the same time keeping an eye on m e . N o t that he needed
to—both he and Dr. Marshall wielded sharp knives and
I was an armless m a n with nowhere left to run.
"What the hell's going on?" Drake asked his employer.
"Rather obvious," the doctor said. "Our boy, Mi¬
chael, is trying to escape. N o t doing so well, though.
W h a t ' s that saying, Mr. Drake ... out of the frying
pan, into the fire?"
Drake started to laugh, neither he nor Dr. Marshall
seeming the least bit troubled by his nakedness.
"What are you going to do to me?" I asked, unable to
keep the fear and dread out of my voice.
Dr. Marshall smiled at m e , a cold, evil smile, then
said, "Whatever I want t o , Mike. Whatever I want."
My m o u t h went dry. I was so scared I couldn't have
spoken a word even if I'd known what to say. We stared
at each other in silence for a minute, then Dr. Marshall
continued.
"I'm not the monster you're convinced I am, Mr. Fox.
I haven't lied as much as you think. About the money,
yes, but not everything. I told you all I've ever wanted
was to help my poor unfortunate son. Remember?"
Of course I did. Lying bastard. "You're forgetting
something, Marshall. I was in y o u r supposed son's room.
I saw the plastic body and the fake wires. That was
n o t h i n g but a sob story to get us all on y o u r side. Noth¬
ing but bullshit, so save y o u r breath."
"Bullshit was it? You sure about that?" he asked.
Dr. Marshall limped over to the table supporting the
severed head and spine. He lovingly stroked the matted
hair of the man, then carefully repositioned the glass
tank so it was exactly in the center of the table. I couldn't
see the man's eyes from where I stood, but from the
way his head and spine were thrashing around, the man
seemed even more terrified now than while being mo¬
lested by Drake.
"Easy now," the doctor said, his voice as soft and as
soothing as he could manage. "Everything's gonna be
fine."
The tremors in the head gradually faded away, then
Dr. Marshall returned his attention to m e , spinning
the glass tank 180 degrees so I was looking directly into
the haunted eyes of the bodiless man.
"Mike, I'd like you to meet Andrew Nathan Marshall.
My son. Andrew, this silly man here is Michael Fox."
C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N
The silence in the room was deafening. That phrase
always seemed so cliche and ridiculous to me, until that
very moment. The quiet in the tower room was a tan¬
gible thing, the tension in the air so thick I was almost
choking on it, my mind spinning around trying to
comprehend what I'd j u s t heard.
His son?
He really does exist?
How could Dr. Marshall do this to his own son?
Why?
So many questions I wanted to ask, but I didn't. I just
stood there, temporarily forgetting my own dilemma,
forgetting everything as I stared into the bulging fright¬
ened eyes of the pitiable man before me I'd been stupid
enough to sign a contract to try to help.
How does he cope, beingforced to live life this way?
What must Andrew be thinking of all this?
What's he thinking about right now?
"Want me to take him out?" Drake asked his boss,
finally breaking the dead calm and shaking me out of
my stupor. "He's more trouble than he's worth."
"I'll be the j u d g e of that," Dr. Marshall said. "He's
still full of good spare parts. No sense wasting them."
"I suppose."
They were talking about me as if I wasn't even t h e r e ,
as if my opinion about the outcome of my life really
didn't matter. And I suppose it didn't—to them at
least—but it sure as hell did to me. There had to be a
way out of this. I couldn't j u s t stand here waiting for
Drake t o —
Drake!
An idea blazed through my head. Might not work,
but it was worth a try. W h a t did I have to lose?
"Hey Doc," I shouted, interrupting their casual con¬
versation about whether or not I should be killed out¬
right, or simply cut up for spare parts. "Do you have
any idea what Drake likes to do to your beloved son
when he's all alone with him? He forces Andrew to
suck his cock at knifepoint. I saw him myself j u s t a few
minutes ago. Look at the big fuckin' pervert. Why do
you think he's naked?"
It wasn't a great plan, but I hoped if I told Dr. Mar¬
shall how Drake was molesting his son, maybe I could
turn the insane surgeon's rage toward Drake, away
from me. Even if I could j u s t get them arguing enough
that I got a chance to bolt for the staircase. Give me a
three-second window of opportunity, and I'd be off like
a rocket, heading for the front door.
Instead of rage, as I'd hoped, Dr. Marshall started
laughing. Drake apparently found my comments hilari¬
ous as well, and was soon laughing along with his boss.
"Trying to make me jealous, are we, Mike?" Dr. Mar¬
shall asked. "Nice try, but let's j u s t say there's plenty of
Mr. Drake to go around for everyone."
What the hell does that mean?
