A/N: Right. Okay. So I have a plan and a post-it note, and this is good. And my plan clearly says that there are 12 chapters to this. And in one, deep and meaningful sense, this remains precisely true. However, in a more literal sense, a more ffnet approved sense, it is now nonsense. This is the first part of chapter 4. Which will be 3 parts long. All of which are written, so you won't need to wait more than a couple of days for the next bit, before you say anything. But there was just too much in there for me to be happy with it being all one block. Sorry about that. And yes, the post-it note lasted precisely two chapters before the whole organisation thing fell to pieces. The mockery may commence.
A/N 2: InSilva has, as always, been unbelievably and almost unreasonably helpful and reassuring. And I'm not just saying that because I know the most likely source of mockery...
Two weeks after
The tatty 'Do Not Disturb' sign hung on the door with the peeling paint. Apparently, according the the incurious hotel staff, it had hung there for nearly four days. And, obediently, they'd stayed away.
Danny's heart was in his mouth when he knocked, and the sound echoed for a lifetime in the still corridor.
There was no answer. No hint that anyone (living) was in the room.
Slowly, he pulled the keycard out of his pocket. He'd acquired it from reception when the concierge wasn't looking. It should open any door. So there was absolutely no reason for hesitation and reluctance. He swallowed hard and the door opened when he pushed.
The room was dark, stuffy and tomb-like. He squinted into the gloom and he could just make tout the bed. Could just make out the shape of Rusty lying in it, his face turned towards the door, absolutely still and unmoving. Hie eyes stared, unseeing and unknowing through Danny. Danny might as well not be there.
Biting his lip he crept a little closer.
"So," he said, looking down at vacant and passive and lifeless and his voice was too loud in the silence, but he'd had to say something, had to do something. "I'm gonna assume that you developed a sudden fondness for tulips and windmills, huh."
Four Days Earlier...
Danny woke up in a flurry of pain and no Rusty. His head was pounding but he dragged himself out of bed immediately, frantically searching through the room, desperately hoping, praying, that Rusty might have changed his mind. That Rusty might have stayed with him. But there was no sign. Unsurprisingly. If Rusty had stayed, Danny wouldn't have woken up alone.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to will away the pain, the grief, the shock and anger. Rusty was gone. Rusty was gone and Danny had to find him.
There was a phone lying in the middle of the table next to a note and a small bottle. The remains of whatever Rusty had used to drug him, Danny would guess. And he got what the gesture was supposed to mean. Rusty giving up a means to hurt himself. It was supposed to be reassuring. But it wasn't. It was an unneeded reminder that they couldn't trust Rusty.
He touched the cellphone hesitantly and wondered if it was a good sign that Rusty had abandoned that too. That, maybe, Rusty hadn't trusted himself not to answer the phone if Danny rang. Maybe. Maybe.
At last, finally, soul filled with a dread that he was never, ever going to name, he turned his attention to the note. It was short. To the point. Tear-stained.
Please don't look for me.
I promise I'm not going to hurt myself.
I'm sorry, Danny. I never want to hurt you.
Danny stared at the words for a long time, his thumb tracing over the paper slowly. At last, he folded the note in two and tucked it carefully into his pocket.
It wasn't until he got down to reception that he actually took a moment to glance at his watch. Three in the afternoon. He'd been asleep for fourteen hours. Which meant Rusty had a fourteen hour head start. God.
The receptionist was staring at him. Or, rather, his face. Right. Yeah. He put a hand up to the fading bruises and grinned self-consciously. "Don't ever play a game of one-on-one with a drunk marine," he advised her, seriously. "At least, not without checking whether his kid's dropped his marbles on the court."
She blinked and laughed slightly and he smiled charmingly and leaned on the desk hopefully. "So, I was wondering if you could help me," he began, and she looked like she'd really like to. "Do you happen to know if you ordered a taxi for my friend last night? Some time after one. A blond man. My height. Thin." He could trust that Rusty wouldn't be driving anywhere soon. A taxi would be most likely.
"Well, I wasn't working, but I can certainly check for you." She frowned down at her book for a moment. "There was a taxi booked to the station then, though there doesn't seem to be a name given. That's odd...Do you think that could be it?"
