Second chapter and I'm aiming to get this posted one chapter a day. Which means that it should be completed in less than a week. How much less than a week I'm not quite sure. Depends where the chapter breaks go, really. And InSilva's helping me with that. Well, with that and the screaming. We'll get to it. And really, want to say thank you, just one more time. Well. A few more times. Thank you.
He sat in the little café for a couple of hours after they were supposed to meet. Just in case. Though he didn't know why; Rusty had never been late before.
He wasn't coming. He actually wasn't coming. He'd actually stood Danny up.
How had things gone this wrong?
He carried on pulling at the ropes for a couple of hours after his wrists had started bleeding. Just in case. If nothing else, it kept his mind off the biting agony in his shoulders, and his back, and his thighs and his calves, and the throbbing pain at his temple.
There was blood on his face. It had dried now. But he could smell it and he could feel it, and it tickled, and he kept rubbing his face against the ground, trying to get rid of it.
He wasn't making any progress with the knots.
He wasn't going to.
He kept trying.
Danny stood outside Rusty's apartment, key in hand, and hesitated. But he thought, maybe, they had to talk. He'd stopped feeling angry, he'd tried to stop feeling hurt, and now he just felt empty inside. Full of doubt he'd never known before. He remembered Rusty's little crack about Danny not missing him, and he wondered if Rusty could believe that was the truth. He wondered if maybe he'd been neglecting a few too many chance meetings lately, passing on a few too many jobs, missing a few too many nights of relaxation and wonder.
He'd tried Rusty's cell a few hundred times more, and there'd still been no answer. Maybe the network coverage wasn't so good in Miami. Like he understood. He honestly hadn't even wanted to get one, until Livingston had quietly explained that it would mean that he'd be able to get hold of Rusty any time and any where. At the push of a button. That had sounded good.
Look how that had worked out.
With a sudden determination, he pushed the door open. "Rusty?" he called out.
There was no answer. And he knew immediately that there was no one in the apartment. There was a feeling of emptiness. There was a couple of leaflets stuffed under the door. There was also an empty, month-old pizza box on the counter, which, really, should be an issue at some point.
But Rusty wasn't here.
He reached for his phone quickly and searched through his phone box. John. Their contact with strange power over all airlines. He hit the number. John answered on the fourth ring. "Yo!"
"John, it's Danny. Need you to check the four thirty flight from Miami to New York yesterday." Rusty had said he'd be landing just before eight. "You're looking for one of these names. William Cannell, Jean Bergeran, Simon Paxton, Luke Everard, Anthony Weston-Smythe, Richard Smilie." He paused and mentally counted back. He'd missed one. How could he forget? There were reasons they'd always made damned sure that they both always knew each other's main aliases. Even when those were changing every few weeks, they shared and memorised because they needed to know. He screwed his eyes up for a second and it came to him in a flash. "And Dustin Forrester," he said triumphantly. He paused slightly. "And Robert Ryan," he added, reluctantly. It was always possible. Extremely unlikely, but always possible.
John cleared his throat. "Rusty?"
"Yeah," Danny agreed quietly.
"Everything okay, Danny?" Not an unreasonable question.
"Fine. Was thinking of surprising him, and thought he might be back," Danny explained, easily.
John didn't ask any more questions, and Danny could hear the sound of rapid typing. "Okay . . . here we go," John said at last. "Jean Bergeran was booked on that flight, but he never checked in."
That was what he needed to know. Not what he wanted to know, but what he needed to know. "Thanks, John. Usual price?"
"Of course," John replied. "That everything you need for now?"
"Yeah. See you around."
"Bye." John hung up.
Well. This wasn't good.
Rusty hadn't made it home from Miami.
Danny drew in a shaky breath. Either Rusty was so upset with him that he'd decided to stay away from the entire city for a while, or else . . . or else there was an or else.
There was a cold thread of fear trailing up his spine.
He had to find Rusty.
He grabbed the passports he kept at Rusty's and headed to the airport.
He had to find Rusty.
It was daytime now. He knew that. He didn't know how long the night had lasted, but he knew this was day, even though it was still dark, even though he couldn't see anything, no matter how much he squinted, no matter how much he strained his eyes, but he knew that this was day, because the little room, the little metal room was getting hotter and hotter, and there was nowhere he could go to escape it and it was getting hotter, and he couldn't breathe properly, and it was getting painful to swallow.
He ran his tongue over lips. Didn't help. Hurt, actually. But they were so dry and so cracked and so sore and he couldn't stop himself.
It was daytime. Probably afternoon, judging by the heat. He was meant to meet Danny sometime around now, maybe. Danny was going to think he'd stayed away on purpose. Like he'd said. Because he wanted to.
He wanted to be in that café. He wanted to be in that café with a glass of iced water and a slice of cake, and Danny. Danny smiling at him, leaning back, with that relaxed intensity, that glorious thrill, that joy, that he wore at the start of every new job.
He wanted Danny.
It was getting hotter.
Danny's phone rang insistently as he walked out of the airport and into the blazing Florida summer. With a stab of hope, he reached for it and checked the display. Oh. Tess. Not Rusty. And, thinking about it . . . he grimaced and answered. "Hi, Tess."
