Warning: This chapter contains violent and suggestive material that may not suitable for all readers; this chapter may also contain possible triggers (This final product is NOT at all what I had first intended for this chapter; Marshall just became this unbelievably horrific villain and he took control of the chapter!)

Chapter Six: (You Know) I'd Always Come For You

Sheriff Stilinski had been driving for almost two hours, trying to retrace Stiles' route. He knew he was getting closer. A few miles back, he had talked to an attendant at a gas station who remembered seeing Stiles. He had come in to buy a sandwich and a map of California. He pointed in the direction Stiles had gone, but other than that, could offer no real information. At least he's eaten, Stilinski consoled himself.

Sheriff Stilinski was speeding, trying to make up for lost time. He flashed his lights as a justification, cars pulling over to the curb to let him pass, when he chanced to meet the odd one here or there. The road was pretty deserted.

His cellphone rang. He slowed down and pulled into a rest area. "Stiles?" he asked, flipping his phone open.

"No, it's uh, Deputy Andrews, sir."

"Do you have news about my son?"

"That's why I'm calling. We just got a call from Highway Patrol. One of their officers passed a teenage boy matching Stiles' description. He was getting into a red 2008 Ford Edge about half an hour ago."

"Where was it headed?"

"North towards Sunnydale."

"I'm headed in that direction now."

"Those feds who were here earlier – Pierce and Santiago – they were here when I took the call. They just left, and they said they're headed in your direction. Their perp, Marshall Landry, was last seen driving a vehicle of that description. They think...they think he could be the man who picked up Stiles. Sheriff?" While Andrews was speaking, Sheriff Stilinski had noticed a dark SUV, parked just out of range of his headlights. He opened his door, and approached cautiously, using his shoulder to hold his cell to his ear, and drawing his weapon.

It was a red Ford Edge. A blue bicycle lay discarded behind the back tires.

"Sheriff, are you still there?"

Stilinski swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "I've found it; I found the vehicle." He gave Andrews his coordinates. "Call Pierce. Tell him Landry's on foot...and he has Stiles."

TeenWolf

"Keep walking. Just a little further."

Marshall had a tight grip on Stiles' upper arm, as he conducted him off a well-beaten path and through bushes and brambles. Thorns scratched at Stiles' bare arms, and he stumbled over uneven patches of earth. Stiles' foot caught under a raised root, and he fell forward. He barely had time to thrust his hands out to break his fall. "Get up," Marshall growled, dragging him up by the shirt collar. Stiles winced and looked at his palms. They were caked in dirt, and blood seeped out from a gash on his left hand.

Stiles hadn't spoken a word during this entire time. He was angry at himself for getting into this situation. How often when he was a boy had his father warned him to never talk to strangers? Had he thought that advice no longer applied when he became a teenager? He wished his father was with him now.

He'll find me. Stiles knew his father would be looking for him. He had been foolish to think they needed time apart. His father was the best sheriff in California; he'd come after him, and he'd find him. Stiles just hoped he made it in time to find him alive, and not his butchered corpse.

"Just behind these trees." Marshall began pushing aside branches with his gun hand. Stiles inconspicuously put his fingers in his pocket and hooked his keys. He had been leaving clues for his father to follow - broken branches, shoe prints pressed especially deep in places where the earth was soft. Nothing big enough to grab Marshall's attention. Now, at the edge of their supposed destination, he let his keys drop. He knew his father would recognize them right away.

They were standing on the edge of a creek. A small campsite stood on the other side, complete with tent, fire-pit, folding chairs, Coleman camping grill, coolers and water jugs, and a small wooden fold table. Marshall had even erected a make-shift clothes line between two trees. He must have been living there for quite some time. To an outside observer, the campsite appeared to belong to your typical early summer camper – not whoever the hell this creep was.

The creek was shin-deep. Marshall made him wade through. The cold water bit at his skin and soaked his sneakers. "Sit," he commanded, pushing Stiles onto a large, sideways log laying next to the fire-pit. Marshall rummaged through a bag at the base of the tent, and withdrew a large roll of duct tape.

"I don't think you need that."

"Oh, Jack," Marshall smiled. "You're a funny kid. I like you. Now, put your hands behind your back." Stiles hesitated. Marshall waved his gun in the air listlessly. "Don't try my patience, son." Stiles obeyed. Marshall tucked his gun into his waistband, and crouched behind him. He made Stiles press his palms flat against each other, and wrapped the tape several times around his wrists. Then Marshall moved around to the front and bound Stiles' ankles.

