Cut and Run 1 - Cut and Run

hung his head, an agonized whimper escaping. He looked back at the murderer's body. No need to check a pulse there. The feeling of grim satisfaction gave him the strength to grab for the book he'd left in the armchair. The answer was in there, somewhere. He felt sure Henninger had thought of Ty as another victim, not just someone in the way. Sitting there sprawled on the floor, he started paging through it again, shaking as he prayed it would give him some clue.
    "Fuck all,” he hissed toward the body. “God, please ... Ty...” he whispered as he kept turning, story after story, anguish encroaching as no inspiration hit until he couldn't hold it off anymore. It gripped him hard, and he curled in on himself, hot tears slipping loose and dotting the pages. He could hardly think through the pain and loss of blood.
    Defeated, he looked up at Henninger's body. Blood was matted in his hair. Ty's blood? More stained his hands, along with traces of what looked like grit and dust from where he had laid on the concrete of the parking deck. He must have taken Ty down with chloroform—because Zane knew Ty would have hurt him badly if he had tried some other method—hidden him away, then hit himself in the head just hard enough to make blood flow. All he had to do was lay on the ground pretending to be unconscious until someone found him.
    The tears gave way to an ill resignation as Zane's eyes continued down the killer's body, looking for some hint. Henninger had been on his knees and fallen backward, his heels pushing to one side as he had died.
    It took a long moment for Zane to register what he was seeing. The bottoms of Henninger's dress shoes were covered in gritty, gray mud. It was ground into the treads and covered the insteps. Zane pulled himself closer, almost out of energy. Reaching out slowly, Zane drew shaking fingers down the sole, and they came away covered with thick, damp mud. He stared at the dead body. They were in the city, and it had been dry all week. Where would he find fresh mud?
    "They even kept the original tunnels below the building intact.... “
    "Jesus,” Zane hissed, grabbing for the book, ignoring the gritty muck coming off his hand onto the pages. He found what he was looking for: The Cask of Amontillado . “Jesus!"
    Lurching to his feet, Zane collapsed again with a harsh cry, catching himself on the couch's arm with his good hand. He was too weak, and he hurt so badly he could barely tolerate it. He focused on the one thing he could. Ty. Ty would be going crazy, stuck somewhere small and in the dark, like in the story.
    He needed something to pump him up until he could get to Ty.
    Stumbling into the bedroom, he made it to the nightstand and swiped up the bottle Ty had given him. Pulling the top off, he saw the caplets marked OC inside and shook them all out onto the bed. Ten pills. Without a thought to the dosage, he scooped up a handful, tossed them in his mouth, and started chewing. The dry, sharp chemical taste filled his senses when he swallowed, and he pushed himself out to the front room again and found his gun and the bloody knife. He grabbed Sears’ gun for good measure and drew a deep breath as he felt the first wave of drug-induced energy. He wove dangerously as he headed to the door, the drugs already taking effect since he'd bypassed the time release by chewing them up. By the time he got to the elevator, the high was rushing through him.
    "I'm coming, Ty,” he murmured to the closing elevator doors. “I'm coming."
    * * * *
    Ty struggled and called out for help until his voice was hoarse and his abused wrists were dripping blood down his arms. The chains held fast, though, and nothing but the flicker of the candle noticed his distress.
    Soon he found himself hyperventilating, and he forced himself to breathe slowly in a desperate attempt to calm. He would surely die if he didn't remain calm. He closed his eyes, but realized immediately that the darkness felt heavier without the light of the candle. He opened them and stared longingly at the bricks. They were so close in the small space, but still unreachable.
    Tim Henninger—and Ty was still trying to get his mind around how horribly he had misjudged the kid—had left everything incriminating inside Ty's tomb with him. His plastic protective gear, his tools, the bucket of drying mortar, and probably the cruelest of all, the keys to Ty's shackles, just out of reach on the ground.
    Ty looked back at the candle with a growing