While You Were Sleeping
Chapter 10: Share in your Suffering
John entered the Dekker house and found the investigation teams had gone home for the day. The body was cleaned up but the smell lingered. The floor of the kitchen was stained dark from the blood and John avoided walking on those parts of the floor as he started his slow but thorough search.
He upended kitchen drawers and read the notes on the fridge. He went into the bedroom and concluded that Bruce was a big man from the size of this clothes. He pawed through drawers and stacks of boxes. He found an office with a filing cabinet and rifled through the mess of papers within, looking for a deed to another property or land.
Hours later, and John was coated in sweat, ripping boxes out of closets and upending them into the middle of the cluttered rooms. He kicked at sentimental shit and tore at the neglected, leaning, soggy stacks of papers like a man possessed.
He reached a room at the end of the hall and found two small beds and a plethora of girly toys piled in heaps of pink and purple plastic. It hit John in the gut that these people had children in their lives not too long ago. He knew there was nothing to be found in this room and bumped back down the stairs. There was a storage shed in the meager back yard and he went out to check it, finding a padlock securing the doors. He rattled the handles angrily then retreated to the garage to find a tool that could smash the doors open.
The sun was setting and the yard was already growing dark. John found a hammer in the garage, skirting around the car parked inside, taking up the only space left that wasn't filled with useless crap, piled to the ceiling. He took the hammer out to the shed and beat at the lock until the wood on the doors splintered under the impact. If felt really good to hit something.
John pulled out his cell phone and used a flashlight app to illuminate the small, space. Inside there were gardening tools and a riding lawn mower. He frowned at the typical garden shed and let the hammer slip out of his hand. He walked back in the house and heaved a sigh.
John leaned against the kitchen counter and looked at the stain on the floor, the only thing left of the mystery woman who shared her life with a man so capable of true evil. "Help me find the motherfucker, lady," he pleaded to the kitchen, to the stain, to no one at all.
He stood up and opened the fridge, hoping for a bottled water. Instead, he was assaulted with the pungent smell of rotting food, packed so tight in the shelves that it was barely kept cool. His stomach was already sensitive from his emotional breakdown. He staggered back into a small table by the door that held a glass bowl. It fell to the floor, shattering against the ruined kitchen boards and sending the contents skittering throughout the room.
John patted his chest, startled. He looked down at the wreckage and saw a set of keys in front of his boots. He bent down and picked them up, pressing the lock button on the fob. A beep sounded from the garage and John went out to look at the car. It was an older model, probably a 2040 or earlier, with bald tires and two carseat in the backseat. It was badly in need of a wash, John discovered as he slid around the vehicle to reach the driver's side. his black pants and shirt were smeared with road dust.
Unlocking the vehicle, John climbed inside. He pressed the start button watched the dash light up. The center console was out of date but the screen shone with bright letters, "Enter Address."
John ran a tongue over his dry lips and held his breath as he poked the button that read, "Previous destinations." A list of addressed filled the screen, containing various stores and one for the courthouse downtown. There was one address in particular that stuck out to John. It was in an agro district.
He dug out his phone and spoke the address into Google, pulling up the satellite and street view. It was an eerie little farm house with boarded windows and graffiti on the outside.
"Fucking got you," John said.
...
When Len woke in his bed, Dorian was still by his side. It had grown dark out while he slept. He peered in the low light at the DRN in the chair, charging and waiting patiently, watching over him.
"Len?" Dorian asked, turning on the light beside his chair.
The doctor slipped out of the covers, staring at his bandaged feet, the memory of his episode in the kitchen flooding back to him. His heart felt like a rock in his chest and his eyes were welts from crying. He winced as he stood on his feet, hissing at the first few steps toward the bathroom as he put pressure on thin cuts from the glass.
Dorian disconnected from his charging cord and stood up, checking the window to see if John had returned yet. His car wasn't in the driveway. He silently called John's phone but it went to voicemail.
He didn't want to worry the captain but he thought he ought to update her on the situation. He dialed in to the station, opting to perform the call internally while listening to Len turn on the shower.
"Talk to me, Dorian," Maldonado said, still in her office despite the late hour.