"I imagine so," he agreed. "Thank you." It made sense. The station Rusty would want to leave town as soon as possible.
Didn't matter. There was no place that Rusty could go that Danny wouldn't follow. No place at all.
The moment that the door shut behind him, Rusty was fighting the urge – need – to run back inside. He knew why he was doing this, knew why he had to do this - and the memory of Danny bruised and bloodied and battered and smiling up at him swam in front of his eyes, just in case he could somehow, ever forget – but it was still so difficult.
He was leaving Danny behind. Leaving Danny behind unconscious and helpless and vulnerable and that terrified him, and he had to remind himself that he'd thought about this. He'd had a couple of days, after all, of thinking and planning and he knew that really, rationally, logically, Danny was in no danger. Nothing would happen. Danny would sleep for at least the rest of the night, and probably most of the next day, then he'd wake up safe and sound and the very worst he would experience would be a slight headache.
He stared unblinkingly at the elevator call button and his eyes were burning and he couldn't make himself believe. The very worst Danny would experience would be when he woke up and realised Rusty was gone for good. The very worst had been when Danny had realised that Rusty had betrayed him again. When he'd begged and pleaded with Rusty not to leave and Rusty hadn't listened. When Danny had seen Rusty trying to kill him.
The elevator arrived and he stepped inside. No, he was right to get out of here. He was right to run. All he was doing was hurting Danny. He'd tried to kill Danny and he couldn't promise that it wouldn't happen again, so he had to leave. There was no other choice.
A few minutes later he stepped out into reception and he smiled at the man behind the desk and quietly ordered a taxi. Briefly, he considered leaving a message for Danny. But what could he possibly say that he hadn't said already?
He was doing this for Danny and that was all that mattered.
From the taxi, he stared blindly out at the rain and his fingers drummed urgently against the window until the driver grumpily told him to stop.
It took a few hours work, an air of mystery and a flash of a fraudulent detective badge to get Danny access to the information he needed. He sipped at a paper cup of scalding hot coffee and stared at the security camera footage of the ticket machines, watching a grainy and endless procession of times and people until, finally, he caught a glimpse of Rusty. He froze the image. Naturally. Rusty looked exhausted and drained but determined. Obviously he was convinced that he was doing the right thing. Danny knew he wasn't. Most importantly, nineteen hours ago, Rusty had been alive and unhurt, and Danny clung to that fact as tightly as he could.
A little more charm and a hint of implacable determination and he was scanning through transaction records, matching the time to the ticket sold. Looked like Rusty had bought a ticket to Atlanta. Which made sense. Danny thought, anyway. A big city, easy enough for Rusty to lose himself in. Not so distant that the train journey would be more than Rusty could cope with. He thought about Rusty, hoping he could cope without any painful incidents, and Danny couldn't bear to think about what could happen, what the consequences could be. He thought again about the truck stop and it had hurt Rusty to be seen like that.
He was biting hard at his lip as he searched further and later through the security footage, convincing himself that Rusty had indeed got on the train and not doubled back.
Right. He smiled distantly at the station staff as he left, already planning his next move. He'd get to Atlanta, get into the security footage in the station there, and find out where Rusty had gone. Taxi would be a safe first bet, he thought, and that was good. There'd be a driver, and maybe there'd be a record, and maybe Rusty would be remembered, and Danny would find him.
And what then?
He didn't know what he was going to say to Rusty. Not like he had some magic combination of words that would make everything better. He rubbed at his aching temples, and he was fully conscious of the fact that beneath the frantic, miserable worry, there was a white hot rage burning. It would never occur to him to be angry at Rusty for hitting him. That hadn't been Rusty's fault. But this...Drugging him and abandoning him. Taking the choice away from him. Oh, Danny was angry about that. In fact, he hadn't felt this angry since... (an interview room with concrete walls. Rusty handcuffed and smiling carelessly at him, like nothing mattered. Him, walking away.)
He choked back angry tears. That wasn't going to happen again. That was never going to happen again. He'd learnt his lesson, even if Rusty hadn't.