"Danny." The smile in her voice was obvious. And, in the circumstances, probably wasn't going to last. "Could you possibly pick up a carton of milk on your way home?"
"I'm in Miami, Tess," he said. Better to get the difficult bit out of the way first.
There was a long silence.
"Why?" she asked, neutrally.
Oh. Actually this might be the difficult bit. He scrabbled round for an explanation – for a lie she could believe. He hated this. "Well, I was talking to Simon, and some of the deal is looking a bit shaky, and he was going to fly down this afternoon, but his mother's sick, so I said I would, and I know I should've told you first, but I wasn't thinking. Sorry."
"I see." There was a deeper significance to her words, and, strangely, her voice was a little warmer. "Did Rusty fly back?"
"No, he's still down here." Somewhere.
"Have you managed to work things out yet?" Tess asked and Danny felt the lies turn to ashes in his mouth. She'd been worried about him. She'd been worried about him arguing with Rusty and she wanted him to take the time to make it better. Oh, in what possible world did he deserve her?
"We haven't really had a chance to talk yet," he said, and at least it wasn't a lie.
"Remember, some things are worth fighting for," she told him.
He closed his eyes. "I know." He hesitated. "I love you so much," he said, in a rush, as though it was for the very first time.
"I love you too, Danny," she said and she sounded confused and pleased. "When do you think you'll be home?" It wasn't the first time he'd had to leave suddenly. She accepted. She didn't like, but she accepted.
"A few days at most," he promised, and he could have kicked himself. "I hope," he added.
"I'll buy my own milk then," she laughed.
They talked, for a while, about her day and about Lawrence Olivier and about Cassandra, and he really did love her.
He'd heard a noise outside. He knew he had. He'd heard a noise and he'd started yelling and screaming, just as loud as he could, until his lungs ached, until his throat was raw with effort and scratched by dust. And he'd kicked at the wall, again and again and again, ignoring the resurgence of agony in his limbs and back, ignoring the pounding in his head that felt like a claw hammer scraping against the inside of his skull, over, and, over, and over, because there was a noise outside and he couldn't let the opportunity slide by.
When he finally stopped, after what felt like hours, after what might well have been hours, when he finally stopped, exhausted and sore and hot and thirsty, he lay absolutely still, hoping that the pain in his arms and legs would subside again, and wondered how long it would take him to die. Three days, he thought, was the average.
Later he heard the noise again. Scrabbling. Scratching. Some sort of animal, he thought. Probably a rat.
After a moment he started pulling at the ropes again. His fingers were too numb and swollen to do more than vaguely fumble, but perhaps the blood had slicked the ropes enough to do some good.
Danny thanked the night receptionist with a smile, politely took the shyly proffered phone number, and walked out of the hotel into the street. The sun was just starting to come up and he rubbed at his eyes and told himself that he wasn't tired.
Rusty had left the hotel over a week ago. And, since the hotel had ordered him a cab to the airport, Rusty had almost certainly left Miami over a week ago.
Danny had spent all night phoning round hotels with a list of likely names, convincing a variety of bewildered night staff, that he was trying to find a Bachelor party; that he was a lawyer trying to trace an unknown heir; that he was a private detective; that he was a talent scout; that he was a spy. Whatever they wanted, he'd tell them, and on the twelfth attempt he'd found Luke Everard, and he'd headed to the Dupont Plaza, desperate to find out everything he could. All night, a thousand lies, and he was no further forwards. Hell, really, he was further back, and the coldness was growing inside.
With a sudden movement, he grabbed his phone and called John again. He had to do something.
It rang a couple of times, then John answered and cleared his throat. "Hello?"
"John, it's Danny," he said quietly.
John groaned. "Do you know what time it is?"
He did. "Yeah, sorry. I need another favour."
There was a pause and a sigh. "Danny . . . "
"I need you to run the same list of names for flights leaving Miami eight days ago," he said quickly. "After three in the afternoon."
"Can't this wait till morning?" John suggested, sleepily.
Danny glanced up at the sky. "It is morning."
"Look, Danny . . ." John began with more than a hint of impatience.
"Rusty's missing." He didn't recognise his own voice. Hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to think that. There was a long silence. He swallowed hard. "John?"
"Missing, missing?" John asked, eventually, hesitantly.
"I don't know," Danny said quietly. Unlikely, probably, maybe, yes. He didn't know.
"Every flight leaving Miami will take a while. I'll get back to you," John promised, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Try not to worry too much, yeah? I'm sure Rusty can take care of himself."
"Bye, John." He hung up and stared at the phone in his hand for a few seconds.
Rusty was missing.
Danny had to find him.
They were in a bar, being served drinks by a woman dressed as Snow White, and Danny kept insisting that they should act friendly, get to know her, because the dwarves had a gold mine and a whisky distillery, and it wasn't like Rusty was arguing with him, but his glass was full of sand, and he just wanted something to drink and Danny wasn't listening to him because he was too busy trying to guess the woman's name, and Rusty tried to tell him that it was Rumpelstiltskin, but his mouth was too dry and his throat was too sore, so he tried to drink out of Danny's glass instead, because if he couldn't get a drink soon, they'd take him away and they'd stick him in a box, in the dark, in the heat, and they wouldn't let Danny come for him but Danny's glass was full of sand too, and so was the bottle, and there was something wrong here, there was something wrong . . .
