Mr. Wilson?"

The voice is directly in front of me. My aching head means my depth perception may be way off, but I'd say the speaker is just a couple of feet away.

As if on cue, soft lights slowly come up – whether as a courtesy to me or because the "light switch operator" is going for dramatic effect, I'm not sure. But I find myself squinting again. This time when I open my eyes, they have adjusted. I forgive the Hardy Boys and take in the scene before me.

My captor sits about two feet away, also in a rigid wooden chair. Not a husky-voiced woman with a Jessica Rabbit hairdo, but rather an African American man wearing well-cut dark blue jeans, white classic Stan Smith Adidas tennis shoes, and a logo-free short-sleeved, white polo shirt. Even in pain, I love good fashion. But what really stands out is the evil villain-like mask he's wearing.

I assume it's a gas mask of some sort but see no filter and realize quickly that it is just a large pair of goggles. Night vision goggles. He slowly reaches behind his head, loosens a strap, and lifts the contraption off.