No. He'd find Rusty and they'd find some way of talking about this. He'd find something to say, something that would absolutely prove to Rusty that he had to stay.
In the end, it was for nothing. Once he got to Atlanta, the security tapes showed that Rusty had never been there. He didn't get off the train.
Rusty sat, hunched deep in the train seat, and stared out of the window, counting telegraph poles.
(Danny would look for him. Danny wouldn't look for him. Danny would look for him. Danny wouldn't look for him.)
With any luck, in an ideal world, Danny would wake up in twelve hours or so, read his note, realise that Rusty was right, and would move on with his life.
Rusty didn't live in an ideal world.
(Danny would look for him.)
Two hundred and forty one telegraph poles later and he still couldn't stop thinking. Two hundred and forty one. And, on average, telegraph poles were spaced one hundred and twenty five feet apart. There were five thousand two hundred and eighty feet in a mile. And that meant there were forty two telegraph poles per mile. And that meant he'd only gone about five and a half miles. Not long enough. Not nearly long enough. Still so close to Danny. His fingers were curled tightly into his palms and all he could see was Danny, hurt and frightened of, for, by, because of him. He'd done this, this was all his fault. No matter what Danny said, this was all his fault. Moffatt hadn't been involved. Moffatt hadn't been there. Just him. All him.
(Danny wouldn't look for him.)
He stumbled off the train the first time it stopped, after barely ten minutes. With any luck, even if he was looking for Rusty, Danny would give up when he couldn't find him in Atlanta.
(Danny would look for him.)
Somehow he found a taxi and when he opened his mouth to ask the driver to take him to the airport he tasted blood. He'd bit his lip somehow at some point, torn at it till the blood flowed. The taxi driver was garrulous and sympathetic and shoved a wad of tissues at him and for a second Rusty was lost in the contempt in Carson's eyes, and it was only with the greatest effort that he dragged himself back. The present. There was nothing more than the present, and he sat absolutely still and gave distant, drifting answers to the driver's cheerful chatter, and he read each and every street sign, focussed on the now and the trivial, and tried to banish thought.
(Danny would look for him. Danny wouldn't look for him. Danny would look for him. Danny wouldn't look for him...Danny...Danny...)
The sight of the blood on Rusty's face had a way of making all Danny's anger wither and die. He had stared at the security footage. Blood on Rusty's mouth. And Rusty didn't seem to have noticed. Danny wanted to believe that the blankness in Rusty's eyes was just a trick of the light.
He'd been lucky, really. Lucky that Rusty had chosen to get off at the first station. After all, if he'd had to check each and every stop down the line, well. It could've taken a very long time. Even as it was, Rusty was now a day and a half ahead.
Still. He had managed to make out the number of the taxi that Rusty had got into, and it didn't take that long to track it down. And he was glad that the driver had remembered Rusty, remembered taking him to the airport. Just that he wished the conversation hadn't had so many undertones of 'He shouldn't be allowed out on his own.' Even if Danny knew.
Rusty's phone rang while Danny had been working his way through the airport, making enquiries. He was hopeful, for a moment. Hopeful that Rusty was calling him, that Rusty was ready to come back to him. Instead, he found himself staring down at Saul's number. Oh. He let it ring out. It wasn't time to have that conversation. Not yet. Not ever, if he could help it, and he waited until his own phone had rung out as well and tried not to imagine how frantic Saul would be. They could apologise later. They would.
He wandered the airport some more, and he worried. Honestly, he wasn't sure he liked the idea of Rusty in a plane. Too close. Too constricting. Neither of them had said it, but he'd thought that was why they were driving everywhere. It didn't quite make sense, and even as he charmed his way into places and information he had absolutely no right to, part of him was always wondering.
In the end, a smiling and hopeful brunette told him that Rusty had bought a ticket to Los Angeles.
Huh. Really, that made even more sense than Atlanta. Big city again, but Rusty knew LA. Rusty liked LA. And Rusty had contacts in LA. A safer place to run to. The sort of place that Rusty would go if he really was planning on building a new, Danny-free life.
So why was he uneasy?
