Aftermath (20 page)

And maybe, just maybe, after going through hell for however long, someone was finally granting wishes. 'Cause a minute or so later, the door leading to the basement was shoved open and Cam heard the sounds of two people walking down. No one was thrown down, and it wasn’t just one person. Two. Two people. Cam fucking prayed it was Austin. And Tim.

He held his breath when whomever was on the outside fiddled with the lock on the door to the cell. Which Psycho only did after checking the hatch first.

Time froze for Cam as Austin appeared in the open doorway, sweaty, grimy, blood sliding down his bicep, and only wearing those torn sweatpants of his. Both men looked like death warmed over, and shock was written across their filthy features.

"Austin," Cam finally choked out.

Austin didn’t reply, but he did shuffle closer, his posture revealing he was in serious pain. When he reached Cam, he slid his arms around Cam's waist and dropped his forehead to his shoulder. Cam let out a shuddering breath, remaining quiet and barely breathing as Austin freed him of his cuffs.

"We did it."

"Christ." Cam threw his arms around Austin's neck, but he backed away immediately when Austin winced. "Your arm." He'd been shot. "Fuck, your arm, Austin."

"I'll survive," he replied with a small smile and touched their foreheads together.

Outside the cell, a few other men appeared, Tim having released them all.

"You really did it." Cam could barely believe it, much less let it settle inside him. "Where's…?"

Austin jerked his chin in the direction of the stairs. "We cuffed him upstairs—took his keys and guns, too." He blew out a breath. "We're going to lock him into one of these cells—"

"Why don’t we just kill him?" Cam asked bluntly.

"Believe me—the thought crossed my mind. But we need the passwords to get out." Austin sighed and inspected his gunshot wound. "I think I'm in shock, because I can barely feel this. But I need to patch it up so I don’t lose more blood." He smiled wryly at Cam. "Tim was shot in the foot—pissed him off like you wouldn’t believe."

Cam ignored that and said, "We gotta find you a medical kit. And you mentioned guns; we could always fire off a couple rounds at the door. Maybe aim at the hinges or something."

He walked over to the water bucket, gently placing the soaked washcloth around the wrist that hurt the most from the cuffs. The fabric and the water were far from clean; he probably risked infection, but so did touching everything else down here, and he fucking needed the pain relief the chill of the water offered.

"If we get out without the douchebag's help, I wanna kill him."

"I think there's a line." Austin's mouth quirked up a little. "Come on—let's go talk to the others."

Because all the men were in a state of shock, they got a surprising amount done without emotions bringing them to their knees.

*

Cam gulped and gritted his teeth together. It was in complete silence, as Lance began to talk, that Cam tried to regain his breathing. Only Chase noticed; he side-eyed Cam a little, but he said nothing.

God-fucking-dammit
. Cam despised this. But, he had to admit, it was getting better. The more he remembered, the more he got used to the onslaught of emotions. It didn't catch him off guard as easily as it had mere weeks ago.

"And as I understand it—Cam, you had a theory about why the ten of you were chosen," Gale continued patiently. "You talked about that while Victor, Sean, and Lance tried to get the door open?"

Cam shrugged and let out a heavy breath. What Gale said wasn’t exactly correct. They had all been on the same page about Psycho's motives. Cam had only connected the last dots, sort of. What had once been a guess became a solid theory with Cam's thoughts.

"I just said that shit about our clothes," Cam muttered. "It seemed plausible or whatever."

*

Austin tilted his head back, looking like he was dizzy, as Cam cleaned the bullet wound in his bicep. Like Cam had suggested, a couple of the guys had used the guns on the armored doors and managed to get one open. The bullets were all gone, but the door they did shoot open had turned out to be a supply closet. Medical kits, utensils, toilet paper, razors, toothbrushes, toothpaste…a lot of shit was found in there. But most importantly, they'd found a tool box and a crowbar, all of which Victor, Sean, and Lance were using to try to open the door that hopefully led to freedom. With the guns, they'd managed to do some damage, and now all they needed was that final shove.

