E:\ZFICTION\OTHER\ARRANGE.TXT
The First Arrangement
There was an annoying hissing sound, the static of a
radio adjusted between stations. Ryan was thirsty, and his
neck was painfully twisted. As he turned his head to ease
the strain, his neck turned within a band that didn't move
with him. He wanted to touch it, but he didn't seem to have
arms. No legs, either, and something was over his eyes.
Everything else seemed to be functioning, painfully, but his
movements were restricted in a way that suggested that in
addition to the restraint around his neck, he was fastened
at wrist and ankle. One could hope that someone expected
him to recover the use of his limbs.
Between the static and whatever was stuffed into his
ears, he could not hear. Neither could he see, but
vibrations, air movements, and infrared suggested that
someone was near. That someone moved away and returned with
a second warm body and the reek of used tobacco. A light
moved over his face.
"Please." The word was so blurred that Ryan stopped
and began again. "Please . . . may . . . I . . . have . . .
water."
A buzzer of the sort that might come with a radio code
practice set said "dahdit dahdahdah".
"Howmuch . . . ransom."
Tobacco-breath's fist wasn't much clearer than
Ryan's hoarse whisper, but the message was simple: "5-0-0-
K".
"Half millun . . . take a week . . . prolly more."
The only reply was a flash of light, painful even
through the blindfold, accompanied by a welcome flash of
infrared. Ryan faded out again.
He was awakened by the touch of a warm hand and a light
inspecting his face. The presence moved on as though
inspecting the rest of him. He was all too aware of having
arms and legs, and instinctively began to flex them as best
he could to restore the circulation. The presence, as if in
response, moved to the head of the slab on which he lay.
"GOOD EEUENINME". This fist was even more uncertain
than the other, with many irregular pauses as if looking up
the symbol. The operator, however, smelled faintly of
cologne.
"Good Evening." His voice was no less hoarse, and now
it was thick with thirst, but he had control again. "May I
have some water now?"
"NOT YET"
"May I use the washroom?"
Cologne did not answer, but presented a bedpan with
competence that contrasted sharply with her sloppy fist. In
continued silence she bathed him from head to toe, combed
his hair, and skillfully rubbed life into his limbs.
While Cologne was rubbing him down, Tobacco approached
and offered Ryan the nipple of a baby's bottle. It was
filled with pure water and Ryan accepted, but he'd scarcely
taken four ounces when Tobacco snatched it away again and
both presences moved away from the table. Ryan called after
them, "Thank you. May I have a blanket?"
There was no response. He began to stretch, that being
the only movement possible. A flashbulb went off, not so
close this time.
Presently Tobacco returned and seated himself at the
sending key that was fastened to the table between Ryan's
outstretched arms.
"WE ARE GOING TO MAKE RECORDING. I WILL SEND ONE
SENTENCE. YOU WILL REPEAT IT EXACTLY WHEN MICROPHONE IS
PLACED ON YOUR CHEST. YOU WILL NOT SAY ANYTHING ELSE. iT
THIS CLEAR?"
Ryan said, "Yes, sir."
The recording was short, but making it was a long and
exhausting task because Tobacco's sending was slow and hard
to read. Tobacco fed Ryan the rest of the bottle in
installments to keep his voice from failing, four whole
ounces of water. Drug-induced thirst would have enabled him
to put away a gallon over the same length of time.
After Tobacco left, Ryan (knowing that he would never be
stronger) proved that the strands over his wrists would
neither break, stretch, nor slip.
* * *
Molly woke in the night and went to check on the
prisoner. The flashlight beam spotlighted a man-sized foot,
toenails a healthy pink, ankle cords snug but not tight.
The left foot the same. The bruises on his legs had begun
to fade, likewise those around the waist and across the
hairless chest. Neck cords were secure, and his face showed
him to be peacefully asleep. She turned the light aside
before it woke him. The bruises on his arms were fading
too, fingernails a healthy pink, wrist cords . . . there
were red stains on the wrist cords. Molly tried to pry back
the fingers. The hand uncurled of itself, turned its back,
turned palm up, and relaxed again. Molly sighed for her
broken rest and turned the static up to daytime level.
She closed the door carefully, warmed some water, and
shook Bill respectfully. "Honey! Wake up, Darlin'! I need
you."
"What's happenin'?"
"I have to wash his hands. He's cut himself."
Groaning, Bill heaved himself to his feet, groped for
his flashlight, and entered the cell. Bill stood by Ryan's
hip, holding the light and lending help when needed while
Molly cleaned Ryan's left hand, tried to wash the stains out
of the cords, and applied antiseptic and dressings. When
she began to tie his fingers individually to tongue
depressors stuck through a bandage around his wrist, Ryan
spoke.
"Do you really think I'm dumb enough to do it again?"
Molly considered saying, "What makes you think I think
these little sticks would stop you?" but the remark did not
seem worth sending in code. She laid a towel over the
finished hand and began work on the other.
When she had done and was gathering up her equipment,
Ryan said, "Thank you."
Bill slammed the cell door behind him. "Damned idiot!
Waking us up in the middle of the night!"
"I should have known he would try it, but I don't see
how we could have stopped him."
"I could try breaking both his arms."
By the time she'd cleaned up and gone to bed, Bill was
sound asleep. Pity. He could be a real tiger when he was
angry.
The next morning, while she was frying bacon on the camp
stove, Bill nibbled her ear and said, "Hey, what was the
idea with the sticks?"
"Just to keep his fingers straight while the scabs are
forming. I'll take them off after breakfast, if you'll hold
the light."
"Our little golden boy could have done without."
Uneasily remembering the automatic way the hands had
stretched and turned when she touched them, and the rest of
him as limp as a wet rag, Molly suspected that there was
more truth in the words than was intended. "Are you sure
you won't be seen at Difficulties?"
"There will have been a hundred people in and out
between the time I leave and the time they notice the
envelope. Stop fretting and get my breakfast ready."
"It'll be done by the time you've washed. How much
water does he get today?"
"Four bottles. Spread three through the morning, one at
noon, and none after noon."
"It's ready, come and get it. I've been worried about
chilling. The boy is tough, but he hasn't any fat
insulation to speak of, he can't move anything but his
fingers and toes, he will soon be starving, and if he turns
blue we are in no position to drop him into a hot tub."
"So he looks good in blue."
"He could die before we can collect."
"You can cover him up at night. Why aren't you eating?"
"I haven't had a chance to work up an appetite yet."
"See that you do. He's the only one that's supposed to
get feeble."
"Yes, sir."
Bill gave Molly a sharp look, but decided that he liked
being called "sir".
Removing bandages without any sort of cutting tool was a
tedious procedure, but Molly had been told that if Ryan got
his hand on a pair of scissors, he would be gone. When she
had removed everything but the bandage under the wrist cords
from his left hand and pulled the towel off the right hand,
Bill drew her away from the table, climbed up on the chair,
and took one more picture.
Molly turned down the static and gave Ryan his first
bottle as soon as Bill had gone. He said, "Thank you. I
feel like a new man."
He sounded like one, too. If Bill had seen that
grateful smile, he would have knocked it off.
"There seems to be only one of you. Has your friend
gone to deliver the ransom note?"
"NMES"
"If you would allow me to teach you, I think I could
improve your code."
Molly thought this offer over during Ryan's bath and
rubdown. Her code could certainly stand improvement, and it
was going to be a long dull day for both of them. She
accepted.
***
"Again."