"What are you going to do with me?" Stiles tried to sound brave, but his voice broke.

Marshall smiled his slick, greasy smile again, and bent down over the fire-pit. Within minutes, he had a roaring fire blazing, the logs crackling and emitting sparks as they collapsed. Stiles was glad for the warmth. Marshall sat next to Stiles on the log and started rifling through the boy's bookbag, looking for supplies. "A change of clothes, a couple pairs of socks that probably aren't clean, toothbrush but no toothpaste, or any other hygiene items, an Ipod, no food or matches or plastic containers." Marshall laughed. "How were you expecting to survive, suburban kid like you?"

"Look who's talking. That SUV you were driving is fairly new."

"Yeah, well, this situation is just temporary." Marshall took out Stiles' pillow and sleeping bag, laying them on the ground behind the log. "Looks like you're spending tonight with me. Do you have any money?"

"No."

"Somehow I doubt that." Marshall patted Stiles' pockets, and withdrew a thin wallet. "What's this then?" He dumped Stiles' remaining money into his hand. "Seriously? This is all you have?" He checked the folds of Stiles' wallet. "Not even a credit card?" Marshall pulled the cards out one at a time and tossed them behind him. "Library card. MacDonald's gift card. A movie rewards card. A loyalty card for some video game store. A World of Warcraft gift card. Wait, what's this? Beacon Hills High School?" Marshall held up his student ID. "Well, well. Seems someone lied to me. I don't even think I could pronounce that! What is it, German?"

"Polish."

"Wow." Stiles could hear Marshall trying to shape his tongue around the sounds.

"Everyone calls me Stiles," he confessed. He didn't want his grandfather's name, his last legacy from his dear mother, defiled on the lips of this freak. Marshall smiled and started replacing the items in Stiles' back-pack. When he had finished, he knelt in front of Stiles, and traced his fingers down the side of his face.

Stiles shivered under his touch.

"Stiles Stilinski. It suits you. Much better than 'Jackson.' Whatever made you think of that name?" Stiles shrugged and attempted to shift away from the man.

"What do you want from me?" Stiles repeated his earlier question. "If it's a ransom you want, you can forget it. My father doesn't have any money."

"Oh, my pet, I thought that would have been obvious by now. Maybe I'm not making my intentions clear." Marshall's hands traveled down Stiles' neck and torso, and disappeared inside the boy's shirt. The man's fingers on his bare flesh made his skin crawl. "You're such a nice-looking kid."

"Stop. Please, stop." Stiles was crying now, tears trailing down his cheeks. The last of his bravery was spent, and he felt nothing but fear, raw and painful. Things like this weren't supposed to happen to guys like him – nobodies from small-towns who hadn't even made it to second base with a girl, let alone gone all the way.

Marshall's hands left his chest and cradled his face. He brushed away the tears from under Stiles' eyes with his thumbs. "God, you have such beautiful eyes. They're so expressive. And what a lovely color. Reminds me of milk-chocolate or cinnamon, but more earthy. " He stood and walked behind the log. For one fleeting second, Stiles naively hoped the man had decided to leave him alone. But strong hands grabbed him from behind and pulled him down onto the ground. Stiles thrashed and twisted against his bonds, struggling to free himself. Above him, Marshall was undoing his belt.

"It'll be okay. You'll like it. I promise."

Stiles kicked up at Marshall with his feet. He was able to knock the man backwards, and then deliver a painful blow to the pelvic region. Marshall swore. He grabbed Stiles roughly and flipped him onto his stomach. Then he pinned him to the ground, driving his knee into Stiles' spine. He held down Stiles' face with his left hand, smashing his cheek against the hard earth. Stiles wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

Marshall tugged at Stiles' jeans with his right hand, and then reached up to unbutton his own.

The sound of a gun cocking echoed across the clearing. A figure stood thirty feet away from them, splashing through the creek, muck and water filling his standard-issued police boots. "Get. Off. Him. Now." As Sheriff Stilinski advanced, he kept his gun trained on Marshall, aimed right between his eyes. "Let him go, or I'll put a bullet in your brain. And, trust me, I really want to do just that." The look in the sheriff's eyes was murderous.

Tears spilled from Stiles' eyes. He had never been so happy to see anyone in his life. Marshall moved cautiously. He took his knee from Stiles' back, and raised his hands slowly, as though ready to surrender. At the last second, he grabbed the gun tucked into his jeans, and fired. Sheriff Stilinski dove onto dry land, and rolled out of the line of fire. Stiles couldn't tell whether he had dodged the bullet or been hit.

"Dad!"

