The Hardest Thing

Martin, that’s right. He’d gone… Why…
    “Daughter.”
    My voice again, although this time I wasn’t aware I’d spoken. Jesus, whatever they’d given me was some strong shit. Daughter…of course, Martin’s daughter. Kidnapped. Rendezvous, ransom, “no cops,” Jerry from apartment number five, and here I was.
    “You bastard, Ferrari.”
    Soft voices somewhere in the room. Two? Three? Not more. I tried to lift my head to look around. A bolt of pain shot through my skull, and I had to swallow hard in order not to vomit. It’s not good to vomit when you’re lying on your back. People die.
    Okay, Dan. Deep breaths. You’re not injured. Maybe you’re sick; maybe it’s just the stuff they shot you up with. Wait until the pain passes. Don’t throw up. You’re too weak to do anything. Try to remember. Gather information.
    There was something hovering around the edge of my consciousness. Something bad and weird and sad. What had Ferrari told me? Just before I went out. Something…someone… A face I couldn’t focus on, a name I couldn’t remember…
    Stirling. Stirling or…what was the other name? I went through a list. Will? Kenny? Martin? Scott? See, I could remember some cheap city slicker who gave me forty bucks for the fuck of his life but I couldn’t recall the name of the guy who, just a couple of days ago, I was supposed to be in love with.

    Jody. That’s it. Jody. Or possibly Brian. I smiled with relief. I wasn’t losing my mind after all.
    But there was still something wrong. Something Ferrari said…
    We like to look after our employees—especially when they’ve done a good job. We like to reward them…
    A good job.
    What?
    What had Jody done? What had he achieved, apart from leading me on a pointless journey across New England? What obscure purpose was behind it? Why had I allowed myself to become involved, to fall in love? Whose game was this? Julian Marshall? Enrico Ferrari? Trey Peters? I didn’t know who to trust. Martin Kingston? Jack Rendell? Were they all in on this—whatever this was?
    “Will.”
    I said that word out loud, good and clear. It sounded firm and solid, something to hold on to.
    “What?”
    Ferrari’s face again, hovering in the circle of blinding light. Black eyebrows, slits for eyes, a mask. The features flew around, arranging themselves in crazy new patterns, and I sank down into the blackness.
    What happened next could have been a dream—my dreams can be really vivid. I saw Jody Miller straddling my cock, as he had so many times before in motel rooms and rental cars, riding up and down, reaching around behind to stretch his ass around me, the other hand rubbing up and down his firm stomach.
    I was sure it was Jody. It felt like Jody. I tried to see his face, but there was too much light behind him, too
much swirling darkness. I felt the sensation in my dick, the pressure in my balls, and then I lost him; the picture spun off into space and I slept again.
    The next time I came around I was aware of two things. I was in pain—felt like I had a broken rib on my left side, and my head was throbbing from the crown right down to the jaw, as if someone had slapped or punched me repeatedly. And I was alone. I don’t know how I figured that out—it was a feeling that became a certainty. I struggled to look around—nothing. I held my breath and listened—nothing, not even the sound of someone else breathing. I was still cold, but something had been thrown over me—a sheet or blanket. I moved a bit and felt rough cloth on my naked body. I twisted my left hand a little—the sheet stuck. Dried blood is like glue if you leave it long enough.
    What had happened? How long had I been here? I’d been heavily sedated, that was for sure—and beaten up while I was unconscious. Seems weird. Why anesthetize someone if you want to cause them pain? Why kidnap someone unless you’re going to interrogate them? Why kidnap me at all? I was no use to anybody. No one was going to pay a ransom to get me released. I didn’t know anything. I was hired muscle when that was needed, a driver and a bodyguard who’d been pushed around like a piece on a chessboard and now… What? Kill me—yeah, that I could understand. I’d talked to lawyers and policemen, I’d threatened the Marshall Land sell-out and possibly sabotaged Julian Marshall’s vacation plans. But why go to the trouble of holding me in this little dungeon or office or whatever the hell it was? Why waste good