LITMIR.BIZ

       1

       Porter

       Day 1 • 8:23 p.m.

      Darkness.

      It swirled around him deep and thick, eating the light and leaving nothing behind but an inky void. A fog choked his thoughts — the words tried to come together, tried to form a cohesive sentence, to find meaning, but the moment they seemed close, they were swallowed up and gone, replaced by a growing sense of dread, a feeling of heaviness — his body sinking into the murky depths of a long-forgotten body of water.

      Moist scent.

      Mildew.

      Damp.

      Sam Porter wanted to open his eyes.

      Had to open his eyes.

      They fought him though, held tight.

      His head ached, throbbed.

      A pulsing pain behind his right ear — at his temple too.

      “Try not to move, Sam. Wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

      The voice was distant, muffled, familiar.

      Porter was lying down.

      Cold steel beneath the tips of his fingers.

      He remembered the shot then. A needle at the base of his neck, a quick stab, cold liquid rushing under his skin into the muscle, then —

      Porter forced his eyes to open, the heavy lids fighting him. Dry, burning.

      He tried to rub them, his right hand reaching out only to be pulled back when the chain at his wrist went taut.

      His breath caught, and he forced himself to a sitting position, his head spinning as the blood rushed out. He almost fell back.

      “Whoa, easy, Sam. The etorphine will work out of your system quickly now that you’re awake. Just give it a minute.”

      A light blinked on, a bright halogen aimed squarely at his face. Porter squinted but refused to look away, his eyes fixed on the man beside the light, the dull, shadowed shape.

      “Bishop?” Porter barely recognized his own voice, the dry gravel of it.

      “How you been, Sam?” The shadow took a step to his right, turned over an empty five-gallon paint bucket, and sat.

      “Get that damn light out of my eyes.”

      Porter yanked at the chain on his wrist — the other end of the handcuffs rattled around a thick pipe — water, maybe gas. “What the fuck is this?”

      Anson Bishop reached over to the light and turned it slightly to the left. A shop light, mounted on some kind of stand. The light struck a cinder-block wall with a water heater in the far corner, an old washer and dryer along the far side.

      “Better?”

      Porter tugged at the chain again.

      Bishop gave him a half smile and shrugged.

      The last time Porter saw him, his hair was dark brown and close cropped. It was longer now, and lighter, unruly. Three or four days of scruff marred his face. His business casual attire was gone, replaced by jeans and a dark gray hoodie.

      “You’re looking a little ratty,”

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