Harry woke to a dry mouth and a thumping headache.
He was not in his office but lying on the bare cold and damp concrete floor in what was either a garage, outhouse, or basement. It was very cold, and he was very thirsty. Worse still, when he moved he realized his hands and feet were tied.
Harry had gone full circle, a thought that crossed his mind as he dragged himself off the floor and into a sitting position up against the nearest wall. It was not comfortable, or was it he had been kicked a few times while on the ground?
It was not only his head that was hurting.
Harry realized now he had made a mistake.
A big mistake.
His mother once told him never to eavesdrop. He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. Listening to a one-sided conversation he was not meant to hear.
A time and a place.
Now, sitting in that uncomfortable position trying to figure out exactly where it was hurting, a dim glow from a low wattage globe hanging over his head, and contrary to the fact the room was cold, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry's fear was at the highest level.
Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied,, it made it impossible to clear it away. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence, but it was to no avail.
But why had it been so significant to the people who had taken him? When he’d checked the address before the date in question, he found it to be an empty block of land. What was significant about that address?
He had looked it up on the internet, but aside from the fact it was in an old part of the docks not used anymore, it held no other claim to fame. There was a small piece about it being part of a large scale improvement of the area, but that had been languishing for years over a dispute over who actually owned the land.
Nothing out of the ordinary about that, since it was reputed to be worth a lot of money.
But, obviously there was something, and maybe he would soon find out.
He heard the sound of a metal door opening then close with a thud, the sound of muted voices, then silence.
From what he could remember, during a very brief period of lucidity as they were taking him from the room to be interrogated, he was in a wing of rooms that looked like prison cells but without the guards.
They’d drugged him, of course, the reason why he had the dry mouth and thumping headache, mainly to keep him from recognizing anything, or try to escape.
Surely whoever it was would come and see him.
Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. Was this another form of torture?
It was twenty or maybe more minutes before he heard footsteps approaching.
© Charles Heath 2016-2019
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