"THIS TIME THE SMOOTH THEME SOOTHES ME"
"Good. Now send 'To Tom it seems some mess.'"
"TO TOM IT SEEMS SOME MESS"
"Again."
Halfway through she broke up, not so much because the
word-string could be made to apply to Tom Ryan's situation
as because she had forgotten it while they "talked" there in
the dark like teacher and student.
"Take five. We must have been at this for an hour."
Molly stood and stretched out the cramps. She hadn't
realized that she had been motionless so long. Her fingers
found her flashlight. All cords were still secure, no new
signs of ill health on his well-tended body. What a pity to
let it atrophy. She tugged at him, Obedient, he rolled as
far as his neckband would allow so that she could inspect
his back.
***
"Take it straight over to Tom's apartment and I'll meet
you there. Come yourself, and don't handle it more than you
have to."
Charley hung up and dialed. "Russel? A secretary at
the downtown office of Difficulties found an envelope
addressed to me in a potted palm. I'm having it taken to
Tom's lab."
Soon two men anxiously contemplated a fat envelope lying
on a laboratory table. Charley said, "That's school
stationery, and it could well be the typewriter in the
teachers' lounge."
Russel cautiously slit the envelope along a crease.
"I'll wager that any prints we can't account for turn out to
be the pressman's." He used tongs to remove three Polaroid
prints and a tape cassette from the envelope. "This is it,
all right." He was wearing his poker face.
Charley sent for a cassette player and studied the
pictures while Russel tried to develop latent prints on the
cassette. "I figure that this close-up was taken soon after
the kidnapping, the full-body shot a few hours later, and
the waist-up shot this morning. The bruises are fresh and
red in this first one and he is plainly still under the
influence of the drug. He is definitely awake in this one
and the bruises have turned blue, but there is no sign of
the wounds that have already begun to heal in this third
one; the bruises have begun to fade in the third one, too."
A young man entered with the cassette player. Charley
introduced him: "This is Alfred Rand, Tom's lab assistant."
Russel kept his eyes on the job at hand. "Tom choose
him?"
"Yes."
"He can stay."
"Mr. Ryan, who's he and what's going -- oh, may the Lord
protect him." Rand had seen the pictures.
Charley prevented him from touching the photographs.
"He's Russel Wagner. He's had a lot of experience with this
sort of thing. He's with the F.B.I."
Without looking up, Russel said, "On leave, at present."
Rand's mind was still on the photographs. "What have
they done to his hands?"
"He did it himself, trying to break the strings."
"No one could get hold of those strings. They are too
close to the hand."
"How long have you been working for him?"
"We were in Kosciusko together. Tom could have cut
himself." The boy was beginning to imitate the stone-faced
calm of the older men.
"I give up," said Russel, "It's cleaner than a hound's
tooth. Let's play it."
Rand surrendered the cassette player. The message was
interrupted frequently by clicks and pauses showing that the
recorder had been switched off, then on again.
If you want to see Tom Ryan again . . . you will do
exactly as you are told. . . . You will not call the
police. . . . You will put an answering device . . . on his
unlisted office phone . . . and keep the line clear for
further orders. . . . The device will use this recording:
. . . This is Tom Ryan's office. I am temporarily
indisposed. Please leave a message when you hear the tone.
. . . When you have one half million dollars . . . in
small, used, unmarked bills . . . change to this recording:
. . . Tom Ryan will soon return. Please leave a message
when you hear the tone. . . . I recommend that you hurry
. . . because he is being held . . . in uncomfortable
circumstances -- isn't that something of an understatement?
There was a sound like a chair falling over, a moment of
silence, and four sharp slapping sounds. Rand turned pale
. . . and he will get nothing to eat until the ransom is
paid. . . . I have received permission to tell you that
there are things in my laboratory safe that will help you to
ransom me. The combination is 8-16-32-6-7.
There was nothing more. Russel said, "Those 'things'
must be his tracer bills."
"Tracer bills?"
"Before Tom's Daddy left, he made him a couple of
twenty-dollar bills that could be located with a gadget like
a radio direction finder. I've borrowed them on more than
one occasion."
"What do you mean by saying that Tom's father left?"
"Not father, Daddy."
Charley said to the phone, "This is Charles Ryan. I'm
going to put Russel Wagner on. Do exactly as he says, it's
important for Tom."
Russel took the phone. "Is there an answering device on
the premises?"
Charley led Rand into Ryan's little sitting room.
"Russel is going to need you often before we get Tom back,
and I don't want him handicapped by the need to keep my
peculiar relationship with Tom Ryan secret from you.
Legally, I'm his father, but putting my name on his birth
certificate was simply one of the services I performed as
Daddy's lawyer. When Daddy left last October, I became
Tom's lawyer and the trustee of his estate."
"Why didn't Tom's father put his own name on the
certificate?"
"Tom's Daddy wasn't his father and didn't have a name
that we could spell in Roman letters."
Charley spent a moment in thought. Rand sat quietly,
trying to think of a sensible question.
"Daddy arrived in this state in October of 1949. A
couple of months later he found himself in need of a human
agent for the darndest set of self-owning corporations you
ever saw, and hit upon an alcoholic junior law clerk that
Schwartz and Petrocelli were keeping on out of mistaken
charity. I haven't touched a drop since, and if I died for
Daddy's boy today, I'd still be life ahead on the deal."
Rand had his question. "What is Daddy?"
"I guess you could call him an anthropologist. It must
take a lot to graduate from college in his culture. He
thought nothing of travelling literally astronomical
distances and spending twenty years just to write a
dissertation. You'd think that studying a whole planet
would keep a fellow busy, but he needed a hobby. He turned
to making heredity-unit arrangements. When you were in
school, did Tom ever share his lunch with you?"
"I traded him a chocolate mousse for an apple once. It
was beautiful, crunchy, full of cider, tasted like quince
jelly. I've never seen such a thing before or since."
"It could have been accomplished by selective breeding,
that was one of the rules of the game, but Daddy had more
direct methods. In November of 1950, he told me that he had
made an arrangement of human genes and would need a birth
certificate."
"Tom wasn't born until October fourth, 1951."
"It wasn't the first eleven-month gestation."
"Now he is pushing twenty and doesn't look sixteen."
"It has been hard to keep him inconspicuous. If we have
to call in the police, it will be impossible."
"What about the F.B.I.?"
"Russel is on leave. He and Daddy used to have an
arrangement to take advantage of being in different branches
of the information business. Here!" Charley had fetched a
box of tissues from an end table. "If fifty isn't too old
to cry, nineteen isn't. Get it over with."
Charley held Rand like a baby. When Rand showed signs
of regaining control, Charley said, "There are millions of
people on the Earth, but Tom might as well be the only
member of his race in the universe. Now the loneliest man
in the world is naked, blind, and helpless in the hands of a
sadist."
Charley's comforting arms became painfully confining.
There was no escape for Rand from the words that scourged
him every time he became calm enough to hear. When he
ceased to respond, Charley laid him face down on the
davenport, took off his shoes, and covered him with a
patchwork afghan.
Charley stepped back looking, not at the boy, but at the
afghan. Each patch was embroidered, and the designs
graduated from crude stitches in parallel rows to intricate
patterns so precisely placed that only a needleworker would
think of the skill required. Charley wasn't seeing the
colorful squares. He saw the intent face of a boy forcing
his immature nervous system to guide his tiny fingers
through the motions that his mind comprehended so easily.
