the world went black.

Chapter Twenty-One.

"Sloan," pleaded Bree. "Please God. Please wake up."

But Sloan's head continued to loll on his chest. He hung from the damp basement wall, his limbs tacked to the ancient stone foundation in a cruel parody of a gothic dungeon prisoner.

Perry had used the hooks that Sloan's grandfather had hammered into the stone two generations ago. Bree vividly remembered the rods, reels, nets, and endless accessories that had hung on these walls. The ancient enclave was too damp and dirty to be used for anything but storage. Even then, the only things deemed expendable enough to be consigned here were the assortment of outdated sporting equipment, a stock of empty jars that Janelle never quite managed to fill with preserves, and a pile of firewood under the stairs.

Troy moaned. "Troy?" she whispered.

But he merely groaned again and then lapsed into silence. His condition had gone steadily downhill in the hours since Perry had forced Bree and Franki to drag them down here. He'd held them at gunpoint and laughed each time one of the women had, out of pure exhaustion, stumbled or almost dropped one of their injured friends. Troy was trussed up beside Sloan, the position aggravating the shoulder wound, which continued to drip blood onto the damp, earth floor. He fluctuated between periods of sentient agony and semi-conscious silence. At his worst, he moaned and writhed against his restraints and seemed oblivious to Bree's and Franki's presence.

Bree shifted her gaze to her friend's tear-streaked face. "Are you okay, Franki?"

Franki twisted her hands against her own bonds, which mirrored Bree's. They had been spared the spread-eagled stance of their male counterparts. Instead their arms were laced to a pair of steel support rods in the center of the floor. At least they were sitting and they could see each other.

"Yeah, I'm just peachy," spat Franki. "Top of the world. Never felt better. Thanks for asking."

Bree battled tears and looked away.

Franki muttered something under her breath. "Sorry. I guess I don't respond well to torture and captivity."

"Forgiven," sniffled Bree. "We've had a hell of a week, wouldn't you say?"

Franki closed her eyes. "God, Bree. Losing your mom, and now this?"

Bree battled a fresh assault of tears at the mention of her mother. Up until now she had been able to push those thoughts aside quite neatly, the scene in the master suite having shocked it out of her system. Vance lying dead, Troy shot, Sloan knocked senseless, and Perry Elliott wielding a gun like he knew what he was doing. Like he had done it before. It had been a fire-and-brimstone finale to a hellish day. And it had gone steadily downhill from there.

She didn't have time to grieve right now, and she regretted that. Her mother deserved better. But her mother also deserved a daughter who would live to mourn her, and right now living was Bree's main concern.

When Bree didn't respond, Franki's eyes flitted to Sloan and Troy. "Hey guys!" she called. Her voice seemed unnaturally loud in the dank stillness of the cellar.

Bree cringed, but said nothing.

"You two slackers better wake up and get on the ball. There's a couple of damsels here that need rescuing, you know!" Franki's voice faltered on the last word. "Don't you two dare die before you get a chance to slay the big ugly dragon!" She dropped her eyes to the floor and whispered, "I'd never forgive you if you did that. Never."

But their knights in shining armor failed to rise to the task. They just hung there, as still as death. Bree suppressed a little squeak of anguish. "Speaking of reptiles," she whispered out of a need to change the subject. "Where is our cold-blooded captor?"

"No doubt he had to dispose of daddy. I think I heard a wood chipper start up in the backyard."

"Huh?"

"You know, like in Fargo?"

"Oh God!"

"I'm just kidding."

"No. I wouldn't put it past him."

"Jesus Christ! Don't you two ever shut up?"

Bree's head whipped around to see Sloan staring at them through heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes. Tears surged to her eyes.

"Somebody has to keep up the morale in this dull, dreary, rathole." Franki's teasing couldn't hide the relief in her voice. "You make a pretty pathetic host, Carver."

"Hey!" groaned Sloan. "I take offense to that. We've never had rats." He gazed up at his wrists. "What the hell happened?" And then his gaze wandered to Troy, and Bree could see the memories hit. "Damn," he whispered, and closed his eyes again. His head drooped.

"Don't you dare cut out on us again," called Bree. "We need our esteemed leader to turn green, rip off his shirt, tear the stakes out of the wall and save us all."