In the meantime, Tim and Chase were guarding the crazy motherfucker who was now cuffed inside Chris and Pete's old cell. The reason they picked that cell was 'cause there was a pipe in one of the corners—a perfect spot to cuff Psycho to.

That left Cam and Austin seated on the stairs in the basement with a medical kit.

It felt so fucking odd to move around freely, even if they were still somewhat locked in. It was pretty dark, and the fumes from the spilled gasoline made things even worse. Still, it was a small slice of freedom.

"You shouldn’t be alive!" Psycho cried out. "It's wrong! It's wrong!"

"Shut him up!" Cam growled, turning his head toward the cell. His hands on Austin's arm had stilled, but he didn’t move them away. "I don’t care; just, just—bash his fucking head in!"

"My pleasure," they heard Chase mutter. Soon, he was pounding on the kidnapper.

Cam sighed and returned to applying antiseptic cream to Austin's arm. "I was thinking," he said quietly. "What can you tell by looking at the other guys?"

Austin probably figured Cam was doing this to distract him from the pain. "Nothing. Other than they're just as beat-up and filthy as us."

Cam hummed. "Their clothes. They're all in work clothes—except for Sean, who's unemployed. Pete didn’t have a job, either, but…" Pete wasn’t alive, so that didn’t really matter.

"I'm not in work clothes," Austin reminded him, then hissed when Cam placed a sterile pad on his wound. "Damn."

"Sorry. But yeah, you kinda are." Cam gave Austin's shredded sweatpants a pointed look. "Psycho picked you up when you were wearing pants with a logo from a construction company."

"All right." Austin conceded. "So? Where're you going with this?"

Instead of answering right away, Cam peered up the stairs. "Sean!" The incessant noise of three men trying to force open a heavy, steel door silenced for a beat. "What were you doing when that motherfucker took you?"

The silence went on for another moment before an obviously tired Sean replied. "I was coming out of a diner. Why?"

Cam's brow furrowed in concentration. Then he asked the next question. "What did you do before that? What did you do that day?"

"What?" Sean sounded confused. "What's with the Twenty Questions?"

"Just answer," Cam said quickly, impatiently.

He sensed Austin's smile and was sure it was 'cause Austin knew him by now—his temper, his impatience. For a second, Austin leaned closer to him, but then he frowned and leaned back again, quickly followed by a shake of his head.

"Before getting lunch," Sean continued, appearing to think back on the day he was kidnapped, "I'd picked up my son's tux—Valentine's Dance and all. And, uh…I was looking for work; I had a couple interviews lined up. Talked to the people down at the unemployment office—"

"That could be it." Cam snapped his fingers and nodded. Then he resumed patching up Austin's arm and lowered his voice. Sean was out of the conversation already. "So, imagine Psycho trying to find his next victim. He follows Sean, who looks like an average Joe, and hits the goddamn jackpot when Sean later unknowingly tells the world he doesn’t have a job when he walks into that unemployment office." He paused to pay attention as he tore off a bit of medical tape and fastened it across Austin's skin. "When he's done, he's got a couple unemployed dudes, a couple construction workers, a mechanic, a mailman, a plumber…it goes on like that. No suits." He eyed Austin. "No Ivy League or other fancy colleges. No fucking success."

Austin arched a brow. "There's a lot of money in construction." And he went on about how he knew that for several reasons. Bakersfield was attractive mainly for the oil and agriculture industries, but also 'cause of its low sales tax, which led to many companies moving here—or there?—depending on where they were right now. Land was cheap, and when a company relocated to Bakersfield, it resulted in many other businesses booming, as well. Construction was certainly one of them. Plants and manufacturing warehouses, housing projects and road construction…the list went on.

Cam waved it off, though. "That has nothing to do with it. No matter how much a mechanic or a construction worker makes, you don’t think about them when you hear the word 'success.' And you sure as shit don’t think academic success about a mailman."

"That’s what you were trying to say before, wasn’t it?" Austin murmured. "We were talking about any kind of connection we might have, and you mentioned our jobs."

Cam nodded and wiped some sweat off his forehead. "It's what we have in common—menial jobs, so to speak. And you saw how that fucking prick went off on you and Tim when he learned about your degrees. Something's up with that. He didn’t pick random dudes."