Charley slumped, stretched, and relaxed into his normal
confident posture. When he stepped into the adjoining room,
Russel said, "How's the kid?"
"Broken as far as he will break. When he wakes up,
he'll be thoroughly ashamed of himself."
Russel noted the distaste in Charley's voice. "Tom
would laugh at you for feeling guilty over something you
would do again."
"Saying it's right isn't saying it doesn't hurt. Any
progress?"
"No reports back. By tomorrow we should know which
building-supply dealers remember selling four by eight
plywood and fiberglass to the same person."
Charley examined the three enlargements taped to the
wall. "Three sheets, I see. Any evidence that it is
fiberglass between them?"
"Only that it is the most obvious stuff to use. I've
sent the originals by messenger to a computer-enhancement
man I can trust. We may get some details of the room out of
those shadows."
"If only we could use Tom's machine!"
"Should I lay you out beside Rand?"
"I'll be too busy compiling a list of people who might
know that you can't tie Tom up, toss him into a closet, and
expect him to stay there. It will be something to compare
with my list of people who could have drugged the milk."
"It is worth doing, and the sooner the better. It seems
as though half the town knew Tom was going to drink that
particular carton of milk."
*****
"Let's do some more work on rhythm. Give me a string of
dits."
"Enough. String of dahs."
"Good. String of didahs . . . don't drawl . . . that's
it . . . I felt a door shut."
"How'd it go?"
"Slick as grease. They had the recording on the second
time I called. How is our golden boy?"
"In good spirits. He's been teaching me code; wait's
you hear!"
"Good spirits! He acts like he was at a garden party.
When is that child going to find out he's been kidnapped?"
"I think he knows."
"Let's see to it that he stays kidnapped."
Molly released Bill, lit a lantern, and found his
flashlight for him. Bill led the way into the dark cell.
He held his light close to the nearest hand and examined
each of the strands around the wrist, looking particularly
at the point where it went through the board. He moved to
the head of the slab and examined the other side of that
wrist, both sides of the neckband, and the near side of the
other wrist. He leaned forward in order to examine the
other ends of the strands around Ryan's right wrist and
cried out as the hand seized his wrist with enough force to
knock his elbow on the table.
"Just reach into your pocket and bring out your knife."
Sweating, Bill obeyed. He stopped a second wave of
agony by touching the knife to Ryan's knuckles.
"Open it. Unh! Cut this hand free, hurry!"
Bill sawed desperately, but the cords were tough and the
blade was very dull. When at length the last strand parted,
the freed hand moved toward the fettered wrist, carrying
Bill along.
"Give knife, give." Bill gave, laying the knife in the
waiting palm, and staggered back a step as Ryan released him
in order to snatch the knife with his free hand. One slash
cut through a third of the cords, a second snapped off the
blade. Ryan tried to open the other blade. Molly snatched
away the broken blade. Ryan's efforts to open the knife
were increasingly clumsy. The knife fell out of his hands
and Molly took it.
She led Bill into the outer room, helped him lie down on
his air mattress, put a pillow under his feet, and examined
the injured arm. "I can't tell, Bill. We'll have to go to
the emergency room as soon as we've got him secure again.
You try to think of a good story to tell the doctor while I
get him ready to turn over. He's probably as far under as
he's going to go by now."
With no-one to hold the light, Molly was obliged to set
a lantern on the table while she worked. She used her
handkerchief to tie the free hand to the one that was still
anchored while she trimmed off the dangling strings and
drilled out the holes. Then she untied the handkerchief and
moved each joint of the arm through its full range of motion
before she patiently laced a bowstring through the holes,
around the wrist, through the holes, around the wrist . . .
Crouching under the makeshift table, she knotted the ends
and smeared the knot with instant glue. After Molly cut the
other hand free and repeated the whole procedure, she worked
the folded blanket out from under him, revealing holes
through the slab which enabled her to tie wide strips of
cloth over his legs and upper thighs, around his waist, X-
wise across his chest over the shoulders, and across the
arms. One more sling restrained the head. She returned to
Bill.
"If I tie your arm up firmly, I think you can let out
the rope without hurting yourself."
She had a scarf that would do for a sling, and tied a
belt around his chest to keep the sling from swinging out.
The block and tackle were still in place. She unwrapped
the rope from the cleat and lowered the hook gently onto
Ryan's midriff. She found the proper hole in the edge of
the slab and put the hook through. Then Bill steadied the
slab while she raised it. It wasn't nearly so easy for her
as it had been for Bill. The slab pushed the sawhorses
aside as it rose, because Bill could not push them back as
she had done. When it came free of them, the slab swayed
sickeningly. Molly reminded herself that the child could
not feel his injuries. She put one sawhorse parallel to the
slab and pulled it as far to the side as it would
conveniently go, then held on there so that the slab could
hinge on the sawhorse as Bill let out the rope. It became
more stable as it became more horizontal. Soon it was easy
to put the other sawhorse in the space between his other arm
and leg and release the tackle.
Molly whispered, "Lie down, Bill. What will become of
me if you should go into shock? We can't run even a slight
risk."
Though time was valuable now, she escorted him back to
the outer room to make sure he did lie down. Then, in
careful haste, she tacked the new strands to their places
with instant glue and coated them with quick-setting epoxy,
not omitting to glue them to the sides of the holes. She
set a catalytic heater halfway between the two patches of
fresh glue and made a sort of tent over all with a sheet.
From the outer room she fetched a kitchen timer and her air
mattress. She rested with her head under the table, where
it would be easy to inspect him if there were any change in
his breathing. On one such occasion she was chilled to see
that he was writhing to put more of his weight on his arm
and leg bonds, so that he could draw a deep breath for once.
He was too far under to do that.
The timer dinged. She removed the tent, set the heater
in the corner, attached the hook through the hole opposite
to the one she had used before, pulled on the rope until the
slab began to rise, snubbed the rope on the cleat, and
removed the sawhorse thus relieved of duty. Molly turned
the radio on and entered the outer room.
"Up and at 'em lover. Time to get to work."
"What's with the static?"
"Hearing is the last to go and the first to come back.
We may need to talk."
"He'll be under a good three hours."
"With him, I'm not so sure. He took twice as long to
pass out as he should have."
"It sure felt like eternity. Tough as he is, he
couldn't help groaning a little when you stuck the needle
in."
"I'm afraid that he didn't make a sound when the needle
went in."
"But I heard him. He sounded like he'd been kicked in
the stomach."
"You know how when you're in desperate hurry you have to
do everything strictly in the habitual way?"
"Go on."
"I sponged the vein with alcohol before I shot him."
"You took time for that while my arm was breaking?"
"This wasn't exactly rehearsed. Anyhow, it was when the
alcohol swab touched him that he grunted."
"Let's get Tarzan flipped before he strangles and takes
our half-million with him."
The sawhorse fell away without knocking against the
helpless boy, but the slab swayed heavily again. Bill
muttered, "Well, now he will be symmetrical." Molly snubbed
the rope and manhandled the sawhorses into place two feet
from each end of the slab while Bill leaned against the slab
to keep it off to one side. Molly went around to the side
where Ryan hung and took hold of the lower edge, straining
every nerve to keep it from pushing the sawhorses aside when
Bill moved away.
"Lower it quickly!"
Bill obeyed, bringing it down with a nasty thump.
"Wait for me in the van. I'll come as soon as I get him
safe. Slow and easy, now. No heroics, no big man ignores
pain." She kissed him cautiously and sent him on his way.