By the time the plane landed in LA, Rusty felt like the world was in slow motion. He couldn't think and he didn't want to, and he drifted along like the world was a dream he was frightened to wake up from.
The flight hadn't made anything better. From the moment the door had slammed shut, part of him had been screaming that he needed to get out of here now, please, right now. He'd spent the whole flight with his knuckles white, gripping the arm rests painfully, forcing everything to stay inside and be invisible, and slowly he was drowning.
He walked through the airport and then, somehow, through the city and there were too many people, too much light, too much noise, and bit by bit, he cut off every part of himself that was hurting and screaming, and by the time he was standing in front of Lenny Karowitz, quiet and meek, withdrawn and asking-for-a-favour, there was barely any of him left to hurt as Lenny sneered and mocked and patronised and insulted. Rusty smiled listlessly and said 'please' nicely and gave him the money, and the anger and blame and contempt and vitriol rained down and with every reaction he didn't get, Lenny enjoyed himself a little more. Eventually, Lenny evidently felt that he'd proved his dominance enough, and when Rusty finally left he had a name and a New York phone number.
He was back to the airport and on a flight to New York before he knew it and there was dark water closing over his head.
The revelation hit Danny hard, just as he was in the midst of drifting off to sleep, curled on a bench in the departure lounge. He sat bolt upright and his sudden gasp drew a few curious stares. He ignored them. Oh, he'd been so stupid. Thinking about this in exactly the wrong way.
LA was wrong. Well, not wrong, that was where Rusty was going – but it wasn't where Rusty was staying. Because Rusty wasn't running to anywhere, Rusty was running from. Running from him. And that meant...he swallowed hard. That meant that Rusty would feel the need to go a lot further. Out of the country at the very least. And that meant that Rusty would need a passport. Rusty was fresh out of prison, after all. He didn't have any.
Danny was in a dream as his flight was called, and he sleep-walked into the plane and spent the whole flight compiling lists in his head. Everyone he could think of who Rusty might have gone to, starting in the Los Angeles area. He came up with about a dozen plausibles, and as soon as the plane landed he started making phone calls.
Thing was, he'd spent a year now making it perfectly clear that he never wanted to hear anything about Rusty ever again. And, clearly, the gossip network was a month or so behind. He was asking about Rusty and at every turn he was met with confusion and hesitation and even, occasionally, suspicion. It hurt. Hearing people – people he knew, people they liked – wondering why he wanted to know anything about Rusty...it was wrong. It was painful. And after two hours of phone calls, having exhausted every one he could think of, he was no further forwards. No one had heard from Rusty in a very long time.
He sat by the window and stared blankly straight ahead. He was nowhere. No more ideas. And Rusty had been gone for over two days. Rusty could be anywhere. (Rusty could be nowhere.)
Leland Chambers, Lenny's contact, was efficient and entirely incurious. The phone call was curt, the drop-off of the photo and half the money was brief and the exchange of the rest of the money for the passport went as smoothly as he could expect. And not once did Leland so much as look at him. Which was just as well. He was fading fast, he could feel it, and he didn't think he could deal with any kind of scrutiny.
New passport in his pocket, he drifted, ghost-like, through the airport and stared up at the international departures board. He had to get far away. Far away from Danny.
Cities and plans and memories swam before his eyes. London, and he remembered the last time he'd been there, with Basher, and he remembered Tess' call and he remembered how, such a short time later, he'd been in handcuffs, kneeling on the floor while Carson raged angrily around him, demanding answers and explanations that he wasn't going to give. Not London. Mexico City, and he remembered Saul's expression when he'd explained the rain of frogs, and he remembered Saul's expression when he'd held Rusty down and told him what a disappointment he was, what a disappointment he'd always been, and how weak he was to let Moffatt...to let all of them. He took a shaky breath. Not Mexico. Paris and Tokyo and Florence and Seville and Rome, and he remembered Danny. So many memories. Danny and him, happy and together and thinking it was forever. No. Definitely not. Amsterdam. He considered. He'd been there before, on his own, six years or so ago. No memories that mattered. No connection. And that meant that Danny wasn't likely to look for him there either. Perfect.