I wondered if it was possible Dr. Marshall was so in¬
sane, so far gone, he didn't even care that Drake was
sexually abusing his son, Nah. Nobody could be that
heartless. Could they? Then I watched as Drake walked
over beside Dr. Marshall and his son, putting his arms
around both, of them. Dr. Marshall smiled, winked at
m e , then kissed Drake passionately on the lips. W i t h
his free hand, he softly caressed Drake's semiswollen
member, starting to bring it back to attention.
Sweet mother of Jesus!
They were lovers. I couldn't believe it. How much
more rucked up could this strange little family get? I
mean really, a brilliant but thoroughly insane neurosurgeon kissing his steroid-filled chief of security boyfriend
above the trembling head of his life-supported, disem¬
bodied son. N o t a pretty picture. Certainly not N o r m a n
Rockwell-inspired family material; that was for sure.
This was too much for me. I couldn't take any more.
I j u s t wanted out of h e r e , away from all this craziness
and perversion and back to my smelly little Dumpster
underneath the Carver Street Bridge.
Get real. You wouldn't survive a day on the streets. You've
got no fucking arms, moron!
My conscience was right, of course. There was no
going back for me. Only a fool would think otherwise.
I should never have let Drake talk me down off those
railway tracks the day he'd shown up in t h e limo. Should
have stuck to plan A and never even listened to his
crazy offer. Then again, maybe it wasn't too late.
Dr. Marshall and Drake were never going to let me
leave here—alive anyway. W h y not save myself the suf¬
fering and grief and spoil wh
atever nasty little plans
they had in mind for me. Call me crazy, but I'd much
rather go out on my own terms than theirs. I knew j u s t
how to do it, too.
"Hey freaks," I said to my captors, disturbing their
little petting session.
Dr. Marshall licked his Hps, anticipating violence,
and said, "Watch y o u r mouth, little man, or you j u s t
might lose that quick tongue of yours."
Drake took a step toward me, holding up his knife
for me to see. "It's time you learned some m a n n e r s ,
Mr. Fox."
T took a deep breath and prepared for what was com¬
ing. "Screw you, Drake. You two psychos deserve each
other, but I'm not sticking around and watching any
more of this bullshit. I'm out of here!"
I could tell my outburst confused them. "You're
what?" Drake asked.
"You heard me. I'm leaving."
Once the initial shock wore off, both Drake and Dr.
Marshall started laughing again.
"You're a funny guy, Mike, but I'm afraid you're not
going anywhere," Dr. Marshall said, "except back to my
operating room. You see ... I need your legs."
Ten minutes ago, that statement would have terri¬
fied m e , but not now. I'd moved past my fears, made
peace with myself, and was ready to take care of busi¬
ness. W i t h o u t another word, I made my move, run¬
ning full out toward one of the large stained glass
windows. If Dr. Marshall wanted my legs, he could
send Drake to scrape them off the front driveway five
stories below, along with the rest of me. Taking a
nosedive onto the pavement from this height—which
had to be sixty feet what with the high ceilings around
this j o i n t — a n d with no arms to cushion my fall, my
head would explode like an overripe tomato being
struck with a sledgehammer.
Perfect.
"Stop, you fool," Dr. Marshall shouted once it be¬
came obvious what my plans were. "Grab him, Drake.
Hurry!"
Drake came after me, but I knew I had the angle on
him. He knew it, too, but kept coming anyway. W i t h a
yell of pure triumph, I launched myself into the air,
easily shattering the lead-framed stained glass window
and was ready to fly free as a bird into the bright blue
yonder. Fly for a second or two, at least.
Wasn't gonna happen.
I hit the glass hard, breaking through it easily enough,
but my flight to freedom only lasted for another three
inches. That was when I hit face-first into the wire mesh
window screen bolted to the outside brickwork. It was
heavy-gauge mesh probably installed on these expen¬
sive windows to protect them and it stopped my forward
progress pronto, my nose painfully reduced to a red
pulpy mess upon impact, the rest of my face and body a
patchwork of cuts and puncture wounds from all the
exploding glass. So much for my great escape.
Bounced back into the tower room, I landed with a
heavy thump at Drake's feet, where he found the sight
of my bloodied face and body tremendously amusing.
He was laughing so hard, in fact, that Dr. Marshall was
the one who came over and held me down so I wouldn't
try r u n n i n g away again.
"Get the needle," Dr. Marshall said to Drake.
"What's the hurry? Why don't we let him have a run
at the other window? I'd love to watch that again."
"Just get the needle, we've wasted enough time with
this loser. I'm late for surgery."
"All right, it was j u s t a thought," Drake said, still de¬
lighted by my suffering.
I watched him walk over to a rolltop desk and remove
a large hypodermic needle from one of the drawers. He
filled it with a clear yellow fluid—probably the same
stuff he'd drugged me with down in the cellar—then
walked over and handed the needle to his boss.
