“So what’s up, Dr. Riley?” Sam asked. “Are we declaring a truce?”
Riley regarded him, fingers tapping his mustache before smoothing out the papers on his lap. He seemed disturbed and his nervousness had increased.
“I’ve decided I must ask for one,” he said at last, and an eyebrow rose. “I am not giving up, sir, but for the moment, I feel we must work together.” He held up the sheets. “I’d like to talk about your paper on sound waves. Your team just published it in Science.”
They talked for a while. Riley asked several observant questions. Sam began to enjoy the exchange, hoping that Riley might be coming around. He ate and drank more—they both did—and he decided he’d skip dinner, realizing at one point that Casey and Mrs. Pennyworth were expecting him and that he had not called. He would ask to use Riley’s phone before he left. In the meantime, he did ask to use Riley’s water closet, and he headed for the door Riley pointed out.
It was the last thing he remembered.
Sam woke, aware of raw pain across his cheek, and a sickening, disorienting dizziness. The ground was moving, he realized groggily, scraping his face as it went by. His head felt too heavy to lift. He tried to move his arms to help, but couldn’t seem to find them. He moaned, and the ground became blessedly still. He swallowed against the nausea that rose up, taking a deep breath, willing the dizziness to stop. Where was he? What was happening?
Something moved beside him and he knew it was Riley. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, then dropped it back to the ground. The rough movement caused stars to explode and abruptly he was sick, unable to move away. The figure was gone, and Sam heard noises but had no reference for them. There was a bang behind him, then he was moving again. This time he could feel Riley’s hands on his legs, pulling him along. He realized that his legs and arms were tied. What the hell was Riley doing? Had he gone completely crackers?
He was dragged over a threshold and left on the floor, watching Riley’s legs move past him. The door closed, plunging the room into darkness. He took a slow breath, trying to banish the panic filling him. Think, damn it, he told himself. Stay calm.
He heard footsteps. Light pierced his eyes as Riley lit a lantern. Pain shot through his head and he was almost sick again. Had Riley hit him over the head? Did he have a concussion?
“What’s happening?” he managed to ask. He could barely hear himself, but Riley, who was walking around out of his sight, answered readily enough.
“Oh, it’s easy enough to figure out, Altair. I tried to stop you, using civil means. But I haven’t had any success that way. I have to stop you. You know I have to.”
Sam waited for more information, but Riley had gone silent. He was still walking around though and Sam tried unsuccessfully to move, to somehow roll onto his side or raise his head. “Damn it, Riley! Untie me. We can talk about this. What are you going to do? Kill me?”
He thought the idea was farfetched, but the footsteps approached him and Riley knelt down at his head. Sam blinked and tried to focus up at Riley’s face.
“Yes, Sam. I’m going to kill you.” He might have been discussing the weather, or an unimportant physics problem. “More precisely, I’m going to arrange circumstances so that you have an accident.” He stood and Sam stared at the shoes in front of his eyes. When Riley spoke again, his voice was sad. “I like you, Sam. I wish you had been more reasonable, more willing to cooperate.” He sounded as if he wanted to say more, but instead, he sighed and moved away again.
“They’ll find you, Riley. You won’t get away with it. Don’t destroy your life because of this.”
Riley laughed. “Give me some credit for intelligence, Altair. I may not be capable of committing the perfect crime, but I can come awfully close. As far as everyone knows, I’m out of town. Even you thought so.”
A shudder passed through Sam as nausea and despair washed over him. He groaned and waited for it to pass. “Did you hit me? What’s wrong with me?”
“Chloral hydrate and antimony. You may feel so bad that death will be welcome.”
A sob escaped Sam as he moved his head against the floor. So damned helpless! “You accuse me of being insane! Jesus, Riley, don’t do this.”
There was no answer but after a long minute, Sam felt hands on his legs. “Hold still,” Riley instructed, “I’m cutting this rope.”
“Thank you,” Sam gasped at the relief flooding him, his face covered in tears.
“Oh, don’t thank me.” The rope fell away, but Sam felt too weak to move. He concentrated on his legs, trying to will them under him, then screamed in pain and terror as something large and heavy crashed over them. Smaller items showered around him, striking his head and upper body. He screamed again, as much in frustration and betrayal as in pain. He couldn’t see what had fallen on him, but he could see the outline of books lying near him.
Riley was moving faster now and Sam became peripherally aware of a dangerous smell. The rope holding his arms came away and Riley knelt again by his head. “I’m sorry, Altair,” he whispered. “I really am. Stay still. Breathe the smoke and you’ll die easier. I’d rather you didn’t suffer.”
Sam could hear the crackle of flames somewhere behind him, and already smoke was drifting through the room. The door opened and closed as Riley left, the added oxygen causing a whoosh of flames that Sam saw reflected on the floor in front of him. Shaking with effort, he got his arms under him and pushed against the floor. It felt as if he were fighting the weight of the universe. He nearly blacked out with the effort. He paused, sobbing again as he realized he hadn’t moved an inch. He could not move his legs at all.
Do it, Sam. Get up! He kept repeating it to himself, sick with the knowledge that no one knew where he was, that the only way out was through his own efforts. Nausea and pain battled his attempts, but he kept going. Push. Finally, he’d raised his head and upper body a few inches. Arms shaking with weakness, he turned his head.
The back of the room was in flames. A large bookcase covered his lower body, preventing his movement as efficiently as the rope had. He couldn’t even turn over. Facing forward again, he tried to drag himself free, pulling with his arms against the floor. He soon stopped in breathlessness and exhaustion. He was low enough to the ground that the smoke was not hindering him much, but he felt it with each breath. His eyes were streaming with tears as he looked up, desperately searching for something to help him.
A support beam rose from the floor a few feet from his head. He reached, arms shaking violently. He groaned as his fingers only grazed the wood. He stretched again, then collapsed as violent pain caused him to vomit, his stomach furious at the tortured movement. In the brief respite from pain, Sam reached again, stretching as far as he could, farther…
His fingers gripped the edge of the beam. He exhaled, breathing in and coughing as hot smoke burned his throat. Was it his imagination or could he really feel blisters breaking out on his skin? More of his fingers went around the beam and he began pulling himself, bit by bit, trying to get closer. It seemed to take forever, every inch filled with pain, his body bathed in sweat. Occasionally, he saw a spark flash onto the wooden floor near him. A few settled into the wood, gaining brightness. The heat had become intense. He focused on his task, ignoring the flames and the smoke.
He thought his back would break with the effort, but suddenly, he felt his whole body move. Crying with relief, he got a solid grip on the beam and pulled again. Now he could wriggle his legs and he frantically moved from side to side, inching forward a little more with each wriggle, the movement filling him with swirling blackness that nearly knocked him out again.