"Wanted to give you a head's up on the current situation," Dorian said, "John is over at the Dekker house, scouring for clues of where the guy could be holed up."
"You aren't with him," she said, sounding vaguely surprised and a little disappointed. Police protocol demanded all human officers perform their duties with android partners. All of the time, not some of the time.
"Dr. McCoy is struggling," Dorian said, hesitantly. His relationship with Sandra was strong and he considered her a friend outside of work. However, at work he understood she was all business. "We had reason to suspect he might self-harm. John insisted on going and I deemed it safe enough."
"But you're calling for a reason," Sandra said, cutting right to the chase.
"He's not answering his phone," Dorian admitted, "I'm not worried yet. We haven't been home in a while. I think the battery may have died."
"I could send an MX," Sandra said, actively thinking. "No, look, Dorian, if you haven't heard from him in an hour, open his location and go get him. Can you do that without danger to Dr. McCoy?"
Dorian was grateful, "Yes, Captain. That's a reasonable solution."
"Good," Maldonado said coolly, "Don't let this become a habit. John...John needs his android partner by his side more than most officers." The last bit, Dorian could hear the slight smile in her voice.
"A statement I cannot argue against," Dorian said warmly. "Thank you, Captain."
"Dorian," Sandra said, her voice gentle now, "I hope you find Jim. I'm worried about John if you don't."
A long pause wedged between them before Dorian quietly said, "Me too."
"Take care of them," Maldonado said affectionately, "Keep me in the loop." She cut the line and Dorian nodded to himself.
Len came back into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. "Are your feet okay?" Dorian asked.
"I'm fine," Len said, pulling an undershirt over his head. "My own damned fault." He dropped his towel and pulled on a pair of underwear and his jeans, not thinking much about Dorian being in the room until he turned around and saw the android staring at the far wall like a gentleman. "Dressed," he said, "sorry."
"You need to eat," Dorian said, putting an arm around the man and giving him a squeeze. "Come on down stairs."
Len nodded and followed. Right now, it was easier to just have someone tell him what to do so he didn't have to think too hard. When they got downstairs, Halverson was at the bar in the kitchen, his head on his arms, sound asleep. There wasn't a piece of broken glass to be found anywhere in the whole house.
Dorian smiled and placed a hand on the young man's back. Halverson woke with a jerk and gasp. "Sorry sir," he said, a blush creeping up his cheeks, "I must have nodded off." A pained look passed his face.
"It's okay, Danny," Dorian smiled, squeezing the kid's shoulder reassuringly, "Your shift ended hours ago. I'm so sorry, I thought you'd gone home."
"I don't mind," the young man said.
Len leaned his elbows on the counter and said, "Thanks for cleaning up all the glass kid. It wasn't your job to do all that."
"Protect and," Danny Halverson was taken prisoner by a massive yawn, "...serve."
"How about some dinner?" Dorian asked, "Making a stir fry."
Danny smiled and shook his head softly, "I gotta get home, my mom is probably worried sick."
Len's eyebrows shot up.
"I mean, girlfriend?" Halverson said, kicking himself.
"Scoot," Dorian grinned, "Drive safe. Lucky you, for having a mom who worries."
Danny groaned.
"Secret is safe with me," Dorian winked, "I wont tell my gossip of a husband. Promise." The android knew that John would just love to torture Halverson with mommy jokes. Halverson knew that, too.
"Thanks," Danny said, grabbing his things. He turned and waved, "I'm sorry, Dr. McCoy, I hope we find Jim soon."
Len waved back and watched the young man out to his car before bolting the front door again. "Nice kid," he remarked.
Dorian was busy in the kitchen. Len sat at the bar and watched Dorian prepare food for him, feeling useless. He leaned on his elbows and asked, "Where is John?"
"Good question," Dorian said, his face flashing blue as he dialed his husband. The call went straight to voicemail. He made a sour face, "He went to go search the Dekker home. I told him to take Halverson with him, dammit."
Len's stomach felt sick at the thought of anyone in that man's house. "He's alone? What if the guy comes home or something?"
