What had he done? Dave moaned putting an arm over his head wishing he could escape the roiling thoughts that stewed in his skull. He punched another figure into the laptop Molly had sent down to his convalescent bed. He was almost halfway through his audit of the company transactions now, but the math had not kept his mind from dwelling on the wild car chase that had landed him in this pseudo hospital bed.

It wasn’t the accident itself that bothered him, okay, that bothered him a bit since he’d been convalescing in Doctor Dreadful’s laboratory/ medical facility for almost a week now afraid to go to sleep only to wake and find the doctor had replaced his leg with that of a cow or something, but cow legs aside it was the chase before the crash that had him rattled. He’d escaped from police custody. He didn’t want to, and he’d certainly not gone willingly, but he’d still done it. Worse, in the heat of the moment he’d thrown exploding spike balls at the pursuing officers. He’d asked Doctor Dreadful to look up reports on the incident since he was still not permitted to have internet access and as far as Dave could tell no one had been seriously injured besides himself and Weasel. That had been a relief, but the accountant had no doubt the cops had seen him throwing the balls. Like it or not Dave was now a full-fledged criminal, a fugitive from justice.

Dave jammed the top down on his laptop and pushed it back on the overturned stack of crates Warthog had constructed for him.

“Hey if you’re not using that do you mind if I take a look?” Weasel said.

“Be my guest.”

The scrawny henchman shuffled to Dave’s bed snatched up the laptop and returned to his own makeshift hospital bed. His tapping echoed off the concrete walls the only sound in the big room an oddity since the doctor usually had several machines whining and spurting viscous liquids most of day, but it was the mad scientist’s day off and like any good lab practitioner he knew to turn everything off before he left. Dave stared at the ceiling and listened to the keystrokes. Despite his worries Dave’s eyes drooped shut.

When consciousness returned to the accountant his head was throbbing with a dull ache and his throat was parched. He felt around his crate stand for the bottle of water Dreadful had left there for him. His fingers encountered a stuffed bear, his laptop before they finally grasped the cool plastic bottle. He unstopped the cap, took a few sips and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no good.

“Fine,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll get back to work.”

He opened the laptop and waited for the screen to load. His heart skipped a beat. In the lower right corner of the screen a new icon was activated the curved white bars broadcasting an invitation. He logged into his email, opened up a new message and then just sat there staring at the blinking curser. After several long minutes he began to type.

 

Dear Martha,

I want you to know dearest that I am well.

Dave hit the backspace key and started again.

Dear Martha,

I want you to know that I am unharmed.

He erased the message again.

My Dear Martha,

I can’t begin to tell you how much I miss you. You are and always have been the brightest star in my life and I am grateful for that.

Martha, I have never lied to you and I don’t intend to start now so here’s the whole truth. I know you’re probably still with Charlene and the baby so you haven’t had time to wonder where I’ve been. Perhaps you’ve tried to call me and haven’t gotten an answer. If you have and you’ve felt neglected by my silence I am sorry but trust me when I say it is because of circumstances beyond my control. Only a stroke of good luck after so much bad has made it possible for me to send you this letter.

You’re not going to believe it, Martha, but five days ago I was kidnapped by a couple of thugs that work for this company called the Corporation of Evil to act as their new accountant. I know it sounds made up but trust me when I say it’s real. Under duress I have done many things that I am not proud of. Martha, I’m afraid that there’s no turning back now. Please forgive me if I cannot come home to you.

Yours Always,

Dave, an accountant for Evil