Marshall grinned cruelly. "That's your father?"

It didn't take Sheriff Stilinski more than three seconds to pull himself up and re-train his gun – but he wasn't fast enough. Marshall grabbed the back of Stiles' shirt and heaved him off the ground. He pressed the boy against his body, his arm locked around the teen's collar bone. He shoved the barrel of his pistol into Stiles' temple. Reflexively, Sheriff Stilinski took two steps forward, toward his son.

"Woah there, Sheriff. Don't move, unless you want me to put a bullet in your little boy's head." Sheriff Stilinski froze. "That's good. Now, throw your gun into those bushes over there. No, wait, throw it into the creek behind you." The sheriff hesitated. If he relinquished his weapon, he'd have a harder time rescuing Stiles. "Do it, Daddy Stilinski. You know I won't hesitate to shoot him."

Sheriff Stilinski tossed his gun behind him. He heard a loud splash as the water claimed it.

"Very good. Why don't you come a little closer so I can get a good look at you? Keep your hands where I can see them!" Stilinski raised his hands and walked forward tentatively. He was only a few yards away now. "That's far enough!" He stopped.

"It's okay, son. It's going to be okay." He stared into Stiles' frightened eyes, communicating all the words he couldn't say. Stiles nodded slightly.

Marshall gave the sheriff one of his creepy smiles. "I guess we know where Stiles got his good looks. What's Mommy Stilinski look like? She must be a total babe, a real Miss America."

"She's dead."

"Oh, that's too bad. No wonder you wanted to run away." Marshall exhaled close to Stiles' ear, making him shudder. "Mommy's sweet little orphan has daddy issues. How quaint. Once upon a time, our brave little prince set out to find adventure in the great big world, only to run right into the jaws of a dragon. He needed Daddy to come save him. And how does our story end, Stiles? Does Daddy save his little prince, or does the monster devour him?"

"Leave him alone!"

"Ohh, looks like I've hit a nerve. Have you read my file, Sheriff?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what kind of party you interrupted, all the fun games I had planned. Imagine your son accepting a ride from someone like me. Didn't you teach him not to talk to strangers? Of course you did. I bet he just doesn't listen, does he? Thinks he knows better than his fuddy-duddy old daddy. Bet he gets into a lot of trouble back home, don't you Stiles? Though nothing quite like this, I'm sure. Be honest now, Stiles." Marshall dug his fingernails into Stiles' shoulder. "You're a trouble-maker, aren't you? You're a bad boy?"

"Y-yes," Stiles gulped, choking back the tears in his throat.

Sheriff Stilinski had had enough of these mind games. People could say what they wanted about him, but he wasn't going to let anyone speak to his son that way – especially not some sick, homicidal pervert. If he had any chance whatsoever, he needed to get inside this guy's head. "This isn't about Stiles. This is about you."

"Is that so, Sheriff Daddy?"

"I read your file, Landry. Quite the morbid psychological profile. Mother walked out on you when you were twelve. You had a difficult time making friends, because you moved around a lot. Your father was a military man. And a drinker who knew how to use a belt. Didn't matter how much you tiptoed around him. The littlest thing set him off, and you were always in his way. You were always the target of his rage. So you ran away from home at sixteen, but social services found you, and they put you right back into that home, didn't they? But you couldn't take it anymore. You killed him, your own father. Too bad patricide is illegal in every state."

"The bastard deserved it."

"Maybe he deserved the first few stabs. But 147? That's overkill, if you ask me. Delusions of grandeur. Hedonistic killings. It's all very sexually gratifying for you, isn't it? Daddy didn't hug you enough when you were a child? Oh, cry me a river." As he spoke, Sheriff Stilinski gained ground inch by inch, slowly closing the gap between him and his son.

"What else did those bastards from Washington tell you?"

"Why don't you ask us yourself?" Agent Pierce appeared from the treeline behind the campsite, his partner Santiago from the edge of the clearing. They were both flanked by several police officers. "Drop your weapon, and release the boy."

"In that order?"

"Drop your weapon!" Santiago reiterated.

"But we were having such a nice chat. Weren't we, Stiles?" In his narcissistic glee, Marshall was overestimating his control of the situation; he thought he was the puppet-master, able to manipulate them because he was holding Stiles hostage. His arrogance would make him careless. Any moment now he'd slip up and let his guard down. Sheriff Stilinski knew his chance was coming; he just had to watch and wait. "Weren't we having a nice chat?" Marshall kissed the top of Stiles' ear, grinning savagely at Sheriff Stilinski as he did.

He was going to murder the bastard.