She made sure the new bonds hadn't been loosened by the
recent stress, then ran her flashlight over every inch of
the room with a new horror of leaving some object behind.
The heater would have to stay. One could not be sure the
epoxy was really solid yet. Before she left, Molly laid two
blankets over Ryan's body.
* * * * *
Dead, deafening silence. If a silk pin had dropped,
Ryan could have heard it in spite of his plugged ears.
Well, he could have if it had dropped onto his table. Bone
conduction brought him the sounds of his slow heartbeat and
his still slower lungs. In Asia, in Australia, in places
you never heard of, Ryan's Daddy had taught him to bear
pain; but Ryan's Daddy had also seen to it that he never
suffered a moment of ill health. Now he was sick for the
second time within twenty-four hours, and this attack seemed
worse than the first. Ryan felt that a little self-pity was
in order. His attention was immediately distracted from the
luxurious exercise of feeling sorry for himself by an
unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation in his stomach. Ah, now
he had it. A full ten years ago, Daddy had built an android
with a stomach for the sole purpose of teaching Ryan how to
retch. The android had felt like this when it had needed to
throw up. The lesson had stood him in good stead yesterday,
when he realized that he'd been poisoned, but didn't seem to
be useful now. Even if there were something to come up,
he'd be likely to choke on it because he was unable to turn
his head very far. Ryan overrode his stomach and began to
analyze his sensations. They hadn't deadened his arms
again. Ryan wasn't sure whether to be grateful for that or
not. All four limbs had been wrenched more unmercifully
than before, and he had been only half healed from the first
time. All his bruises had been reactivated and each one had
some sort of soft band over it. He was also covered with
something that felt like wool. The room temperature was up,
too. For the first time since his capture, Ryan didn't feel
chilled. He felt about, raising and turning his hands.
There was definitely a source of infrared off approximately
in the direction that his right arm pointed. The new wrist-
bonds seemed identical in all respects to the old ones and
Ryan's hands were already in poor shape. He decided not to
test them.
Ryan was extremely thirsty with no prospect of obtaining
water. He ached all over. He could think of nothing more
constructive to do than wiggling his toes. He invented a
set of isometric exercises, ran through them twice, and went
into a coma.
When he woke, the remains of the drug had been cleared
away in spite of his slowed metabolism. Movement, such as
was possible, still hurt, the more so because he was sore
under each restraint. Pain when not moving was down to
ignorable level, which left him free to notice how
uncomfortable it was to lie directly on varnished wood. He
had only been switched off for an hour, and it was unlikely
that he had been drugged for more than three, for all that
he'd tried to drag it out. He should have waited for
midnight, when the emergency room could run a simple
fracture through in less than half a day. How tempting was
the thought of slipping back into coma!
He occupied an hour or so in taking stock of his
injuries, blocking off the thought of how quickly he could
do the job if he were free, and found none that would not
disappear after a day or two of good food and exercise.
After several days of starvation and atrophy? Block that
thought too. The effort had been tiring; he felt capable of
natural sleep.
* * * * *
Bill had forgotten all about the lunch he had come
"home" for, and by the time they got away from the emergency
room he was late for his supper. He nearly fainted from
hunger on the way back to the van, and Molly had to support
him for a few minutes.
She propped Bill up in his bed, gave him a glass of
milk, and opened a can of beef stew as quickly as she could.
Then she filled a bottle with water and turned the campstove
as low as it would go. Beyond doubt, the prisoner would be
in sore need of attention. She was frightened to see how
quietly he lay, but he took the nipple eagerly enough.
Before beginning to untie the cloth bands, she tapped out
"SORRY SO LONG".
"I expected it. I was far enough gone to crack his
ulna, but not too far gone to know I'd done it. But I owe
you an apology -- you singular -- I underestimated you
badly. Should've waited until you were gone."
His voice was as hoarse as ever, and his breathing was
slow. By the time he finished his speech, she had untied
all the knots. She ran off to stir the stew and bring Bill
another drink, assuring him that milk was full of bone-
building calcium. The compromised on a beer.
Ryan explored his slight increase of freedom. The
stiffness of these small movements was a reminder of what he
would face when finally released. After less than a day,
moving his arm to use the knife had been painful.
Molly returned with an unprecedented second bottle.
Ryan did not question it.
"NO APOLOGY FOR HIM?"
Ryan coughed. Laughter can hurt when you have been
strangled. "Him I overestimated. If he kept his knife
sharp, I'd be in my own bed now. I could tell him the
injury I meant to inflict was less severe than the one he
received, but I don't think he'd find that comforting."
Molly cleared away the bands she had loosened, worked a
fresh blanket under Ryan, and covered him again. That would
have to do for a while. Bill needed his supper and she
needed her rest.
The stew wasn't very appetizing, but Bill wolfed down
his share and half of hers. Molly forced down enough to
keep up her strength. When she'd eaten all she could, she
lay down until Bill called her to remove his dish and bring
another beer. She decided to finish without further rest:
she might not be able to get up again.
Ryan had done himself one favor: with no orders about
water, she had no guide to follow but to bring him all he
wanted. When she'd done the dishes, swept, straightened,
and refueled the heater, when Ryan had had his rubdown and
she had covered him again, Molly wanted nothing more than to
fall asleep. Unfortunately, by this time Bill was well
rested and he found his cast no impediment at all.
It seemed as though she had barely drifted off, though
it was hours later, when she heard a low voice over the
subdued hissing of the radio: "Nurse! Nurse!"
It seemed that she was developing a mother's ear. As
she dragged herself out of bed, she reflected ruefully that
this disturbance was one she had let herself in for.
* * * * *
"Lie back down and go to sleep. And don't interfere."
Bill shut Molly out of Ryan's cell. He set the lantern on
the table and watched the prisoner, who was writhing in a
stereotyped pattern, as if he were trying to exercise. Bill
swabbed his thigh with alcohol. Ryan stopped moving and
relaxed, waiting. As Bill had expected, Ryan didn't mind
the touch of alcohol. What had happened to elicit his only
complaint? Bill fished a sewing needle out of the alcohol
and stabbed it into Ryan's thigh. Ryan tensed, his
breathing was interrupted momentarily and became less
regular, but he gave no other sign. We'll see how long you
can keep that up, little boy. Bill stabbed a second needle
an inch or two from the first. The tension disappeared.
Bill blinked. A third needle brought no reaction at all and
Bill already knew what a hasty examination revealed: Ryan
was out cold. Nobody humiliates William Condor in front of
his girl, but how do you explain that to a kid who faints so
easily? Bill pulled out the needles and decided to have
Molly fix breakfast.
Later, Bill held the light and watched Molly rubbing
Ryan down. Perhaps if he studied him, he would find out why
a boy who could stand up under a mickey finn that would have
downed a horse should faint at a needle prick. Practically
unconscious, clinging to the posts of the room divider for
support, without the strength to open his eyes, still he
wouldn't fall down until Molly relaxed his fingers with some
of the stuff they had found in Kosciusko's dentist's office.
"Ah! There are at least two minor puncture wounds in
the rectus femoris."
Now why would Ryan refuse to notice being stuck, then
cry out when Molly barely touched the wound? There was a
direct experiment handy. Bill examined the injured thigh
until he remembered where the needles had gone in, then
jabbed a sore spot with his thumb. Ryan hardly twitched.
Awkwardly, because his right hand was in a sling, Bill
tapped out "WHY DON'T YOU SAY OUCH?"
Ryan shrugged, or maybe he was just loosening up his
shoulders.
