Second Grave on the Left

“What do I do?” Angel asked, bouncing around like a grasshopper in a skillet. He was hard enough to see as it was. I couldn’t seem to focus on anything beyond the thickness of my tongue.

“Get Ubie,” I answered in a flurry of slurs.

“Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? I tried to get him when you were channeling a coma patient, Rip Van. He’s freaking out, trying to call you right now. He thinks he’s being haunted by your great-aunt Lillian.”

My escorts hefted me over the threshold of a crumbling single occupancy. A chair sat at the near end of the room along with a variety of blurry torture devices on the dresser next to it. Needles, knives, disturbing metal appliances designed with one thing in mind. At least my escorts had put some effort into this, had done their homework and prepped the area. I wasn’t just some random chick they were going to torture and bury in the desert. I was specially chosen to be tortured and buried in the desert. The self-esteem had already jumped a notch.

“So, why does Ubie think he’s being haunted by Aunt Lil?” I asked as they plopped me into the chair before tying me to it.

“Who is she talking to?” one of my escorts asked.

The other one grumbled. It wasn’t hard to distinguish which was Riggs and which was Murtaugh, though they were clearly the evil versions. And I figured out why I couldn’t place their faces. They were wearing ski masks, which really didn’t coordinate well with their suits.

I soon discovered that being bound to a chair was far less comfortable than one might think. The ropes cut into my wrists and upper arms and squished poor Danger and Will Robinson to no end. They would never be the same.

“Well, I tried the sugar trick,” Angel said, still jumping about, trying to see exactly what they were doing. “You know, like you told me before, but his cat kept licking at it until it looked less like ‘Charley needs help’ and more like ‘Lil likes ass.’”

“Ubie has a cat?”

I saw a flash of movement, so fast, it hardly had time to register before I was looking toward the rusted sink at my right. Only then did a sharp pain shoot through my jaw, and I was beginning to realize how much this was going to suck. Grrrr, I hated torture.

“You hit me again,” I said, growing oddly annoyed.

“Ya think?” Evil Riggs said. Smart-ass.

“Part of my brain hurts. I demand to know what that part of my brain is called and what its job is.”

Evil Riggs paused. “Lady, I don’t know what that part of your brain is called. Do you know?” He turned toward his BFF.

“Are you kidding me?” Evil Murtaugh asked, though I felt his inquiry insincere.

I did my best to identify the men I highly suspected of kidnapping, but I just couldn’t focus. Whatever they gave me was great. I’d have to get the recipe.

Their voices sounded like a recording played too slow, and I couldn’t quite zero in on their eyes to assess the color. I pretty much couldn’t zero in on anything that would have me tilt my head any direction but down. They had nice shoes.

“We’re running out of patience and time, Ms. Davidson,” Evil Murtaugh said. His voice wasn’t particularly deep, and he had small hands. Definitely not my type. “You’re getting one chance and one chance only.”

One chance was better than none. I’d have to give it my best shot. Go for the gold on the first try. Beginner’s luck, don’t fail me now.

“Where is Mimi Jacobs?”

Shit. Well, when all else fails, lie. “She’s in Florida.”

“Where’s Floyd?” Evil Riggs asked his partner.

“Florida,” I repeated. Geez. I tried again. “Flo-wi—”

My head whipped to the right again, and pain shot all the way from my jaw down my spine in white-hot waves. Still, I had a feeling Evil Murtaugh’s love taps would’ve hurt a lot worse had I not been drugged out the ass. Now I had to regain my bearings all over again. I sighed in annoyance.

Evil Murtaugh kneeled before me and lifted my chin so I could look at him. It really helped. I could almost make out the color of his crystal blue eyes. And I would’ve bet my last nickel the other one might have had crystal blue eyes as well. I knew they’d creeped me out for a reason. Freaking fake FBI agents sucked.

“This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me,” said Evil Murtaugh, aka Special Agent Powers.

I smiled. “Not if the guy standing outside that window has anything to say about it.”

Both my kidnappers whirled around. Before they could do anything, Garrett Swopes put two into Evil Riggs, his draw so quick, it barely registered. Of course, nothing was registering clearly for me, but still. Evil Murtaugh drew his gun and shot back, forcing Swopes against the outside wall. It was all quite loud. I tried to give Swopes some help by head-butting Evil Murtaugh, but all I managed to do was to lop my head down for a good view of his shoes again.

“Woohoo!” Angel said, whooping and hollering and jumping around. I couldn’t take him anywhere.

There was some more gunfire, and someone kicked the door in. He had nice shoes, too. Shiny. Suddenly, Garrett was untying me. He was wearing dusty boots and jeans. And Evil Riggs might or might not have been dead at my feet. I mean, he looked dead with his eyes open and unseeing like that. But I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions.

“He went out the back,” Garrett said to the guy with nice shoes. Who knew he kept such good company?