Dorian flicked his eyes up, realizing that his worry was causing Len to worry more. The poor guy didn't need that right now. "John can handle himself," the DRN reassured, "He's got his weapon and he's good in the field."
The doctor nodded numbly. Dorian set a cup of tea in front of Len in a plastic cup. Most of the mugs and plates and glasses didn't survive the kitchen episode. When he served up the stir fry, it was in a large metal bowl. Len blushed and took a bite. If Dorian wasn't here, he'd be driving to the liquor store right now to drown in his pain. He was grateful and resentful all at once for his glorified babysitter.
…
When it was finally time for the evening news, Jim was yawning heavily. He hadn't slept properly in over 48 hours and the soft couch cushions threatened his escape plans. Bruce, however, showed no signs of fatigue.
The news began and Jim watched sleepily, his mind wandering while the newscasters delivered reports on weather, sports, and traffic intermixed with friendly banter. When he heard his own name, his eyes snapped to the screen. "Local man, James Kirk-McCoy, was reported missing Saturday morning and has yet to be found," he saw a picture of himself on the screen. He recognized it as one of Len's favorites and swallowed hard, imagining his beloved husband trying to select the best photograph to hand over for the story.
"The main suspect in Mr. Kirk-McCoy's disappearance is Mr. Bruce Dekker, who is also a wanted suspect in the murder of his wife, Mindy Dekker. Mrs. Dekker's body was found this morning, bludgeoned to death."
An image of Bruce displayed on the screen while the newscaster spoke. Bruce turned in his chair and grinned at Jim and said, "I'm on the TeeVee!" He seemed genuinely pleased with himself for making it on the news.
Jim sat forward so he could listen over the celebratory noises Bruce was making. The story unfolding before his eyes filled him with a sinking feeling.
"According to Dr. Leonard McCoy, Mr. Kirk-McCoy's husband of ten years, Mr. Dekker harbors a grudge from earlier in the year when the doctor was forced to call the CPA to investigate child abuse charges against Dekker stemming from abuse suffered by his twin daughters," the woman on the television announced.
Jim watched with his lips hung open. Two identical girls with curly blond hair and dimples filled the screen. The little angels on the television sent a chill through Jim, as he imagined the massive man in the recliner before him responsible for their wellbeing. In the picture, they couldn't be more than than three years old.
"After more than one incident of broken limbs, Dr. McCoy reports that the girls were placed in foster care," the newscaster explained, Jim hung on each word.
Len's picture flashed on the screen, making Jim's throat close up. "He took my baby girls," Bruce accused the television, turning to look at Jim with a furious scowl on his face, like he wanted to hit him. "He took my babies so I took his boy."
The story continued on to Bruce's wife. He had a satisfied look on his face as he examined Jim while the reporter stood in front of a dogpatch house and explained the horror hidden inside its walls. The anchor grimly stated that Mr. Dekker allegedly beat his wife to death with his bare hands.
"I did," he agreed with the television.
Jim swallowed hard, his mouth felt like cotton.
Bruce fixed him with a steady look, his eyes were smiling but his mouth stayed still, "She never got over losing the girls. She blamed me." He shook his head, "She had to go. I wish her mother had been alive for it, the old bat. I'd have enjoyed it more. I'da sent her pictures, too."
Jim closed his eyes, his long eyelashes resting soft against his skin, realization washing over him. He wasn't ever going to make it out of here alive. There would be more pictures. Strips of this clothing would show up at Len's door, and eventually parts of his body might roll in. The longer he clung to this world, the more Len would suffer. If he was going to die, he might as well die today, and spare his adoring husband the pain of uncertainty.
Jim opened his eyes, determination replacing fear. His blue eyes pierced the air between them and his full but dehydrated lips forming a hard line on his face. "You fucking monster," Jim said, his voice confident for the first time in his interaction with the violent man.
Bruce seemed injured by the words. "I let you watch teevee with me, and this is how you talk to me, you ungrateful little shit." He stood, the chair beneath him rocking as his weight left the seat.
