A SECRET CHORD

Chapter Nine

Arizona, 1985

Adam poked at the sad, white piece of fish on his plate and wondered how on earth he was going to eat it. Carpet picnics and food experiments were all very well at the time but now here he was back home with a full belly and a daunting task ahead of him.

"Adam," his father said from the big seat at the head of the table. "Don't play with your food."

A mysterious rule. Playing meant fun and that was a good thing, surely – so why did meal times have to be dull? Who made that decision on behalf of everyone? And how come Thomas didn't know about it?

Maybe things were different in London.

Adam saved the question to ask his new friend later and speared a lump of fish on the end of his knife. Momma gave her head a tiny shake. Oh, he thought, remembering. Wrong again – and too late, as his father spotted the mistake and frowned. The knife slipped from Adam's hand, bounced off the plate with a sharp clatter and sailed towards the floor, scattering white flakes everywhere. Open-mouthed, he watched it fall. This was bad. So very bad…

Daddy set down his own knife and fork with a careful, deliberate motion. His mouth was full of food and he took the time to swallow it all before speaking.

"If you don't stop eating like an animal," he said in a tone that was deceptively mild, "you'll be finishing your meal outside in the back yard."

Adam blinked, bewildered. "Like a picnic?" he ventured. Once again, his mother sent him a warning look across the table. So did his sister, Mary; fourteen years old and painfully shy, but kind, just like Momma. Next to Adam, Charlie sniggered quietly. Charlie had never liked him, not really. Not since the day he was born – the spare boy; the one that Daddy never wanted. Those were the words his big brother whispered, late at night in the darkness. And Charlie was clever, which meant that it had to be true.

"No," Daddy said, in answer to Adam's question. "Like a dog."

Charlie laughed out loud at that and Daddy glared at him. It wasn't meant to be a joke. This was a lesson. Flushing to the roots of his hair, Adam ducked his head and wished he had the courage to push just that little bit harder. Anything to escape this room – but the punishment for answering back would be far more severe and, try as he might, he could not bring himself to risk it.

"Sorry, Daddy," he mumbled.

"What was that? Speak up. I can't stand that disgusting baby-voice. You're seven years old – start acting like it! Pick up your mess and make sure you clean your plate; every mouthful. Your mother spent good money on this food – my money - and I won't see it go to waste. Pick it up!" he repeated forcefully.

Adam jerked his limbs in fright and tumbled from his seat, disappearing under the table and scraping at the carpet with his fingernails in a vain attempt to pick up every scattered flake of fish. As the rapid beating of his heart slowed down, however, his movements became less frantic. Down here, he realised, it was rather nice. No one stared at him, for the simple reason that no one could see him. He could hear the cutlery clanking on the plates overhead, and the sound of chewing. Legs shuffled. Charlie's feet were swinging. Adam backed away without looking where he was going… and blundered into Daddy instead.

Big mistake.

The toe of Daddy's shoe was painful as it shot out and struck him on the arm. Adam pressed his lips together stubbornly, his face white with shame. Not for the world would he make a sound. If he did, then everyone would know.

It doesn't hurt, he told himself with fierce determination. It doesn't, it doesn't…

The pain fought back but Adam won. He drove it away with memories of rolling music and a shiny black piano.

Quiet as a mouse, he picked up the knife, which lay nearby. It felt cold and strange in his hand and he stared at the curious object for what seemed like a very long time, with no thought in his head except for the music. When, at last, he came back to himself, he climbed onto his chair, laying down the knife with care, just like Daddy. The sticky wad of flakes, he dropped beside his plate. The smell of the food was rank by now. A skin had formed on the sauce and everything – the greens, the potato, the white lump that used to be a fish – looked cold and unappealing.

"Thank your mother for a lovely meal," his father insisted, in the smug voice he always used when he was ramming home his point.

"Thank you, Momma," Adam said. He lifted his eyes, but not quite high enough to catch his mother's gaze. At the same time, he scooped up a forkful of mashed potato and shoved it into his mouth. "Mm," he lied, around the sticky mass. "'S good."

In his head, he was eating peanut butter on fresh bread, while Thomas smiled at him.

Safe at last in his own world, Adam smiled back.

-x0x-

New York City, 2005

"Now that's a sight to make eyes sore," Don Flack muttered, staring at the ugly brownstone in front of them. It was tall and thin, and lurked between its neighbours with a sullen air, as though it sensed they were trying to shoulder it out of existence, and refused to leave. More than two-thirds of its window panes had already disappeared, only to be replaced by dirty wooden boards or, in one peculiar instance, bubble wrap.

"Homely," Mac agreed,

Don turned and grinned at his friend.

"Anyone ever tell you, you've got a real flair for understatement?"

Mac gave a short nod. "Stella. At least once a week." His eyes narrowed, betraying an urgency that was out of balance with the casual humour in his comment. "Let's do this, shall we?"