Bill let Molly get on with her work and continued to
brood. He concluded that Ryan complained when it would do
him some good and didn't when it wouldn't. It was the same
way with passing out. He had fainted, not at the first
shock nor when he was worn down, but as soon as he knew Bill
intended to go on sticking needles into him. It had worked:
he'd stopped; even if he hadn't, Ryan would have been ahead.
He hadn't felt that third puncture.
On the other hand, clinging to those spool-turned posts,
out on his feet and unable to fight for freedom, he could
still fight for time and hope for rescue. It had been a
near thing, too. If Molly hadn't already had plans to
paralyze his limbs, if she hadn't been so quick and
skillful, even if Ryan hadn't been wearing a sleeveless
shirt, they might have still been there when the classes
changed and teachers started coming into the lounge.
Bill not only indicated that Molly could put the blanket
back over Ryan, he fetched another from the outer room.
Before he left, he told Molly, "Keep him covered up nice
and warm. Give him all the water he wants. And at ten
o'clock on the dot, feed him that can of chicken broth."
Molly had been easier in her mind when Bill had asked
for her needle-case.
Bill, on the other hand, was full of cheer. Now he had
only two things on his mind. One was the question of why
the touch of an alcohol swab could be a body blow, the
other: where do you buy a winch on a Sunday?
* * * * *
"This time there's news. I've got a report from an
emergency room on that janitor we haven't been able to find.
They treated him for a hairline fracture of the ulna
yesterday afternoon, and his story and his wound didn't
match. He said he tripped over a skate and fell, but the
doctor who treated him said it looked more like it had been
clamped in a vise. There were bruises completely around the
wrist and bruises that resembled finger marks."
"Sounds possible, but if Tom got his hands on him, why
isn't Tom here?"
"That's been bothering me," That was an understatement.
Russel's eyes were haunted. "A hardware clerk picked him
out of a mug book. He sold him three sheets of half-inch
plywood, two four-by-eight sheets of fiberglass cloth
(coarse weave), the makings of two sawhorses, a hand brace
with a half-inch bit, a keyhole saw, some pulleys and rope,
half a gallon of epoxy, and ten Dacron bowstrings. He
showed no interest at all in the compound bow hanging over
the sporting goods."
"There is no gentle way to make Tom let go."
"If Condor wasn't able to cut Tom loose for some reason,
the confederate could have drugged Tom. You know that if
Tom were fully conscious he wouldn't need to break the guy's
arm."
"You're sure there was a confederate?"
"When Mrs. Jameson's staff searched the school, Condor
was innocently mopping floors. He didn't have time to take
Tom anywhere."
"The question is, where did the confederate take Tom?"
"When I get my hands on Condor he'll answer that
question if I have to take him to Jane."
"There isn't a way in the world she could find out where
Tom is without finding out what Tom is."
"Not by interviewing a man Tom has laid hands on. And
suppose she let Condor see what she is. Then we'd either
have to explain why Tom can't see Condor, or we have to
stand up to Tom while he tries to get her name and address
out of us."
Charley laughed, and said, "I'd stand up about thirty
seconds."
"I could hold out for maybe forty, and all I could tell
him is that Jane's mother's first name is Melissa, but it
won't come to that. I know a lot more about arm-twisting
than I've ever used. How is the ransom coming?"
"Picking a weekend didn't help a bit. Even with
Melissa's help, I can't get it together before Tuesday
morning."
"Change the recording the minute you know for sure."
* * * * *
Bill's idea was fiendishly simple. He just bored an
extra hole in he head of Ryan's slab, attached the tackle,
and pulled it upright. Now the boy could either support
himself with his arms, or strangle in the strings around his
neck. That was very strong motivation for staying awake.
Bill's original plans were more elaborate, but a little
experiment showed that the pain of hanging from his
awkwardly-bent arms was too great to allow Ryan to notice
any other discomfort.
After ten minutes, Molly reminded him that if the boy
strangled, so did their half million. Bill allowed her to
lay the slab out level on its sawhorses again.
Molly pulled Ryan's shoulders toward the head of the
table so that the wrist bonds could lie slack, toweled off
the sweat, and massaged his aching muscles. Her mind on
Bill's arm, she carefully avoided Ryan's hands.
When Ryan had control of his breathing again, he said,
"Ma'am, please take care of my hands . . . If I hurt you,
there would be no-one to take care of me; he would let me
die . . . Besides, they have gone numb, I couldn't hurt you
if I wanted to."
Molly believed him. She pulled the strings out of the
grooves in his flesh and set to work. Ryan passed out.
That afternoon Molly tended the prisoner much more
tenderly than fear for her share of the ransom could account
for. Was it pity, or guilt, did his apparent youth awaken
her dormant mother instinct, or was it something else?
For the whole afternoon, Ryan was at best half-awake
whenever Molly wasn't sending code to him. Good student,
Molly. After only two mornings of instruction she was
sending at thirteen wpm with a respectably even rhythm.
Sleeping out of season, on top of hunger, inactivity,
and stress, was too much. By the time Molly left him to
prepare Bill's supper, Ryan had a raging headache. This was
something Daddy hadn't prepared him for. He considered
asking Condor's girl for a headache tablet, but he had had
enough unprecedented experiences in the last three days. It
didn't seem wise to invite another. He overrode the
automatic controls on his circulation and banished the pain
again. Each time it returned sooner and with increased
intensity. Ryan decided that sleeping now would be worth
the pain he would pay for it later.
Molly was pensive over her supper. "If they take much
longer to get the ransom, I'm no longer sure the kid can
make it. He was very weak this afternoon, and he is in pain
he won't confess to."
"Maybe his father will have news for me when I phone in
tomorrow."
"I don't think you should."
"Eh?"
"When you don't show for work tomorrow, even if you
phone in sick, they are going to start looking for you. But
nobody knows I have any connection with Kosciusko School or
the Ryan boy. Nobody will pay any attention to me."
"You're right, I should stay holed up here. Are you
sure you trust me alone with your baby?"
"I'll have to. I'll have to walk, too. Your van would
be easier to spot than you are, and we can't be sure they
haven't called in the police."
Ryan felt patheticly grateful whenever Molly took a few
minutes away from Bill to tend to him that evening, and not
because she usually rubbed away some of his pain, but simply
because she it was the touch of a human hand. Once, a
female teacher at Kosciusko had hugged another first-grader
and said, "You would take a beating just for a little
attention, wouldn't you?" Ryan was in just such a mood. A
beating would have been welcome, if it came from a fellow-
creature, but he had no fellow on Earth. He longed for
Daddy, for the first time aware emotionally that Daddy would
never return.
It is a common joke that grammar-school boys regard
girls as soft boys. At Kosciusko there hadn't been that
much difference. The girls did everything the boys did
except visit the men's room. It is true, the matter came to
Ryan's attention when his playmates began to pair off, but
he knew himself by then: it was a matter that would not
concern him for years to come, and he was not one to worry
over matters that did not concern him. But what else did he
have to do at the moment? He knew that it was normal for a
child at his stage of development to show no interest in the
opposite sex, but the image of the peacock at the zoo kept
returning to him. The peacock had been hand-reared from an
egg and could be depended upon to put on a good exhibition
of the courtship dance for any human visitor, but the
zookeeper had tried in vain to breed him. Suppose Ryan did
mature normally? If he married a fifteen-year-old when he
was twenty-five, they would be a good physical match when
she was thirty, but chances were that he would never get
over thinking of her as a child. What sort of companionship
was that? Suppose the children took after him, how could
she handle them? Suppose they didn't, how would he handle
it? Better by far to do without.