Jim found his way to his feet as Bruce approached, looking up into the face of the brutal killer. "Fuck you and your ancient television and your filthy house. Fuck your little packages and your polaroid camera. Fuck your greasy eggs on your filthy plates. I'm glad Len took your daughters away, you disgusting waste of space. I'll gladly die so they can live a life far a-fucking-way from you! You abusive piece of shit!." The words flew out of his mouth while the man stood over him like a tower, breathing heavily through his nose, his face purple with rage.
He grabbed Jim by the neck and slammed him heavily into the wall by the couch, crunching the slighter man's back into the plaster that cracked beneath him. He leaned his face into Jim's close, pausing in the silence and using his size, strength, and demeanor to intimidate. "Boy-" he started to say but Jim cut him off.
"Shut up!" Jim shouted, shoving at bruce with his cuffed hands. The man didn't budge. "I dealt with assholes like you my whole goddamned life," Jim managed to say, despite the meaty palm leaning on his chest hard. "You think you can use your size and strength to beat on children, and women, and other men so you can feel like a big man." He paused to breathe, daring himself to keep his eyes on Bruce's, refusing to look away. "You're the smallest kind of person there is. The ugliest. The worst, The-"
A heavy fist to his gut silenced Jim's next words as he doubled in pain. The kidnapper slammed him hard back into the wall, his grip on Jim's arm so tight, the pressure from his thumb felt like a knife against the blond man's skin. "You got a deathwish, eh kid?" Bruce chuckled past his rage. "I'm going to make you beg before I kill you. From here on out, death is the nicest thing that could possibly happen to you, got that?" He stuck his face right down in Jim's so his hot breath pushed past the stubble on the younger man's unshaven chin.
Jim breathed, Bruce was waiting for a response. Most likely waiting for the young man to beg forgiveness. Instead, Jim moved his mouth in a circle and spat into the bully's hideous face.
Bruce wasn't expecting that and he hauled back and slapped Jim hard across the face, whipping his head to the side. Jim made a mad dash past the lumbering ox of a man since his feet were unbound. But he didn't make it far. Bruce shoved him with both hands, sending him hard into the bannister that lead to the upstairs. Before Jim could regain his composure, Bruce grabbed him by a fistful of his remaining hair and dragged him back into the living room and slammed him down face-first into the coffee table, which splintered beneath him.
From the debris, Jim saw his cell phone and wallet tumble to the carpet. Bruce's hands were on him again, lifting him back to his feet. Jim's wrists were bloody around the metal cuffs from being jerked around so violently. Another punch to his gut doubled him over and dropped him to his knees.
Jim moaned in misery and coughed against the carpet. "Had enough?" Bruce asked, lifting him once again by the hair on the back of his head.
Jim had blood down the corners of his mouth and out his nose from rough contact with the coffee table and Bruce's hands.
"Fuck you," he managed to say.
Bruce lifted him by his arm and swung him hard across the room. Jim landed clumsily against the stone hearth of the fireplace. He howled and crushed his teeth together as he felt the bone in his arm snap against the hard ledge. He screamed when Bruce picked him up by the broken limb. the arm giving way unnaturally in his grip.
"Oh look at that," Bruce said, pleasure in his voice that still shook in fury. The man mixed emotions in the most terrifying and unnatural of ways. Jim's fight was gone. The pain was blinding.
Bruce threw him to the floor of the living room and took off his belt while stepping on the middle of Jim's back with a heavy foot. He bent down and wrapped the leather belt around Jim's legs, pulling it tight and tucking in the excess. Jim's legs were bound hard together and his wrists were still cuffed. He drooled blood onto the carpet, wheezing in pain.
Bruce lifted his head off the ground and so he could look into Jim's swollen face. "Not so cocky now, eh hotshot?" he said, letting go of his hair and allowing Jim's face to smack hard into the floor again. "Stay there a while and think about what you did," Bruce growled and climbed the stairs heavily, his thumping feet marching away.
Jim cried in pain but knew this may be his one and only chance. He dragged himself on his belly across the floor with the elbow of his good arm. Every movement sent fresh pain through his broken arm and he bit his lip hard to keep from screaming out.
finally, he reached his cell phone and powered it on with his good hand. His other lie there limp and purpled, pain coursing through his every nerve.
When the phone finally booted, Jim touched the button and placed a video call to Len.