| No place in Chicago was more deserted than the Loop at 4:00 on a Saturday morning. Actually, except for theater traffic, most of the city's central business district was damn near empty by 9:00 every night. There weren't even any muggers about, simply because they had no one to mug. As Nash and Povaric dragged Canfield Davis' unconscious body along State Street, the scuffing of his shoes on the cobblestones could easily be heard above the sounds of the few taxis cruising Michigan Avenue two blocks east.
"They don't staff these stations twenty-four hours," Povaric said. "We'll have the place to ourselves."
They pulled Davis down the two flights of stairs leading to the Washington Street Station subway platform. Another set of steps led to a tunnel connecting the station to the O'Hare-Congress line. With its shuttered newsstands, defaced billboards and benches cluttered with trash, the platform was about as uninviting as a medieval dungeon. A fitting comparison, Nash thought, especially this morning.
"Northbound or south?" Nash asked.
"I'd say north is safer," the transit reporter said. "We'll be less likely to see any riders the next couple of stops. Not many people leaving the South Side at this hour."
Nash nodded. "How long do you think we'll have once we're on board?"
Povaric squinted at the tiled wall at the end of the long platform. "Depending on how hard the conductor's leaning on the throttle, maybe forty-five seconds."
"That long?"
"Maximum."
They heard the far-off rumbling of the Red Line train coming from the south. It sounded like it was about three stops down the line.
"We'd better wake him up," Nash said.
Povaric broke out the smelling salts he'd brought from his apartment and passed them under Davis' nose. Davis jerked awake and peered at his unfamiliar surroundings, dazed.
"You ready to talk yet?" Nash asked as the roar of the train grew louder. He could see the headlight about half a mile down the track.
"I don't know anything," Davis said. He rubbed the back of his head with his left hand.
"If that's the way you want to play it," Nash said. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and fished out the set of handcuffs he'd purchased at the Rush Street bondage shop.
"Why are you torturing me?" Davis cried as the roar of the train echoed off the tiled walls and rounded ceiling.
"We're giving you a taste of your own medicine," Nash replied.
As the train screeched in, Povaric sprinted for the lead car, the one holding the conductor. Nash headed for the back with Davis in tow. All three cars were empty of passengers.
With one quick blow from the bat, Nash broke a jagged hole in one of the small windows in the door of the car. He opened it up, cuffed Davis' right wrist and stepped onto the train. Then Nash brought the other cuff through the window, attached it to a metal pole and closed the door. He pulled out his pocket cassette player, depressed the record button and smiled.
"Help," Davis yelled, but the din of the train pulling away from the station drowned out his plea. Nash could see through the connecting doors that Povaric was doing a good job keeping the conductor occupied, probably pretending to interview him for a story.
"Here we go," Nash said as Davis began stumbling along next to the train, yanking on the handcuffs with all his strength.
"You'll rot in hell for this," Davis said.
"If you don't start talking, you'll beat me there."
The train had begun to pick up speed and Nash estimated they had about thirty seconds before Davis slammed into the wall.
"You had my apartment bombed, didn't you?" Nash said, holding the recorder up to the broken window.
"No," Davis yelled. He could barely keep up with the train as it started to gain decent speed.
"You sent thugs into my girlfriend's apartment to kill me," Nash said.
"No."
"First you'll hit that wall, Canfield, and then this train will sever your arm at the shoulder. Think about it."
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