He saw the coil
of rope.
He saw the hypodermic.
And he knew that Mueller saw it all, too.
As if compelled, Dallas took another step forward, then pressed his fingers to the glass. He looked at Mueller's face. At the fear in his eyes.
He was trapped. Alone.
Completely under the power of someone else. His life in their hands, and no one to turn to.
Dallas knew how he felt. He'd been trapped. He'd been terrified. He'd been cold and hungry and lost and afraid.
But unlike Mueller, Dallas had had someone.
He'd had Jane.
Dallas woke in a dark so black he wasn't even sure if his eyes were open.
He was sore--every single muscle. Even his bones. Hell, even his teeth. And his head was pounding like a bastard.
He tried to sit up, then realized there was something around his waist strapping him down. And although he pulled at it and ran his fingers over every bit of it, he couldn't figure out how to get free.
Panic, which had been hiding behind a fog of confusion and denial, moved firmly into the forefront. "Jane!" He could push himself part of the way up, and he did that now, twisting his head around as if suddenly, miraculously, he'd be able to see something despite the inky darkness. "Jane!"
But there was no answer other than the echo of his own voice.
For hours, he struggled and strained. Then he slept. Then he struggled some more. He grew weak and realized he'd had no food or water and his clothes were stinking and filthy. His throat was parched. And for the first time he didn't wonder when he was going to get free, but if he would get free.
He'd lost all sense of time, but at some point there was someone else in the room. He called for Jane again, but this time, his voice was only a croak, and as he cried for her, someone nearby dropped water into his mouth.
That happened again. And again. Water. Then food. Until his mind seemed to come back and he could focus. His clothes were stiff on him and disgusting, and the strap around his waist continued to hold him in place. His back ached. His shoulders hurt. His feet were cold. But he was alive and they were feeding him and giving him water. He let himself hope. Mostly, he hoped for Jane. That she was alive. That she was safe.
Every time they brought him liquid, he called for her, hoping that his soothed throat made him just that much louder. Maybe she was right there in an adjacent room. And maybe hearing his voice would give her hope. If there was even a chance, he would keep on doing it.
And then, finally, he realized that something was moving in the dark. He called out--"Jane?"--but he knew right away it wasn't her. He knew the way she moved. The way she smelled. If she was in the room with him, he would know.
He strained his eyes to see, but it was still impossible. And this time, when he tried to sit up, he realized that his hands and feet were strapped down, too, and there was a firm palm pressing flat against his chest preventing him from rising even an inch.
The voice was right at his ear. Strange. Distorted. Like it was talking through one of those Halloween voice changers. And the voice alone was at least as scary as all the rest of it so far.
"You think you can cry out? Get away? You're here because this is where you're supposed to be. You're here because this is where I want you, and you will pay."
He felt breath on his cheek, and the voice was that much closer. He thought it was a man. Not that he could tell much from the voice--not that it even really mattered--but there had been the palm on his chest, too. And it felt masculine.
"The sins of the father, Dallas. And if the man who now calls you son wants you back, he'll have to pay."
This time, it wasn't breath on his skin, but something sharp, like the point of a pencil or the sharp end of a nail, and someone was dragging it back and forth across his neck.
"I bet he doesn't. I bet the man you call Dad doesn't spend even a day looking. I bet he doesn't spend an hour."
His voice shook, but Dallas demanded, "Where's Jane?"
"Jane? Why do you care? You think she wants you now? You think you could comfort her?"
"Yes."