Sloan didn't chuckle. And he didn't open his eyes. Instead he muttered, "He did it, didn't he?" His eyelids lifted as if they were weighed down by invisible chains. "Do I remember that right? He killed Dad?"

"Yeah," whispered Bree. "That's right." During the course of their trip down the stairs and the ritual binding of the prisoners, Perry had felt the need to unburden himself of a few choice morsels of information. He had boasted of his grand plan to obliterate the Carvers from the face of the planet, and of how it was nearing completion.

Bree and Franki had listened to his words in shocked silence. At first Bree had dismissed it as the rantings of a lunatic. Then, later, she changed her mind.

Sloan laughed softly. The absolute loneliness of that sound haunted her like the distant whistle of a train on a rainy night. "Christ!" he said at last. "All these years. All that rage and all that worrying." He twisted his hands against the ropes but the knots held firm. "And I was angry at the wrong people. I spent years cursing and resenting my parents for being so damn selfish. How's that for a guilt trip? And now..." He glanced at Troy. "Now, me poking my nose into this whole thing is hurting you guys. It might even get you killed. God knows Vance had it coming. But Troy... Jesus."

"Dammit, Sloan, none of this is your fault," said Bree with as much conviction as she could muster. "You have to stop beating yourself up over things that are beyond your control."

"I think I have a right to regret that one of my best friends in the world got shot last night. At least grant me that, for chrissake."

"Of course," said Bree impatiently. "You know that's not what I meant. I just mean that you should stop wallowing in guilt and get on with your life."

"Very sage advice," scoffed Sloan. "And I'd love to take it, except that I don't appear to have a life to get on with."

"Well, maybe if you'd look around for options, and try to help yourself instead of whining and-"

"Hey! I've never whined a day in my life. And I resent that wallowing in guilt crack, by the way. I don't wallow. Where the hell is that coming from? I ought to take you over my knee and-"

"Children!" shouted Franki. "Shall we save the foreplay for a day when the two of you can actually get close enough to touch?"

"Foreplay?" barked Bree. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Franki rolled her eyes. "Lord, spare me. I mean-"

Troy's low moan cut her off as efficiently as the wail of a siren. With what appeared to be a supreme effort of will, he lifted his head and focused his eyes on Sloan. "She's right, Sloan." His voice was strained and hollow. "If anyone has-" He grimaced in obvious pain, but no one spoke. Somehow they all knew that he needed to continue, uninterrupted. "If anyone should feel guilty, it's me."

Sloan just blinked, waiting.

"I knew about your dad." His voice cracked, but when he spoke again it was strong, as if he was determined to make his confession, and do it with dignity. "I didn't know at the time, but I found out a few years later. Perry bragged to me about it. He told me about Jonathan and the others, and..." He took a deep breath and fresh blood welled up from his shoulder. A few beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. "And I didn't tell you. I was a coward. I only thought about myself. I ignored my responsibility to my friends. And I can never expect you to forgive me." His glazed eyes swept over Bree and Franki. "None of you."

Apparently no one knew what to say, because the cellar remained as still and silent as a tomb. But while on the outside she remained quiet and calm, inside Bree felt the first stirrings of a storm. Finally she broke the silence. "What do you mean, you found out about the others?"

But Troy's answer caught in his throat when they all heard the sound of a cheerful whistle coming from the direction of the stairs.

Craig leaned back on a mountain of Mom's super-dooper-fluffy-cloud pillows, and sighed. His mother had performed her Judeo-maternal duties with vigor. She had fluffed and tucked and fawned and spoon-fed until, on the edge of desperation and insanity, he had beckoned to his little sister Susan, who had drawn the short straw and been awarded the job of sibling delegate. She had dragged herself out of the pages of Vogue and answered his urgent summons. He had whispered his request in her triple-pierced ear and she had awarded him a knowing smile before pleading starvation and dragging her mother off for a late breakfast at the local coffee shop.

At last he had been left alone. Now the room was quiet and he could flatten the pillows and pull out the sheets to his heart's content, but still he wasn't happy. His ears continually strained to hear familiar footfalls in the hallway. His eyes wandered repeatedly to the door in the hopes of seeing a flash of thigh, or even a familiar pair of Ray-Bans.