"Y-y-yes."

"And if all these silly cops, with their tin badges and pea-shooters, just left us alone, then we could go back to having fun. Don't you want them all to leave so we can go back to playing? Tell your daddy that you want him to leave; tell him you're a big boy, and you can do what you want; tell him you don't need him anymore."

"I-I-don't-"

"Tell him." He pushed the gun harder against Stiles' head, eliciting a pained whimper that gave him a pleasurable, sadistic thrill.

"It's okay, son," Sheriff Stilinski held his son's gaze, and nodded. Do what he says.

"I-I want you to leave," Stiles wept. "Go away. I don't need you." Marshall whispered something in his ear. "I-I was a naughty boy for running away, and M-Marshall's going to s-show me what happens to misbehaved boys."

"You see? The kid knows what he wants. A boy's gotta grow up and leave his father." Marshall gestured flippantly in the sheriff's direction with his gun as he spoke. It was now or never. The instant the pistol left Stiles' head, Sheriff Stilinski made his move. He charged at Marshall and tackled him, sending both criminal and hostage sprawling to the ground. He pushed Stiles out of harm's way, and grappled with Marshall for the gun. He was able to knock it out of his hand, and Stiles kicked it out of the man's reach. Marshall got in a few hits, his fists connecting with Stilinski's mouth and jaw, splitting his lip open, but in hand-to-hand combat he was the lesser opponent.

Santiago ran to Stiles; she dragged him back from the scuffle. He protested, trying to go to his father's aid. But it wasn't Sheriff Stilinski who needed help. The two men wrestled, rolling along the damp ground, punches flying. Marshall clawed at the sheriff's face, but Stilinski was the better fighter. Soon he was on top of Marshall. His fists a mad blur, pummeling the man beneath him. One hit after another. The sound of flesh connecting with flesh was loud and sickening. His knuckles were starting to bruise, the man below him slowly becoming a whimpering mess of saliva, blood, and mucus. He was going to beat this sicko to death.

Marshall turned his head and coughed out a few teeth. He laughed. "My father hit harder than you," he croaked. "Bring Stiles over here, and I'll show you how it's done." The sheriff's hands locked around Marshall's windpipe. A dark shadow possessed his face. He squeezed with all his might. Underneath him, Marshall was turning a ghastly purple color, his eyes bulging. He could not utter any sound as he fought for air. "Sheriff Stilinski stop!" Pierce yelled. "That's enough! Sheriff!" The agent tried to pull him off Marshall, but the sheriff was unmovable. He focused all his weight into crushing Marshall. He was going to make sure this man never touched his son again.

"Dad!"

Stiles' voice broke through Sheriff Stilinski's infuriated trance. Stilinski removed his hands from Marshall's throat and allowed Pierce and the other officers to take over. He went to Stiles, who was propped up against the log. The fire's glow cast shadows across his face. He looked pale and terrified. Stilinski knelt down beside him and began to tear the tape off his ankles.

"You were very brave, Stiles. You kept your head, and even though you were scared, you didn't panic. You did good. I followed your trail through the woods. Dropping your keys was a stroke of genius." Stiles watched his father's delicate movements, his long fingers tender and dexterous. He had his father's hands.

"Thanks." Once Stiles' ankles were free, the sheriff moved onto his wrists. He was exceptionally gentle, careful not to rip skin with tape. "I couldn't let you kill him," Stiles said softly; it was easier to speak when he couldn't see his father's face. "It would have changed you. Maybe not right away, but you would have lived with that darkness inside you forever. Even if he's a monster, he's still human. Part of me wanted you to strangle him; I wanted you to kill him. I've never felt such a savage desire to hurt another person. It scared me. It felt so evil. I don't want to be that person. We can't give into the hatred, the violence. Once we do it's always there. We're no better than him."

Sheriff Stilinski removed the last of the tape residue from his son's wrists, and moved in front of him so he could see his face. Stiles let his arms hang limply in his lap. He took one of his son's hands in both of his own, and massaged his wrist with his thumb. "When did you get to be so wise?"

"Just good breeding, I guess."

Stiles looked full into his father's face. Sheriff Stilinski wiped the last tears from his eyes and smiled sadly. Then he grabbed his son in a hug, crushing Stiles against his warm body with his strong, protective arms. Stiles clutched at the back of his father's jacket and buried his face in the nape of his neck. In the safety of his father's loving embrace, Stiles released the sobs that had been building all afternoon. His father held him close and rubbed his back. This, Stiles knew, was the only touch of his father's he need ever remember.

TBC...