Ryan knew what he needed, but even the best of us will
postpone an unpleasant task. Like a man with the flue, who
knows that he will feel better when he has gotten rid of his
dinner but postpones the revolting process of doing so, Ryan
fought against the inevitable.
It was after nine when Molly checked on the prisoner and
found him twisted against his restraints. She was badly
frightened before she realized that it was not labored
breathing that afflicted him, but soundless weeping. Her
first impulse was to comfort him as one would pick up a
crying baby, but one can't cuddle someone who is strapped to
a board, and she knew that if he wanted sympathy he would
not make such a great effort to avoid noise. It was nearly
eleven when, working deftly in the dark, she took off his
wringing-wet blindfold, washed and dried his face, and
applied a fresh bandage to his eyes. He thanked her as
politely as though she were not the cause of his grief, and
promptly dropped off into a healing slumber.
Molly wished she could do the same. She was bone-weary
and looked forward to the payoff not because it would make
her a rich woman, but only because it would mean the job was
over. Where she was disturbed by the incident, Bill was
relieved. At last Ryan was behaving like a kidnapped child.
Molly lay awake for hours, listening to Bill's regular
breathing.
On Monday morning Ryan had had nothing to eat since
Friday noon, except for a small can of rather weak chicken
broth, but he seemed stronger and more cheerful.
Some time after Molly had prepared breakfast, tended to
Ryan, cleaned up the place, and gone out, Bill, having
nothing else to do, went in to look at the hostage. Ryan
said, "I only feel one presence. Has the lady gone out?"
"YES"
"Then, having been left alone, how shall we amuse
ourselves? I didn't care at all for yesterday's
entertainment; perhaps you would care to improve your code?"
"HOW CAN YOU BE SO DAMN CHEERFUL?"
"I remembered last night that Daddy never did anything
by halves." Ryan knew that Bill would think that he was
referring to Charley and the ransom. That proves, I
suppose, that even the truest passion for truth can be
warped on occasion.
"MY CODE SUITS ME FINE"
"I'm in no position to play gin rummy, you'd have to
read my hand to me. Are you fond of chess?"
Bill stalked out of the cell, but he was as bored as
Ryan. After a while he unearthed a checkerboard and
checkers and took them into the cell. At first he
occasionally moved one of Ryan's men to a less favorable
position, but Ryan never became angry or made accusations,
he simply asked for a description of the board each time the
picture in his head became inconsistent with the moves, and
played on from there. Cheating just spoiled the game, and
Bill contented himself with removing a few of Ryan's men
near the beginning of each game to even up the odds.
He was engrossed in their eighth game when someone
kissed the back of his neck. Bill knocked over the board.
Molly gathered up the scattered pieces and he followed her
into the outer room. She had brought him a six pack, a half
gallon of milk, and some news.
"They have changed the recording!"
"They've got the ransom?"
"Not yet. They added a line to the tape: 'Tom Ryan
will return by ten A.M. Tuesday morning.' That must meant
that they will have the money by ten tomorrow."
"We can make the recording today and play it to them at
ten in the morning."
"Good. I really want to get out of here."
"Now how about fixing me some lunch, woman? I'm
starved."
"Molly flinched a little, and put the milk and beer into
the ice chest. The ice was long gone, but it would stay
cool longer there. She began to cook.
* * * * *
"The number has been dialed since you changed the
recording. We should be getting the ransom demand soon."
"Good. I should have the money in your bugged attache'
case well before the deadline. I've got news myself, not
likely to help us, but it explains a few things."
"I'll judge what's useful."
"Haven't I brought you every crumb?"
"Some of them were crummy, too. What is your news?"
"We knew all along that Condor had often seen Tom
playing with the students at Kosciusko, and must have seen
them playing Houdini. One of the teachers says that Condor
was there the last time they played that game, when one of
the boys tied Tom up with a bowstring and fastened the knots
with instant glue. Tom couldn't get loose until he cut the
string with a knife he had up his sleeve. The teacher
remembers it because of the long discussion as to whose
point it was. They decided that Tom had won the round
because the other boy had searched him."
"Tom had a perfect score, then, until Friday noon. I
wonder whether the students would regard drugging one's
opponent as cheating."
"The teachers would regard that as a violation of the
school rules. At least we know why they stripped him.
Guess we just have to put it down to bad luck that they
undressed him in the school basement instead of taking the
shirt with the special button to their hideout."
"It would have saved a lot of time if they had." Russel
was silent for a moment, thinking of what the extra time
could cost. "If Tom fails to survive this, so will Condor."
"Would you do me a favor, if it comes to that? It would
make a lot more sense to let me run the risk . . . "
* * * * *
Just when Molly was running out of stratagems to delay
the making of the tape, it was time for her to fix supper.
Since it was now awkward for Bill to use the key, he agreed
that it was advisable to wait until after supper so that she
could send the dictation to Ryan. She prepared an elaborate
meal in celebration of the payoff to come, they lingered
over it, then she spent an hour cleaning up. By the time
they'd made one tape giving instructions for delivering the
money and another giving directions for retrieving the
hostage, it was time for bed before it could occur to Bill
that Ryan was unnecessary now and represented a means of
relieving his boredom. The next morning, they were busy
packing their supplies into the van and cleaning the room of
clues to their identity.
She had Ryan add a postscript to the first tape: "They
tell me that it is nine-thirty Tuesday morning, and the low
temperature at the airport last night was fifty-one
degrees." Then she made him as comfortable as possible and
they left.
They played the tape to the answering machine at ten.
By eleven, they had a money-stuffed attache' case in the van
and Molly counted it hastily.
A block away on a different street, a young and healthy
man was driving an inconspicuous car and watching the
indicator of an even more inconspicuous direction finder
while the steel-gray man beside him listened intently to a
button in his ear.
The button said, "Bill, it's all here. Find a phone and
I'll play the other tape."
"We've got the money; we won't risk it."
Russel Wagner pressed the button on his microphone and
said "Take 'em."
Molly's protest at Bill's hard-hearted decision turned
into astonishment. When Wagner's driver arrived on the
scene, Bill and Molly were each in the grip of two unarmed,
but strong and skillful, men. Ten more were securing the
scene. Russel came out of his car asking for the tape
recorder. One of the men held it out to him. Molly said,
"You won't need that. He's in the sub-basement of a
condemned building . . . "
One of the men holding Bill stifled him until she was
finished. The button in Russel's ear said, "I got that,
chief. ETA five minutes."
Bill and Molly were put into separate windowless vans.
When they arrived, Molly found herself in the bedroom of a
two-room apartment. The man who had brought her here
(where-ever here was) remained in the outer room. She was
greeted by a hard-eyed woman any director would have cast as
a prison matron. She said, "I'm here to keep you in good
condition until you are sent for."
Molly threw herself onto the bed and put her head under
the pillow. The woman settled into a rocking chair and
watched her thoughtfully.
* * * * *
Ryan felt doors opening and the vibration of footsteps.
A filtered voice said, "It's the boss all right."
Flashbulbs went off. Someone was loosening his blindfold.
"Is that you, Rand?"
"It's Rand, boss."
"Clean my ears out, too. I can barely hear you."
Rand unplugged his ears. Other people sliced away the
cords holding him to the board. Ryan kept his eyes shut.