He opened his eyes; there was dust in them. There was dust in his mouth and in his nose and throat. There was a lingering feeling of dampness at the crotch of his pants that filled him with a vague disgust. There was a pain in his head that felt as though someone had stuffed his skull with barbed wire. There was a dull agony in his back and arms and legs that felt as though as soon as he moved even the smallest of muscles he'd be trying to scream again. There was pain and there was thirst and there was darkness. But there wasn't any bar and there wasn't any woman. There wasn't any Danny.
He'd fallen asleep. Huh. He should probably try not to do that too much; one time he wouldn't wake up again.
He wondered if Danny was very angry at him.
John called him just as he was walking up to the gym and began talking as soon as Danny answered. "I'm sorry, Danny. I struck out. No one by any of those names flew from Miami on that day. Or the day before, or the day after."
Danny swallowed hard and wondered what that meant. Other than the fact that, once again, he hadn't the first clue where Rusty was. "Thanks for trying, John."
"You need me, just call," John told him, just before he hung up.
He took a deep breath, pushed the glass door open and was immediately confronted by an exhausted looking blonde, dressed in a suit and clutching a plastic cup of coffee. "You must be Mr Ocean," she said, swapping the cup between hands for a moment, before putting it on the desk behind her and shaking his hand vigorously.
"Danny," he corrected her, gently.
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry. Normally I'm not working at this time . . . sorry, I'm Penny. I'm Angel's PA."
"Nice to meet you," Danny said politely. "Is she . . .?"
"Follow me," Penny nodded and led him through the double doors into the gym.
He caught sight of Angel, stepping away from the treadmill. She nodded briskly to him and strode over. He looked up at her and smiled. "Angel. You're looking - "
" - sweaty and bedraggled," Angel interrupted with a roll of her eyes. "If you must flatter, wait until I'm at least looking human."
"How do you know I was planning on finishing that sentence with a compliment?" Danny asked.
Angel laughed, appreciatively. "Penny, get me a bottle of water. And a coffee - coffee? - " Danny nodded. "A black coffee for Danny."
"Okay, Angel." Penny skittered off.
Angel sighed. "She's a fantastic PA. But she's useless before seven. So, Danny. Come and tell me what's so important."
Without looking to see if he was following she headed into the female changing room. Danny hesitated outside the doorway. "You know I'm not exactly qualified to walk through that door."
She threw a smile over her shoulder. "We're the only ones here. The gym doesn't open for another hour. Perks of being the owner."
With a shrug, he followed her in. She pointed at a bench next to a row of lockers. "Sit and stay," she told him, and disappeared towards the showers. "And start talking," she yelled back. "Loudly."
He sat. "Rusty was in Miami last week."
"Uh huh," came her voice, over the sound of running water. "And he didn't come see me."
Danny hadn't necessarily thought that he had, though it would have made everything easier. Angel owned, or had an interest in, a high proportion of all the bars, clubs and restaurants in Miami. And somehow, she always knew who was talking to who. "Who did he go see?"
There was a moment. "Mmmm. Let me think."
Danny waited. Patiently.
Penny knocked and came in, clutching two bottles of water to her chest. Danny accepted graciously and didn't bother correcting her. She left, yawning and rubbing her eyes.
Eventually, Angel emerged from the shower wearing only a towel. "Turn your head," she ordered, and Danny, without even the smallest desire to do otherwise, complied.
There was the sound of a locker opening and the sounds of Angel getting dressed. Eventually she sighed. "You can turn round now."
He did. "Do you know - "
She interrupted with a frown. " - You didn't even try to sneak a peek?"
"No," he said, almost apologetically.
Angel nodded. "Heard you got married."
"Yeah." He cleared his throat and resisted the urge to hold up his wedding ring as proof. "Two years now."
"What's she like?" Angel asked, her head tilted to one side.
Danny took a deep breath. "Wonderful. She's wonderful."
Angel smiled, a little sadly, and turned away from him to fix her hair. "Rusty spent his time with Juan Tatis and Tony Carr. Separately. I don't know what he was doing, I don't know where he is. And I'm sorry."
"Thanks, Angel," he said, sincerely, and he smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes softened as she looked at him.
He stood up to leave and accidentally spilled the bottle of water all over the floor. Oh, well. No great loss as long as it didn't ruin his shoes.
Water. He wanted water. The pain in his head was unbearable. The pain everywhere was unbearable, and he wanted water, he wanted a drink, liquid something, he didn't mind, just something to make it all go away. His lips were cracked and he could taste blood, and he sucked at it eagerly. His tongue felt hot and swollen. He thought maybe he'd choke on it. He thought maybe that couldn't happen.
He wanted water.
Thanks for reading, and if you want to leave feedback it won't actually make me write any faster, but it'll make me feel better. And I have a head cold. I need all the help I can get. ;)