they done that to him? Ten? Twenty?
A day here of blessed relief; a day of violent desperation when no needle pierced his flesh.
He was in agony again. Were they coming? Were they ever going to come?
The drug often made him hallucinate. It blurred his vision, caused a bitch of a headache, and made his
joints ache. Was he imagining the scuff of footsteps outside the silo door?
There it was again!
He cocked his head toward the sound. It had to be either the black man or the Colombian. He could
not take another minute of this torment and hope to keep his sanity.
He lay there, panting from the pain. His belly cramped and rumbled and his mouth watered. He licked
his lips.
"Please," he called out. He held his breath and waited. He understood they liked to hear him beg.
The door to his nightmare world opened. "What you want, pig?" It was the black man whose voice
sounded so much like that of James Earl Jones.
He bit his lip, his breathing shallow and quick as he shifted impatiently. His mouth flooded with saliva.
"I hurt," he admitted and saw the man nod.
"I expect you do." There was laughter in the rich bass voice.
"Please," he asked again, hating himself, but knowing all too well how the game was played. "I need it,
man."
"I'll see what I can do."
The door closed, shutting out the light.
It was always the same answer. Conor understood that, too. It was part of the game. They could be
back in five minutes or five hours. At times like this - when he was waiting for the blessed relief of the
drug and not knowing if he was going to be given it or not - his mind took him to Rhianna and the only
bright ray of sunlight in his shadowed existence. Thoughts of her had gotten him through the worst of it.
He hoped that would help now.
Just to touch her, he thought. That was all he really wanted to do. Just to assure him she was all right,
handling this situation as best she could. He had no doubt that Joe and Trip were taking care of her,
seeing to her immediate needs. And Steve Trevor, his lawyer. He would have spoken to her by now,
maybe even given her the letter.
The note he had written her, Conor thought with a lurch of his heart that made tears pool in his eyes.
How could he have forgotten that pouring out of his feelings? _Oh, dear God, no! Don't let Steve have
given her the letter yet!_
"Rhianna," he said and his voice broke with need.
He could see himself writing it that morning. It was like a motion picture playing across the screen of
his mind. He could even smell the coffee brewing as he had sat on the couch and tried to put into words
how he felt.
It had been a long time in coming. There had been many attempts and countless wadded up sheets of
paper dumped into the trash can before that day. He doubted if he could ever have said the words to her
face. Writing it had been hard enough but he knew she'd never read it unless something bad had
happened to him.
Something bad had happened to him. Something so bad he could never have imagined it or prepared
himself, or her. That was what the message had been about, preparing the two of them for a time when
he was no longer there. Looking back on it as he lay helpless on the cot, he supposed he should never
have written the damned thing. He wished to God he hadn't. It was a selfish thing to do; an arrogant
assumption that Rhianna Marek loved him as much as he loved her.
Did she? He thought she loved him. There had been signs even an idiot could read. But if she did love
him, how much would those words hurt her now?
_Selfish, Nolan._ Such selfishness should be punished and what better punishment than the one he
suffered now?
The things he had written came out of the darkness at him and he cringed. They terrified him, but he
couldn't look away from his declaration.
_"My Pretty Lady,"_ the words began to tumble off his tongue into the silence around him. _"If Steve
has given you this letter, then I'm no longer around. You don't have to read
A day here of blessed relief; a day of violent desperation when no needle pierced his flesh.
He was in agony again. Were they coming? Were they ever going to come?
The drug often made him hallucinate. It blurred his vision, caused a bitch of a headache, and made his
joints ache. Was he imagining the scuff of footsteps outside the silo door?
There it was again!
He cocked his head toward the sound. It had to be either the black man or the Colombian. He could
not take another minute of this torment and hope to keep his sanity.
He lay there, panting from the pain. His belly cramped and rumbled and his mouth watered. He licked
his lips.
"Please," he called out. He held his breath and waited. He understood they liked to hear him beg.
The door to his nightmare world opened. "What you want, pig?" It was the black man whose voice
sounded so much like that of James Earl Jones.
He bit his lip, his breathing shallow and quick as he shifted impatiently. His mouth flooded with saliva.
"I hurt," he admitted and saw the man nod.
"I expect you do." There was laughter in the rich bass voice.
"Please," he asked again, hating himself, but knowing all too well how the game was played. "I need it,
man."
"I'll see what I can do."
The door closed, shutting out the light.
It was always the same answer. Conor understood that, too. It was part of the game. They could be
back in five minutes or five hours. At times like this - when he was waiting for the blessed relief of the
drug and not knowing if he was going to be given it or not - his mind took him to Rhianna and the only
bright ray of sunlight in his shadowed existence. Thoughts of her had gotten him through the worst of it.
He hoped that would help now.
Just to touch her, he thought. That was all he really wanted to do. Just to assure him she was all right,
handling this situation as best she could. He had no doubt that Joe and Trip were taking care of her,
seeing to her immediate needs. And Steve Trevor, his lawyer. He would have spoken to her by now,
maybe even given her the letter.
The note he had written her, Conor thought with a lurch of his heart that made tears pool in his eyes.
How could he have forgotten that pouring out of his feelings? _Oh, dear God, no! Don't let Steve have
given her the letter yet!_
"Rhianna," he said and his voice broke with need.
He could see himself writing it that morning. It was like a motion picture playing across the screen of
his mind. He could even smell the coffee brewing as he had sat on the couch and tried to put into words
how he felt.
It had been a long time in coming. There had been many attempts and countless wadded up sheets of
paper dumped into the trash can before that day. He doubted if he could ever have said the words to her
face. Writing it had been hard enough but he knew she'd never read it unless something bad had
happened to him.
Something bad had happened to him. Something so bad he could never have imagined it or prepared
himself, or her. That was what the message had been about, preparing the two of them for a time when
he was no longer there. Looking back on it as he lay helpless on the cot, he supposed he should never
have written the damned thing. He wished to God he hadn't. It was a selfish thing to do; an arrogant
assumption that Rhianna Marek loved him as much as he loved her.
Did she? He thought she loved him. There had been signs even an idiot could read. But if she did love
him, how much would those words hurt her now?
_Selfish, Nolan._ Such selfishness should be punished and what better punishment than the one he
suffered now?
The things he had written came out of the darkness at him and he cringed. They terrified him, but he
couldn't look away from his declaration.
_"My Pretty Lady,"_ the words began to tumble off his tongue into the silence around him. _"If Steve
has given you this letter, then I'm no longer around. You don't have to read
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