Like a perp with questionable hygiene, Huntington House gave off a nasty odour – garbage, mixed with some kind of ugly stew, Don decided, sniffing the air and hesitating. "This is the place, then? You're sure?"

"According to Volker's Parole Officer. She confirmed his address, and proceeded to follow that up with a ten minute lecture on why her charge couldn't possibly have anything to do with our missing girl," Mac commented, with some asperity. "'Gullible' doesn't even come close. Talk about the wrong career path. As far as she's concerned, our guy's become a model citizen since leaving Rikers. A shining example of rehabilitation."

"Yeah, right. A 'model citizen' who just happened to leave his prints on a bottle of bleach that wiped out a whole crime scene – pun intended," Don smirked.

"That's what I said - right before our conversation came to an abrupt end." Mac shrugged and headed up the worn grey steps to the front door of the brownstone. Don followed close behind him, breathing through his open mouth and trying to inhale as little as possible.

Like an all-access pass, Mac's badge was the charm that got them through the locked door, with its wire-toughened glass, and into the greasy reception area.

"Simon Fitch," said the young man who had buzzed them in. He thrust out an eager hand, which Mac ignored, much to Don's amusement. "Day warden," Fitch continued, undaunted. His lanky body, in its cheap suit, took on a servile cast and a pair of watery eyes darted from one detective to the other. "Always happy to be of service to New York's finest…"

Save it, Don's face warned him. "Eric Volker. Room number."

"You know," the warden offered in an educational tone, "good manners cost nothing…"

His voice died away when Mac scowled at him.

"Please," Don said, slowly and deliberately.

Fitch shook his head. "Room fifteen," he muttered. "Guy's in there right now. You want me to come along?" His expression was hopeful; the face of a man who was itching for a little excitement.

"No, thanks. I think we can take it from here." With a token nod in Fitch's direction, and a quick survey of the signs on the mildewed wall, Mac strode towards the staircase that led to the upper floors and rooms five through twenty.

"Charming fellow," Don muttered, by way of conversation, as they climbed. "I really think he liked us."

"What's not to like?" Mac shot him a wry look.

Eric Volker's room was on the third floor of the halfway house. Standing outside in the hallway, Don felt the same sense of nervous anticipation that always filled him when he encountered a hidden suspect. One hand reached around to rest on his service weapon as Mac knocked on the wooden door. Inside the room, Don heard voices but they were muffled; a television running in the background.

"Eric Volker?" Mac called out, with a sideways glance at his colleague.

Abruptly, the voices disappeared. Beneath Volker's feet, the floor creaked. Don could hear him shuffling on the other side of the door, as he ventured a reply. "Who wants to know?"

"That would be the NYPD," Don said, pulling his gun from the holster. Better safe than sorry.

"One second, officers." A series of clicks and rattles kept them waiting as Volker unlocked his door. When it finally opened, Don was startled to behold a youthful man with golden hair and the face of an angel; perfectly chiselled and bright with innocence. "Now then - what can I do for you?"

"You can come with us," Mac informed him. "You're under arrest."

"Are you serious? On what charge?" Volker asked reasonably.

"Let's see," Don said. "I think I'm gonna start with contaminating a crime scene, follow that up with a charge of just-plain-stupid, and finish off with abduction of a minor. How does that grab you?"

For a moment, Volker said nothing at all – just stared at them both with that dazzling gaze of his. Then he reached out his hands, clasped together at the wrists. His lips curled, as though he found the whole situation both curious and absurd. "Better take me in, then," he told them.

Since Volker was clearly unarmed, Don holstered his gun and reached forward with his cuffs instead. At the same time, in a move so fast that neither man saw it coming, Volker's left hand clenched into a fist and flew upwards, catching the detective full in the face. Don reeled back, stunned by the force of the blow, one hand pressed against his eye as the cuffs fell to the floor. Letting out a wild laugh, Volker fled, shoving Mac against the wall with unexpected strength.

"Get him," Don snarled. "For God's sake, get him, Mac."

The detective needed no encouragement. Already, he was up and away, racing down the hallway in pursuit of the golden-haired suspect. Don followed, but his head was spinning from the force of the blow, making spatial awareness something of an issue. When at last he stumbled down the stairs, he found Mac at the bottom with Eric Volker pinned in what looked like a death grip. One arm was clamped around his throat and the other one held his wrist back in a painful contortion, right up beyond his shoulder blades. "I'll say it again," Mac growled. "You're under arrest."

"'Kay," Volker squeaked, submissive now that he had no other choice.

Don gave Mac a nod that was pure gratitude; more than words could express. Tentatively, he pulled his hand away from his face. Seeing Mac wince was the only commentary he needed.

"You," he told Volker, leaning in so far that he caught a whiff of the man's breath – peppermint, of course, to go with his sweet expression – "you owe me. I want a full confession or I'm gonna add assaulting an officer to the list of charges, and trust me when I say that one ain't no favourite down at the precinct."