He hesitated. Danny would be awake by now. He could call. Make sure that Danny was okay. Tell Danny that he was fine. Maybe even suggest that this might not be permanent, that maybe Rusty could get himself together and he'd be able to trust himself, and he could come back to Danny.
(If Danny wanted him.)
Trouble was, he didn't know if he was strong enough to stay away if he heard Danny's voice. And...and Danny would be angry with him. Justifiably angry with him. And he couldn't help but wonder if he'd finally crossed that last line and gone beyond what Danny could forgive. Maybe it was better not to know.
He walked away, bought his ticket, and when the plane door shut, he shuddered. No escape and his head was swimming with the echoes and parallels.
Unconsciously, he tried to make himself as small as possible, curled tightly in his seat, his fingers twisting tightly, and he bit his lips together hard to make absolutely sure he kept quiet. The inside of his skin was crawling and he clenched his fists hard and chanted inside his head. "You're fine. You're fine. It's all fine." Repeat ad infinitum, and maybe he didn't have to think about anything else.
He was shocked out of his trance when he felt hands snaking across his lap, and he gasped, and shoved them away desperately. When he blinked up, he found himself staring stupidly at a harassed and uneasy-looking air steward.
"Sir, you need to fasten your seat belt," he said, and Rusty was left with the feeling that there'd been a first dozen times he hadn't listened. "Do you need me to help you?" the steward went on, talking slowly and clearly and he leaned forwards again, and Rusty shrank back, and fumbled until the belt seemed secure.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"That's right, boy," a drunk-sounding man cheered from across the aisle. "Shove the faggot away. Ask for the one with the nice tits."
The steward's mouth tightened, and Rusty cringed and offered a wavering, apologetic smile.
"The airline does not tolerate verbal or physical assaults on its staff," the steward announced sternly, looking first at the drunk and then at Rusty.
He nodded, smiling, and bit his lip and tried to look the very image of remorse and shame and penitence.
He hadn't meant to. Of course he hadn't meant to. Just like he hadn't meant to hurt Danny. This was why he wasn't fit to be with people.
His eyes were closed as the plane took off, and he chewed on his lip endlessly.
There were no safe places for him. There was no space in his head, not a single thought, not a single memory that wasn't tainted, overwritten with pain and doubt and horror.
He was trapped, hurting and alone, and there was no chance of it ending, no way out, no hope of parole, and every thought he had led back to prison. To Moffatt. To Felding, to Carson. To Danny. Led back to him liking the feeling of Danny beneath him, Danny crying and begging him. It sickened him and he couldn't stop reliving it.
"Sir?" The voice was cautious, and he opened his eyes and found himself looking up at an anxious stewardess. "Sir, you're disturbing the other passengers. Do you need help? Are you on any medication?" He could see the steward standing just behind her, watching and they were both obviously ready for trouble. He must have made some noise or something. Drawn attention to himself. (He was supposed to be quiet.)
"I..." He cleared his throat. "I'm fine. I'm sorry."
They didn't look convinced. But he stared desperately out the window and eventually they left him alone. He knew they were watching him though.
He couldn't do anything anymore. There were no safe places, not in his head and not anywhere else. Even the thought of Danny wasn't refuge anymore. He couldn't live like this anymore and the only thing left was...
No. Not that. He wasn't going to even think about that. He'd promised Danny and he wasn't going to break that promise.
But oblivion. Blankness. Not-being. If he could just concentrate on that. If he could just let everything go, let it all fall away. It was easier. It was easy. Without thought, without memory, without caring, without action, motivation – there was no pain.
No more pain.
Danny was still thinking about this wrong, he knew he was. He was calling the people that he'd expect Rusty to go to. And that was wrong.
Los Angeles. And of course, Rusty had been here recently.
With a frown, he called someone else. Someone he knew Rusty wouldn't go to.
Linus sounded very unhappy when he answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Hey, kid," Danny began easily.
"Danny?" And now he sounded incredulous. "Jesus, do you know what time it is?"
Uh..."No idea," he admitted.