Part of me knew I should be flailing about, scream¬
ing like a banshee, and desperately trying to get away,
but I j u s t didn't have it in me. I was battered, bruised,
and bleeding, and every inch of my body hurt like hell.
Worse still, the impact with the metal screen had r e -
opened my right shoulder wound, and with the amount
of blood I was leaking all over the floor, I was getting
light-headed, feeling n u m b , stunned, and more than a
little lethargic.
I'm sure I would have passed out on my own if they'd
given me another thirty seconds, but Dr* Marshall wasn't
taking any chances. He viciously plunged the hypoder¬
mic needle into my thigh, but I don't remember feeling
any pain. I never even screamed. Within seconds, every¬
thing went black.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y
Speaking from the experience of someone who has
drank several hundred gallons of cheap, often home¬
made booze, then eventually progressing to stolen
Sterno, I knew what it was like to wake up with a head¬
ache. I was an authority on them, actually. I've had
more hangovers than I care to remember, but none of
those self-induced headaches hurt half as bad as the
way I felt when I finally woke up and slowly stirred back
to life.
My head was pounding, driving a six-inch spike of
agony through my brain with every blood-pulsing beat
of my heart. I didn't dare open my eyes. Heaven forbid.
Instead, I lay perfectly still, j u s t concentrated on tak¬
ing short, shallow breaths, and tried to ride out the
storm.
Must have been a hell of a party last night. Blue J and I
must have really—
Then, t h r o u g h all the pain and the hazy memories
filtering out of my drug-saturated brain, I remem¬
bered where I was and what had happened to me up
in the castle's tower r o o m . I tried to fight it, deny my
m e m o r i e s , because accepting the t r u t h would lead
me in a direction I simply wasn't ready to go. No
way.
Maybe Puckman brewed up another batch of that awful
Screech, and I drank so much I don't—
I gave up halfway through my pitiful attempt at avoid¬
ing reality. W h a t was the point? I knew perfectly well
where I was and why I had such a bad headache. All the
lies and wishful t h i n k i n g in the world weren't going to
help my situation or make me feel any better. Why
bother?
Because the truth scaredme too much, that's why.
Obviously the reason I had a headache was because
I'd been whacked out on drugs. W h y had I been drugged?
Because Drake was taking me to the operating room
for surgery. Why was I headed to surgery? Because Dr.
Marshall said—
He said he needed my legs.
Oh God, please. Not that. Not my legs.
Not my fucking legs.'
My thoughts seemed to freeze up. I wouldn't allow—
couldn't allow—myself to keep t h i n k i n g about this. I
wanted to die, right then and there. Die, before I found
ou
t if anything had happened to me.
I opened my eyes.
Then I started screaming.
I didn't have proof yet that my legs were gone—I
hadn't looked down or anything—but I didn't need to.
Lying six feet away from m e , strapped in his own bed
and looking straight at me was Lucas, the older man
who'd begged me to end his suffering in the blood bank
room. He was shaking his head and looking at me with
a sad expression on his face.
"Welcome to Hell," Lucas whispered, then turned
his face away from me.
This can't be happening.
But it was. There was only one reason I'd be lying next
to Lucas. Dr. Marshall had made good on his threat to
take my legs from m e , and even worse, he'd decided to
put me up in his special room on the fourth floor. He'd
carved me up, and turned me into one of his Bleeders.
C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E
I must have passed out again, because it was nighttime
when next I opened my eyes, the Bleeders' room deathly
quiet and in darkness. The only light came from the
window, the moonlight filtering in through a foot-wide
gap left in the heavy curtains. It was still too dark for
me to see much of anything, which was a little unnerv¬
ing, but at least my headache was a lot better.
I tried to sit up a few inches, trying to peer through
the gloom to get a look around, and that was when I
learned I was strapped to the mattress. So I didn't fall
out of bed, I suppose. With no arms or legs, it was prob¬
ably a good idea, but it pissed me off. I started twisting
and turning, trying to get myself free. I thrashed and
pulled and lashed my body around in a senseless fit of
pure adrenaline-fueled anger. Truth be told, my rage
didn't really have anything to do with the straps, they
were j u s t the last straw after I'd been so violated body
and soul lately. Eventually, exhaustion and pain calmed
me down, and I lay panting for air in the dark with tears
running down both cheeks.
"You okay, Mike?" a voice said on my right.
It was a familiar voice, but I couldn't quite place it. It
didn't sound like Lucas, but that's who'd been beside
me earlier, hadn't it? I turned my head and could make
out a big lump on the bed next to m e , but that was
about it.
"Who's there?" I asked. "That you, Lucas?"
"No. Lucas is in the bed on y o u r left. It's Red Beard,
M i k e , remember m e ? "
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