Nocturne in Black and Gold

Chapter 9: Quicksand

After the blow to his head, Henry didn't remember anything till he woke up in Adler's version of solitary confinement. Judging by the length of scruff on his face, probably two days had passed. His cell was empty of furniture. Concrete walls. No windows. He had no way of knowing if it was day or night. A bucket served as his commode. Generous of them.

The air was foul. No ventilation. The only fresh air came in through the cracks of the door.

Henry rattled his chains in frustration. Even Neal wouldn't have been able to free himself. His ankle and wrist manacles appeared to be controlled by USB keys. His ankle chains were bolted to the floor in the center of the room and allowed him to move only about three feet. He could lie down but not much else. The chain separating his wrists was less than a foot long.

A couple of guards armed with assault rifles had entered four times to drop off a tray containing a bowl of porridge and a few water bottles. He hadn't seen Adler.

He wished he hadn't watched The Count of Monte Cristo on TV last month. How long would his beard be before he escaped from his cell? What must his family be thinking? In retrospect, he was willing to acknowledge his plan had a few flaws. He wasn't supposed to get caught.

Neal would never let him live it down. Could Henry possibly trick him that he'd deliberately let himself be taken prisoner? But why? Henry could see Neal's teasing face in his mind, mocking him for letting Adler find him. Of all the dumb-ass things Henry had done in his life, this was the dumbest.

Someone had clad him in an old set of worker's coveralls while he was unconscious. Gone were his clothes, watch, phone, and pen. They must not have wanted to risk he had anything hidden. Clever. Had they found his lock picks?

Think, man. His head was no longer throbbing as much. He'd score himself points for that. Adler hadn't killed him. That qualified for bonus points. Adler wouldn't hold him for ransom. No need, not with all the wealth he'd accumulated. So what was his game? Exchange?

Bingo.

Adler wanted Neal, not Henry. That's why they hadn't killed him. Adler was biding his time. He'd wait till Neal was crazy from worry—if he wasn't already—then would send an emissary to meet with him in secret. Who would he send? Fowler? No, Adler was too smart for that. He must know Neal couldn't be swayed by anything Fowler could say. But Kate?

Henry groaned. He'd played right into their hands. Was she already in New York, having arranged a clandestine meeting with her ex-boyfriend? If so, she wouldn't find him. Or would she? When was Neal heading for Comic-Con? Was it Wednesday or Thursday?

The effort to remember was making his head complain. If he only knew what day it was. He was captured on Saturday. Two days' worth of scruff, so today was Monday or Tuesday. Neal would still be in New York. Kate would wait for him outside June's mansion. Invite him into her car. Drive him to a secluded spot where they could talk.

How would Neal respond? Would he tell Peter? Not likely.

He'd worry Peter would clip his wings. Neal would want to avoid anyone else getting mired in Henry's mess. He'd slip away and offer himself to Adler in exchange for Henry. That's exactly the sort of self-sacrificing, knight-falling-on-his-sword, boneheaded gesture Neal would make, trusting in his ability to extricate himself from Adler's clutches later on.

Henry groaned aloud. Enough with the torture. His water bottles were empty. He wasn't thinking clearly. He was sure he was slipping back and forth out of consciousness. Were they drugging his food? How long had he been here? When was Neal going to Comic-Con?

A faint sound coming from outside his door startled him awake. He strained to hear. Muffled footsteps. He stared at the door as he heard the soft clicks which he knew meant someone was working the electronic lock.