Dim though the light was, it hurt. They put his arms down
by his sides, put his feet together, and scooped him up with
an orthopedic stretcher.
"You guys bring anything to eat?"
"It's waiting in the ambulance, Ryan."
They carried him up a flight of stairs, deposited him on
a padded stretcher, and wrapped him in a blanket. The
stretcher was loaded onto an ambulance and Rand got behind
the wheel. While Rand carefully drove up a ramp into the
painfully-bright sunlight, the attendant adjusted the
stretcher so that Ryan was sitting up a little.
"Rand, did you get Bill Condor and the girl?"
"Sure thing! How did you know him?"
"His fist is distinctive."
"So that is what the key was for. Guess he did know you
would know his voice."
Ryan did not answer. The attendant had begun to feed
him the best soup he had ever tasted.
When Ryan was back in his own apartment, the attendant
introduced himself as a physiotherapist named Andrew Kozkin
and did a job of working Ryan over that Bill would have
envied. Then Rand fed Ryan a small rare steak. When he had
eaten, Ryan said, "I'm ready if all the evidence is."
Rand relayed this news and wheeled Ryan into his lab,
which had been converted into a television studio.
* * * * *
The matron touched Molly on the shoulder. "Get up and
make yourself presentable. You are going to get your
picture taken."
"Mug shots?" This was a funny sort of jail, and you
didn't need experience with jails to know it.
"Not exactly."
The matron supplied a comb and brush. The mirror in the
bathroom seemed subtly wrong. At last she noticed a tiny
engraving: "stainless steel". Then she realized that
nothing in the whole apartment was sharp.
The matron led her through a maze of hallways and
staircases into a large and brilliantly-lit room with four
television cameras hanging from the middle of the ceiling.
One was aimed at Tom Ryan, resting on a stretcher. One was
aimed at Bill, strapped into an armchair. Two more were
focused on empty chairs. The matron escorted Molly to one
of the empty chairs, and took a seat just out of camera
range.
The young man sitting beside Ryan raised the head of the
stretcher so that he was sitting nearly erect. The sheet
fell down, revealing that he was naked to the waist; the
merciless lights revealed every mark. He said, "Is the tape
running?"
One of the two men sitting at the monitors said, "Yes."
"It is five minutes past twelve noon on Tuesday, the
twenty-sixth of May, 1971. My full name is Tom Ryan. I
frequently visit the Kosciusko School. My latest visit to
the school was on Friday, the twenty-second of May. I went
to the teacher's lounge at about three o'clock to have a
glass of milk, and drank half of a one-quart carton."
He went on to describe his experiences in detail right
up to the present. Then he was lowered to a semi-reclining
position while one of the two men watching the monitors came
and sat in the chair under the fourth camera.
"My name if Charles Fletcher Ryan. At half-past three
last Friday, the headmaster of Kosciusko School telephoned
me to say that she could not locate my son, Tom Ryan."
They had missed him so soon? They had still been
loading Ryan into the van. How near they had come to
getting caught before they had done any harm. Someone
handed Mr. Ryan the attache' case and he spread out the
ransom money before the camera and packed it away again
before he returned to his seat by the monitor.
The other man introduced himself as Russel Ward Wagner
and related his experiences from the time, a few minutes
after half-past three, that he had been asked to investigate
the disappearance of Tom Ryan. He produced the cassette and
photographs, played it, and held up enlargements of the
photographs and the computer enhancements -- what on Earth
is a computer enhancement? More evidence dotted his speech.
She half expected to see the van driven in, but he settled
for enlarged photographs of the van and its contents.
After Mr. Wagner finished, Molly was relieved to hear
Ryan say, "It is after one o'clock now. I think we could
all do with a rest and some lunch. Please turn off the
tape."
The young man attending Ryan wheeled him out one door
while the matron escorted Molly out the other. Two men were
unstrapping Bill.
Once back in her room, Molly dropped into an armchair.
"I've really put my foot in it. Who is he?"
"The founder of Difficulties, Inc."
"We knew that when we snatched him. But we've stirred
up something a lot bigger than that."
"All I know is that he was one of Kosciusko's best
students, but never went on to Porter like the rest of them.
He just stayed on until . . . last year, when he opened the
first office of Difficulties. And that there was a big flap
last Friday that had my staff searching the place from attic
to cellar."
"If you'd searched from cellar to attic instead, you'd
have caught us."
"I've been trying not to think about that. This isn't
the first time someone has tried to steal one of my kids,
but this is the first time anyone has succeeded. Right out
of the teacher's lounge, too."
Molly didn't think that they had succeeded, but just
then the arrival of two trays of lunch interrupted the
conversation. The meal was much better than those Molly had
been fixing out of cans the last week. She tasted it and
said, "He is certainly treating me better than we treated
him." Then she couldn't eat any more.
The matron held her against her ample bosom and soothed
her like a frightened child. Molly was only eighteen, after
all. The reassuring phrases must have sounded empty to the
matron herself.
"I could have fed him, don't you see? I _could_ have
sneaked him some food."
If the matron thought that she could have avoided the
whole situation, she didn't say so.
Tom allowed a full hour for lunch, so the both of them
finally got a proper meal down. When they returned to the
recording studio, Bill was already there, remaining in his
chair without restraints, and Ryan was being wheeled in. He
didn't look rested at all.
None of the people called in after lunch spoke for long,
but there seemed to be dozens of them. At four, Ryan called
for a ten-minute break. Molly and her guard spent it drying
tears in a powder room off the room occupied by those who
were waiting their turn to testify.
It was nearly six when the slab was brought in,
accompanied by the sawhorses and dozens of photographs taken
before, during, and after Ryan's removal from it.
Russel Wagner read a deposition from the clerk who had
sold the materials to Bill, and displayed, but did not play,
a tape of that interview. Bill had given up trying to
cross-examine the witnesses when he saw that he was making
himself look silly. He had demanded a lawyer once, and was
told that he wasn't under arrest or on trial. Molly had
thought he would try to leave then, but Bill didn't mention
it. That had been while he was still strapped into his
chair.
The next witness came through the door that Ryan used,
not the one that the other witnesses and Molly entered by.
"My name is Andrew Kozkin. I am a physiotherapist.
Last Sunday I received a visit from Charles Ryan. He said
that he had a case for me which might give me occasion to
learn things that my patient would prefer to keep
confidential. I agreed to discuss the case only with the
permission of the patient or Charles Ryan. He then informed
me that he did not know the location of the patient, but had
reason to believe that he would, when found, have been
immobilized for a matter of days without food and that he
might have other injuries. I agreed to be available on
short notice, and he told me that the patient was his son,
Tom Ryan. Yesterday evening I came to stay in the adjoining
apartment, which I was told was that of Tom Ryan. At ten
o'clock this morning I left here in an ambulance driven by
an MET named Alfred Rand. Shortly after eleven, he
acknowledged a message he had received over his radio, then
informed me that Tom Ryan had been located. We arrived at a
condemned building a few minutes later, shortly before a car
containing several other men. Rand led us to the sub-
basement. He opened a large storage closet and found a boy
tied to a board resting on sawhorses. He was bruised on all
parts of his body and had partially healed cuts and
abrasions on his hands and wrists, but did not have any
obvious permanent injury. Rand took off his blindfold and
unplugged his ears while I cut the cords holding his left
hand and neck and two of the other men freed his feet and
other hand. We put him on a stretcher and loaded him into
the ambulance, then the other people returned to the room
where he'd been found and Rand drove us back here while I
fed the boy a thermos of extract of beef.