Where the hell were Franki and Sloan? He was finally feeling good enough to enjoy the company, and now they decided to abandon him to the mercy of his family? What the hell kind of friends were they, anyway?

He grumbled and stirred his dishwater coffee. He picked at a stale danish, and wallowed in disappointment. With every passing second of solitude his anger continued to simmer and build. Physically, he was feeling so good, he almost considered signing himself out of there and going in search of his errant partner and girlfriend.

Girlfriend . Was that what she was? They'd slept together, sure, but what else had they shared? Well, okay, so she'd sat up with him in the hospital and shared stories of her childhood. So they liked a lot of the same things, and both felt like misfits in their own families. Did that really mean they were compatible?

He allowed himself a grin. You bet your boots, it did.

He had just popped another morsel of blueberries and dry pastry into his mouth when the door to his room pushed open. Feeling pathetically hopeful, he chewed on his lower lip and watched the door ease open, ever so slowly.

It wasn't like either Franki or Sloan to be shy. And his mother couldn't possibly have finished off her lumberjack breakfast yet. Finally the door swung open and he had his answer, puzzling though it may be.

"Derek?"

Derek's huge frame lumbered hesitantly into the room, like a Mack truck with a jammed transmission. He stopped about six feet away from the bed, and shoved his meaty hands into his pockets. "Hi, Craig."

"Hello."

Craig was stumped. He would have thought Derek would stay as far away from his potential accuser as possible. That was the logical reaction, at least where he was from. It was the New York way. It was definitely the Los Angeles way. And he would have assumed it was even the Canadian way.

Craig folded his hands on the bedspread. "Uh, did you want something?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Craig waited, and finally said in exasperation, "And that would be?"

Derek's eyes shifted from his hands to Craig's face, to the ceiling. Craig watched in mute torture as Derek's jaw worked around words that seemed so hesitant to make themselves known.

"I-I mean..." stuttered Derek at last. "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

Craig blinked, unsure what to say to that. Somehow, Ah, that's okay. Let's be buds, didn't feel right considering Craig had been knocking on the pearly gates there for a while.

But apparently Derek didn't expect a response because he continued in the same hesitant, guilt-ridden drawl. "And...I wanted to tell you that I'm going to the police. Right after I leave here. I know Francie talked to you, and she told me that you wouldn't press charges, but I couldn't live with myself. And..." He pulled his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them on his dingy white golf shirt. "And I couldn't do that to you, or to Francie."

Craig was stunned. He hadn't expected this. This was the kind of thing that happened only on The Waltons, and The Brady Bunch. And even then it teetered on the edge of believability. But then something else struck him. "What did you say?"

Derek's face fell. "You want me to say all that again?"

"No. No. About your sister. What did you call her?"

"Francie?"

"Do you always call her Francie?"

Derek stared at him like he had sprouted tree branches out of his head. "What else would I call her?"

Craig groaned in frustration. "Don't you ever call her Franki?"

"No. She's been Francie since we were kids." Derek's expression remained one of utter befuddlement.

Craig sat straight up in bed, suddenly infused with energy. "Franki told me that you don't really remember...what happened. Do you remember anything? Do you remember calling me, and meeting me at the beach?"

Derek dropped his eyes. "No. I was too drunk. I just remember waking up in the car and finding the..." He grimaced. "The knife and the mask."

"You don't remember beating me to a pulp?"

"Jeez. Why are you doing this?"

"Because you didn't do it, Derek. Something about it felt wrong right from the beginning. And now I know why."

Derek just shook his head.

"The guy who beat me up called her Franki."

Derek blinked. "I would never do that."

"I know," said Craig with a vigorous nod. "And you're not smart enough to try and throw me off the scent by using a different name."

Derek lit up like a Christmas tree. "No. I'm not."

Craig stifled a laugh.

"But, if I didn't do it, then who did?"

Craig settled back on his pillows. "Good question. Maybe we should talk to the cops again. Maybe they-"

A soft groan from Derek commanded his attention.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't say nothing. You have an idea who it was and I want to hear it."

"I'm wrong. I've got to be. I'm always wrong."

"Let me be the judge of that. Who?"