"Are you in trouble?" Linus asked sharply and when, exactly, had Linusturned into Bobby? "Are you okay? Is Rusty okay? What's happening?"
"Nothing you need worry about," Danny answered firmly.
"Which means you're not going to tell me," Linus sighed.
Well translated. "Sorry."
There was another sigh. "What do you need?" Linus asked, and somewhere behind him, Danny could hear a woman's sleepy voice asking who was calling and when Linus was coming back to bed. Huh. At a different time, in different circumstances, he would have been amused. He would have teased. Said something. As it was, he ignored the interruption.
"You went with Rusty to Los Angeles," he said. "Where did you find Lenny?" Lenny was among the very last people that Danny would imagine Rusty asking for help. So he should have been the first person Danny checked with. Lenny was a treacherous little weasel – but he did always have contacts that no one else knew. Probably the only reason no one had ever killed the bastard.
"We met him at the Moonrise Lounge. And he was staying at the Hotel Angelino," Linus told him automatically. "Danny, is this about what he said to Rusty? You're not planning on doing anything stupid, are you?"
Danny blinked slowly. "What did he say to Rusty?"
There was a brief silence. "Fuck," Linus said at last.
"What did he say, Linus?" Danny repeated, and his voice was louder. Lenny had said something to Rusty. Of course he'd said something to Rusty. And Rusty hadn't told him. Not just because Rusty would never want to tell him. Not even just because by this time, he wasn't totally convinced that Rusty noticed anything wrong with people denigrating him. But also because at that point he'd been trying to convince everyone that he didn't care, and he didn't think it would have occurred to Rusty for one moment that he might.
"He said something about Rusty selling himself in prison for cigarettes," Linus blurted out.
"Right," Danny said, very calmly and deep inside, he was imagining how Rusty would have heard that, and deep inside he was screaming. "Right. Thank you for telling me, Linus."
"You're not going to do something stupid, Danny, right?" Linus asked nervously. "Not like - "
" - no," he said shortly, and he let go of the idea with difficulty. If he was right, Lenny was his best hope of finding Rusty. And Rusty was far more important than explaining his feelings to Lenny.
"Good," Linus sounded relieved for a moment, then he rushed on. "Danny, you know you can trust me, right? If you need help I'll - "
" - I know, Linus," Danny assured him, and there was actually a smile in his voice. "I'd tell you if I needed help."
"Right," Linus said ironically. "Of course you would."
"Goodnight, Linus," Danny said lightly. "I'll let you get back to entertaining your friend."
He smiled at the splutters of embarrassment he heard just before he hung up the phone.
He was lucky, and he caught Lenny sitting at a secluded table in the hotel restaurant at breakfast. The bastard actually had the nerve to look pleased to see him, and Danny just about managed to return his smiling greetings.
"So, Danny," Lenny began expansively. "Not seen you in an age. Not since you cut that stupid bastard Ryan loose. Gotta say man, think that's the best decision you ever made. I saw him a few weeks ago, you know. He looked like shit. Ruined my con and punched me too. Like it was my fault he can't tell a Queen from a Jack. Fucker. You're better off without that useless fag. You were always on another level, you know. Everyone always thought so."
He mustn't throw himself across the table and break Lenny's nose. That would be a stupid move. And he tried to keep the burning hatred from his eyes.
Lenny was oblivious. "Actually, I saw him day before yesterday too. Ha!" He smiled. "You'll like this. Fucking bastard came crawling to me for a favour. After everything he'd done. You can bet I didn't make it easy for him. I told him exactly what I thought of him. Little creep lapped it up like a good boy. Even thanked me in the end. Ohh, you can't imagine how good that felt."
There was a storm inside Danny's head. A hurricane. A cataclysm of fury. He smiled carelessly. "What was the favour?" he asked like it was nothing, signalling the waitress for another cup of coffee.
"Oh, he wanted a name of someone who could get him a passport." Lenny shrugged. "Someone he didn't already know. Guess he's burned all his bridges. I mean, I guess he must've got cut a lot of slack for clinging on to you. I mean, you're Danny Ocean. Everyone likes you. Everyone thinks you're fantastic. Without you to make him look good, well, what's the fag got, right?"