When we had him in his apartment, I gave him a workout, then
Rand fed him a steak and took him away for about an hour.
When he brought him back, we fed him a light lunch, after
which I gave him as much passive exercise as I thought he
could stand. He told me to prepare this statement and to be
as brief as possible. They went out again, and returned for
a few minutes at four, when I gave him some orange juice and
a brief massage. Then he came back here and I stayed in the
apartment until called."
"Thank you, Mr. Kozkin. Would you wait for me in my
apartment? I hope not to be much longer."
Molly looked at the way Ryan lay back on his pillow
while Mr. Kozkin was leaving and thought that there was more
sincerity than courtesy in that last remark. She herself
could not hold up much longer.
When the physiotherapist had gone, Ryan said, "Molly
Kokotelmo, have you anything to say?"
Molly was shocked. She gathered her wits a little and
almost wailed, "No, No. It all happened just the way you
said!" She ran for comfort, not to Bill, but to her guard.
"William Condor, do you have anything to say?"
Bill did. It was neither relevant nor printable, but
they all waited patiently until he began to repeat himself,
then shut him up.
"Charles Ryan, will you present the bill?"
Charles Ryan gave a sheet of paper each to Molly, Bill,
and Tom Ryan, then sat in the chair Kozkin had vacated to
read a fourth copy to the camera. Molly did not hear him.
She stared numbly at the bottom line: just under one
quarter of a million dollars. Everything was here from the
expense of turning a half-million dollars into cash and
Wagner's astronomical fee to the quart of milk they had
spoiled. She looked for the lunch she had eaten, failed to
find it, and diverted herself by wondering about it until it
occurred to her that that had been a non-necessary expense.
Charles had finished. Tom Ryan addressed Bill:
"Charles Ryan is my lawyer. I recommend that you see him
tomorrow to arrange terms and means of payment."
"What makes you think you can collect?"
"Do you really want me to sue for it?"
That was open blackmail, but it didn't seem likely that
any jury would convict Tom Ryan on the basis of this tape.
"You may stay in my guest room tonight, Mr. Condor, or
one of my men will take you where you want to go."
Bill left. Molly never tried to find out what became of
him.
"Miss Kokotelmo, would you come over here, please?"
The matron led Molly to Ryan's side and Rand gave her
his chair. "How many eighteen-year-old nurse's aides do you
know of who can hit the brachial plexus on the first stab?"
That came out of left field. With equal irrelevance,
Molly replied, "It took three, one for each nerve."
Ryan smiled. "The point is that very few people would
even recognize the term, but you were capable of making
practical use of it. Porter College has an excellent pre-
medical program. If you want to attend the fall term, I'll
lend you the money and pull a few strings to get you in."
"Why?"
"Without education, you will never even make interest
payments on what you owe me."
Molly nodded. She didn't feel up to speaking.
"I would advise you to stay here tonight and register at
Kosciusko in the morning. They can teach you what you will
need to know to take advantage of Porter. Mrs. Jameson has
said that she will chaperon you tonight and take you to the
school in the morning."
Molly was all too willing to do as she was told. That
was a feeling that would pass off during her few months at
Kosciusko, but now she quietly followed the matron, Mrs.
Jameson. As she left, Ryan called, "Uncle Charley, shut off
the tape."
* * * * *
When Ryan was back in his apartment, he called Rand to
him. "Would you do me a favor, Mr. Rand? There's a copy of
Farnsworth's _Radio Code_ in the record rack in the library.
I would like for you to gift-wrap it and take it to Miss
Kokotelmo. I hate to leave a job half-finished."
Puzzled, but unquestioning, Rand wrapped the album in a
sheet of drafting paper, made a bow out of a scrap from one
of Ryan's shirts, and took it out.
"Mr. Kozkin, I would like to have a few words with my
uncles in private." Mr. Kozkin retreated into the library.
"Uncle Charley, Uncle Russel, I've had a lot of time to
think. I've never had that before. There was such a busy
lot to learn. Then when . . . the lessons stopped, I was
busy setting up Difficulties. But when Condor and Molly
gave me an enforced vacation, I went over and over what I
know about the way Daddy thinks. He never made anything
incomplete in his whole life. Then you came and rescued me
two full days before you could have raised the ransom
alone."
Charley saw Tom seeing him flinch. He had been so
concerned for Tom's body that he hadn't given more than a
passing thought to his mind, and now he had confirmed Tom's
suspicions.
Tom said, "Don't either of you ever be alone with me
again." He was exhausted. He didn't look a day over
twelve, and Charley longed to touch him, to kiss him good-
by, but even Tom's self-control would go only so far. The
two men left him with Kozkin. When they were a good block
from the warren Tom inhabited, Russel said, "It is going to
be a long five years."
"If we are lucky," said Charley. They parted. Charley
walked on for a mile and stopped at a pay phone. He laid
the handset on the counter and punched a number while
standing as far back as he could and whistling tunelessly;
he ignored the curious glances of the patrons of the bar.
A woman's voice said, "Hello."
"I may be bugged."
"I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you." He broke the connection, called a
taxi, and went home.
* * * * *
"Mr. Kozkin, you have been very patient. Thank you.
I'd like to behave like a convalescent now, but I'll have to
go in to the office tomorrow. I've missed two days of
work."
Ryan lay quiet a few minutes. Kozkin could see that the
taping session had been a strain even though Ryan had taken
it lying down. He was built like a gymnast, though, a
decided contrast to the wasted limbs that were his usual
care. Working with a body capable of returning to perfect
health in a matter of days would be like a vacation.
"Mr. Rand brought me several glasses of milk during the
afternoon. Please skip the food, work me over, and put me
to bed. It's been a long day for all that it didn't start
until eleven."
"I'm not sure you are up to a workout."
"Mr. Kozkin, in all the Earth I have only two friends
who know me for what I am. I have just sent them away and
they won't dare to return until I don't need them any more.
I need your attention."
Only Kozkin's awareness that the subject was a sore one
enabled him to refrain from asking questions. He cranked up
the stretcher to match the height of the padded table that
Charles Ryan had had installed and helped Ryan roll himself
onto it.
"I haven't been babied since I was a baby. I'd best
make the most of it. How good it will be to get into my own
bed. I never slept anywhere but under this roof until this
week. Not in my own body anyway. I suppose that they have
given you Nanny's room; now I have a nurse again. Are you
going to follow me when I go out to play? Should have got
another nurse when Nanny went, a fellow who lets himself be
kidnapped by a pair of rank beginners needs a nanny. The
girl had talent, though, wonderful talent . . . "
Koskin ignored Ryan's expressed desire to lie in his own
bed and left him asleep on the table.
When Rand returned, they went into the library.
"How is he?"
"Physically, amazing. I'll only be a convenience."
"Mentally?"
Kozkin considered. Rand seemed to be privy to more of
Ryan's secrets than would ever be revealed to him. He might
be of help.
"He says he has lost his last friend."
"You had better explain that."
"He wanted a few words alone with his uncles. They left
right away. Later he said that he had just sent away the
only two people in the world who knew him for what he was."
"He is wrong for once. I knew what he was long before I
knew where . . . I don't know what happened between Ryan and
the two men, but Mr. Ryan must have seen it coming. At
least he provided for it. I'd best stay the night. Is
there still a rollaway in the closet in Nanny's room?"
"There is."
Kozkin helped Rand set up the bed, then the two of them
sat down to wait for Ryan to wake up.