Mac released his arm from the young man's throat, just a fraction. Volker took a gasping breath.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed. "I was just trying to get away."

"I'm sorry too," Don informed him. "I don't do sympathy."

Floored by the detective's cock-eyed logic, Volker considered this statement and then tried again. "I'll tell you anything, but please believe me - I'm no pervert. You can't pin the kid's abduction on me. I'm the clean-up guy, pure and simple."

"Convince us," Mac said grimly.

"Gentlemen," Volker offered, moulding his features into a look of contrition that would have made Don frown in disgust, if his left eye hadn't swollen shut by now. "It would be my absolute pleasure…"

-x0x-

The interrogation room was cold – or maybe Mac was so far beyond tired that his body was reserving all its energy for the simple task of keeping him upright. Warmth appeared to be a secondary requirement. Drawing his jacket close around his chest, he glared at the golden-haired man who waited on the opposite side of the table. "Talk," he snapped, reluctant to waste energy on superfluous words either. After this, Mac decided, he was going to find the nearest couch and force his mind to switch off so that he could sleep, if only for an hour or so. It would be crazy to ignore the signs. That way led to exhaustion, and the kind of mistakes that could cost a young girl her life.

Beside him, Don Flack smouldered with silent fury.

"Better that I should do the talking, don't you think?" Mac had suggested, before they stepped into the room. He had seen Don watching Volker through the glass and he recognised the dangerous gleam in his friend's good eye. "At least to begin with."

"If you say so." Don's reply had been nonchalant – and didn't fool Mac in the slightest. Walking past them at that moment, a young rookie had glanced at the detective and his mouth had formed a little 'o' shape before he scuttled away in haste, driven off by a single blue-eyed glare.

"I mean it, Don. This case is far too important. We can't afford to jeopardise Ruth's safety because of your personal prejudice against Volker."

"Personal prejudice? Have you seen my face? Did you hear the guys in the squad room when we got here? I'm never gonna live it down, okay, 'cause they won't let me. Pardon me if I don't wanna be best friends with the guy who did this. And trust me, Mac. You've always trusted me before. This time ain't no different."

With a quiet nod, Mac had held his tongue from then on, leading the way through the door. Both men sat down and Volker stared at them nervously. When Mac issued his abrupt command, the suspect twitched.

"I told you I'd confess," he argued. "I'm not a liar."

"Just a criminal, then," Don muttered.

Volker shrugged. "As you say. If an over-use of bleach and a punch in the face – once again, sorry about that, Detective - can be counted as criminal activities."

"You'd better believe it…"

Mac interrupted smoothly, leaning forwards. "Right now, it's the bleach that interests me. As for the punch in the face – well, that's between you and my friend here. I could leave you two alone right now, if you like..." He glanced back at Don, who gave a suitably dark look that made Volker wriggle again.

"It was a contract, okay? I was hired. I'm known around the neighbourhood for certain… services."

"You clean up other people's 'work'," Mac said, by way of clarification.

Volker nodded. "Precisely. I bought the bleach at a local bodega. Remember that cellphone you took off me when we got here? Check the texts – you'll find a whole series of conversations between me and the man you're really looking for."

"Name." Don folded his arms and glared at Volker.

"I don't know. I'm sorry, Detective, really I am. Turns out, I'm not as scrupulous as I thought I was." He winced. "You caught me, after all. But the guy who hired me – he's no fool. All he gave was an alias. Mr. Piper – that's what he calls himself. You want to run with that, knock yourselves out. He won't be on anyone's database, I can guarantee it."

"What makes you say that?" Mac asked curiously.

"I asked around. I like to do that when someone hires me; you know, like checking references? No one knew this guy. That made me nervous, but I needed the work, so I chose to believe he was simply good enough to keep himself below the radar."

Don sneered. "Guess his only mistake was hiring you."

"Yes, apparently," Volker agreed, without malice. "If you catch him, I expect he'll point that out as well."

"Did you see this Piper?" Mac insisted. "Or the girl?"

"I saw an empty car. Look, Detective Taylor, I had no idea this was a kidnapping case. I have a moral compass, just like you, even if our settings aren't quite the same. I'm no monster. I agreed to help you, didn't I? So I'm telling you; check my cell phone. That's all the proof you'll need. You can track this Piper guy and find the girl." Volker gave a winning smile but Mac was dubious. Scraping the legs of his chair against the hard floor, he rose to his feet.

"I'll do that," he agreed. "But if I don't find anything worthwhile, I'm coming right back to you." Slowly, he walked to the door, pausing at the very last minute to deliver his final, crushing blow. "While I'm gone, I'll leave you in the capable hands of Detective Flack. I'm sure you two have plenty to talk about..."

He didn't need to look at Volker's face to picture his horrified expression.

-x0x-

A/N: Next week, back to the lab...

Thanks for the lovely reviews! Hope you enjoyed the update.