Danny bit back the anger and the defensive and the careful and painful explanations of everything that Rusty had that Lenny would never understand no matter what Danny said. The point was, Danny had been right. About Lenny and about the passport and he was so much closer to finding Rusty, if only Lenny would talk. "Who did you send him to?" he asked.
It was a question too far. Lenny looked at him sharply. "Why do you want to know?"
Danny said nothing.
Lenny laughed, delighted. "You after a little vengeance, that it Danny? He fuck up one time too often? Bet he owes you money, huh? Come on, you can tell me."
"I want to find him," Danny agreed and he smiled coldly and he let Lenny see just the barest shadow of anger, let Lenny imagine it was aimed elsewhere. "Can you tell me who he went to?"
"I can do better than that," Lenny grinned. "I know the name on his passport."
Danny stared. Couldn't help it. "You said you gave him a name," he said slowly, and Lenny wasn't in the passport business.
"Yeah, well," Lenny shrugged smugly. "Sometimes it's good business sense to make sure you know things. I sent him to my guy in New York on the understanding that my guy in New York tells me everything. After all, if Ryan's so anxious to get out the country, I gotta think to myself, someone's after him, right? And that means there's money to be made, knowing what name he's using."
He was going to kill him. He was going to kill him. He was going to..."What name is he using," Danny managed to say, and in his head, he'd thrown himself across the table, in his head his hands were wrapped tightly around Lenny's throat, in his head he was watching Lenny's eyes close for the last time.
"Uh uh," Lenny sat back, looking satisfied. "Like I said. Money to be made. It'll cost you."
"How much?" Danny asked steadily.
Lenny shrugged again. "I'll tell you for ten grand. Anyone else it would be fifteen. But give the prick a coupla punches for me, and we'll call it even."
Danny nodded slowly. He would pay it. He would.
Lenny grinned widely. "He's an idiot."
He was. Oh, he was. The idiot Danny would die for.
"Have to wonder what you ever saw in him, Danny, really. I mean, he was never anything special. And you'll laugh when you see him nowadays. Not such a pretty boy, if you ask me. Bet all the dogs in D Wing had their day, if you know what I mean. Bet he liked it. You know what he was always like. Must be good to know that everyone's on your side - "
Danny was standing, suddenly, in a wealth of rage, of fire, of ice and Lenny was looking up at him and there was slow dawning fear in his eyes. "So this is how things are going to go, Lenny," Danny said, and his words were carved in stone. "You're going to tell me everything you know. And then you're going to be very, very quiet. You're not going to tell anyone else. And you're not going to mention this conversation to anyone else. In fact, you're never going to mention Rusty's name ever again. Because if you do – if I even think for one, single, solitary moment that you have – then whatever tiny scrap of life I leave you with will be spent in the worst pain I can imagine. Do you understand me?"
Lenny nodded slowly, eyes wide.
Danny smiled. "Good."
The plane landed. He wasn't really aware of it. He wasn't really aware of anything anymore. Barely awake, barely alive, he walked like a zombie through passport control, staring blankly when a friendly woman welcomed him to the Netherlands.
Hotel. That was the only thought left. He had to find a hotel, because he had to lie down. Had to sleep. Sleep was even better. There would be nothing left then.
He asked and he listened and there was a road, and a man who gave him a key and there was a flight of stairs and then there was a bed and then there was nothing.
No more thoughts.
No more pain.
No more anything.
Nothing at all.
Danny was in the car park and the gun was heavy in his hand.
Linus was staring at Danny like he was the monster.
Carson was standing in front of him, smiling and triumphant and there was no fear in his eyes.
Rusty was lying off to the side, bound and naked and beaten and brutalised and the bite mark on his shoulder was fresh and livid and bleeding and there was so much blood between his legs, so much...
Danny screamed until his throat was raw.
"You lose, Danny," Carson whispered and Danny couldn't bear the delight in his voice.
He pulled the trigger. The gunshot was the only sound in the world.
Carson staggered back a couple of steps and he was bent over, like he was crumpling in on himself and the bloodstain was spreading across his shirt.