*

Gale nodded as Cam spoke; for once he was keeping his voice steady, and because he was talking, it was easier to remain in the present and not be sucked in completely by the past.

"It was the same theory Mr. Morris came to." Victor spoke of the FBI profiler who had been assigned to give answers to those who needed them. Cam wasn’t one of them. Maybe the theories were true, but only one motherfucker could confirm.

"It doesn’t fit with that insane bastard's real family members, though," Sean said, looking frustrated. "I'm working-class, out of a job at the moment, and he kept calling me Scott, some high school bully. But the real Scott…I read in an interview with him that he's a lawyer. Married, has kids, does charity—the whole shebang."

"Yeah," Victor agreed. "I was supposed to be his older brother, who is now raving about that lunatic in the papers. Says they were close and whatever, yet I was shot. Anyway, he—Fred, the older brother—is a successful spokesperson, fuckin' lobbyist, for some oil company."

Cam sighed and rolled his neck, closing his eyes for a beat. This could go on forever, and they'd never come to a conclusion. So, why bother? Psycho had lost his fucking marbles; let's leave it at that. Rhyme and reason wouldn’t help him sleep better at night.

"He was intimidated by success."

Everyone turned to Chase, who had spoken up in his quiet, gruff voice. He had his knees drawn up, his forearms leaning on them, and his head was tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. He reminded Cam a little of himself with his rough exterior, though Chase was a couple years older. Holey jeans, biker boots, simple T-shirt, and a pair of Ray-Bans on top of his head.

Gale was pleasantly surprised—it was easy to tell—'cause Chase rarely talked. Even Cam and Austin, who were quiet, had nothing on Chase.

"Care to elaborate, Chase?" Gale asked encouragingly.

Chase opened his mouth without moving from his position and kept his eyes closed as if he was napping. "They're all successful—that asshole's family members. It's pretty clear to me. I've read every interview, watched every news segment…" He shrugged with one shoulder. "He obviously felt like he'd been mistreated by these guys at some point in his life, but he was intimidated by their status. So, he took out his anger on ten innocent men who weren't all big shots. He could play boss with us. He wouldn’t be able to do that with a lawyer, a CEO, a producer…"

It was quiet for a while before Tim said, "Remy, Stahl's little brother, works in a tattoo parlor. I don’t see that as very successful."

Chase tensed up slightly at the mention of Remy, the name he'd been given in captivity, but answered without wavering. "He does that for kicks; it's his fucking hobby. He also runs a website—something with music, and the advertising makes him cash in like a king. Trust me, that fucker's loaded."

Chase had evidently done his research.

"Why would Stahl be intimidated by success, though?" Lance asked. "That’s what I don’t get."

Cam rolled his eyes, as there could be a million reasons and factors. "All it'd take is a case of Daddy issues. There're people all over the world who're fucked in the head 'cause of how they were raised." It was anyone's guess, and
that
was why Cam didn’t give a fuck. "Maybe his pops told him that you're a fucking loser without an education or a good paying job." He shrugged.

Gale looked at the guys. "Well, that's certainly something to ponder, isn't it?"

Not really
, Cam thought wryly. Weeks ago, they'd found out that Psycho's dad lived in some old folks' home and had Alzheimer's, so again, what did it matter? Were they gonna ask this old fuck who didn’t know his own name how he'd raised his son?

Yeah, I don’t fucking think so.

"Okay." Gale sat back and took a glance at her notepad. "Let's move on. What happened next?"

No one volunteered to answer.

*

When Psycho shouted, "I said back off!" everyone heard it. Tim and Chase were already in the cell, and Cam and Austin got there a few seconds before Victor, Sean, and Lance did. Huddling near the doorway, they all saw the fucking Zippo lighter in Psycho's cuffed hands.

"I thought you searched him." Chase slapped Tim's arm.

"For guns and keys," Tim snapped, clearly pissed he had missed the lighter Psycho must've had in one of his back pockets. And that goddamn lighter was functioning, the fairly large flame proof of that. An even bigger problem was that the gasoline Psycho had poured in the hallway outside the cells had slowly but surely seeped inside.