Then he stood up straight.
Then the blood melted away.
Then he smiled and looked straight at Danny.
"I told you, Danny. I told you that if you even thought about trying anything clever then I'd destroy everyone that you care about. And I told you I'd have fun when I did." He leaned in to Danny, impossibly close. "This is fun," he hissed, and suddenly there was a gun in Carson's hand, and he moved faster than Danny could even see, and the gun was pointing and Carson pulled the trigger and Linus' blood was all over the ground.
"Do you think he's dead?" Carson asked, sounding faintly interested. "I think he's dead."
All Danny could do was stare. And then the car park was full of cops, and Bobby was there, incoherent and inconsolable, and Carson smiled at the nearest cop. "That's the man who killed me," he said. "Right there." He pointed at Rusty.
The cops were grabbing Rusty, hauling him to his feet, even while Danny was desperately trying to argue that Carson wasn't dead and Danny was the one who'd killed him, and Rusty was still bleeding and Rusty wouldn't even look at him, and no one was listening and Linus was dead and they were dragging Rusty back to prison."
"Wait," Carson ordered imperiously and everything froze, and Danny stared as Carson walked towards him, and he was begging, pleading, asking Carson for mercy. Carson's hand reached into Danny's jacket pocket and he gently pulled out the list. "They'll need this, won't they, Danny? It won't be nearly as much fun unless He's there, will it? We need to give Rusty something to do with his time."
Danny followed Carson's gaze and there was a man standing in the doorway to the prison, just beyond the car park, and Danny knew what the man had done and what the man was going to do, and the cops were dragging Rusty there now, and there was nothing he could do, and he was screaming -
He woke to find a frowning woman shaking his shoulder politely. "Sir, you need to wake up!"
"Rusty!" he gasped, staring round, like he expected to see Rusty there, like he expected Rusty to have come back to him.
"What?" The woman was staring at him like he was crazy. He studied her for a second and noticed the uniform. Right. Air hostess. He was on a plane.
He managed to pull himself together and offer a weak smile. "I'm sorry. I guess I was having a nightmare. I hope I didn't disturb anyone?"
The frown was ever so slightly less. He was pretty sure his sanity was still under question. He knew the feeling. "Well, you were making quite a lot of noise, sir. I'm sorry, but we have to think about the other passengers."
"Of course," he smiled understandingly. "I'm sorry. I'll just read my book."
"Can I get you anything?" she asked, apparently automatically.
"A black coffee. Please. Thank you." He relaxed a little as he watched her walk off and he glanced down to see his hands tremble. The coffee should help. He wasn't going to fall asleep again. God. That had seemed so real.
A plane. He was going to Amsterdam. Because Lenny had told him that the name Rusty was travelling under was John Francis Austen and, after eight hours of phone calls and waiting and more doubt and suspicion, he'd finally been told that John Francis Austen had caught a plane to Amsterdam three days ago and hadn't been heard of since. Danny figured that Rusty must have picked up another ID there and moved on...but it was still the only lead he had.
He wanted Rusty back. He needed Rusty back.
He spent the rest of the flight dreaming about things he could have said or done. Ways that everything could have been different.
After a time, he found his hand going to his pocket and he found himself staring down at creased paper, read and reread and folded and refolded. Utterly memorised and burned deep into his soul.
Barrow, Scott; Cox, John; Felding, Hugh; Gable, Duncan; Kowalski, Tomas; Macloud, Michael; Mulligan, James; Turner, Patrick; Winchester, David.
Names. So many names. He wondered which of them Rusty had seen in Danny. Wondered which of them had driven Rusty to this.
Ways that everything could be different...reluctantly he put the list away.
In the airport, he managed to ask the right questions. Tell the right stories. Bribe the right people. It took time, but he followed Rusty's trail as far as a rundown hotel, just a little more than walking distance from the airport.
Twenty minutes later and he was standing in a grimy hotel room, breathing dust and stale air and looking down at vacant and passive and lifeless. "So," he said a little too loud. "I'm gonna assume that you developed a sudden fondness for tulips and windmills, huh."
Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think.
