Holy Moley! This was such a long chapter! I got about halfway through and was like, "This is going really well" and then I did a word count and was like "WHAT!" but I kept going with then entire plot I had planned for this chapter anyway. I hope you appreaciate it.
Chapter 21
"What's your MO?" I asked Bobby, handing him the last of the paintball guns. We'd kept up a steady stream of idle chit-chat throughout the entire process, the kind of conversation that I didn't see Hank or Lester providing any time soon. He'd asked me about school and my friends and I'd asked him about how he ended up at Rangeman – apparently he saved Carlos's life on some government mission thing once ages back. And eventually –god knows how – we got on to the topic of how ridiculous Hank and Lester were acting and it occurred to me that Bobby might just be a milder version of them. What if he was trying to buy my affections with his lack of trying? It was a completely valid plan of attack, to my way of thinking. Lester and Hank were all over me like a rash trying to get into my good books so that I'll talk openly to them about all kinds of stuff that may or may not be vital to the case they're currently investigating (I refused to continuously think about the fact that the case was the case of my mom's strange behaviour and my dad's possibly serial killer death). Whereas Bobby was all casual and not even really attempting to be my friend. He'd asked how I was purely out of professional interest, and the conversation we'd been having up until this point was the kind I would have with one of my friend's parents.
"My MO?" Bobby asked – rather stupidly, I thought. Surely, he knows what MO is.
"Duh," I said, plopping down behind the gun range desk and propping my feet up while he finished locking the cage. "You know what I mean. Everyone has an MO. Carlos is a douche. Tank's MO is to keep the other guys working to their upmost ability. Lester and Hank's is to get as much information out of me while also becoming my favourite. So what's yours?"
Bobby let out a sudden bark of laughter as he re-entered the room, startling me into almost falling off the chair. "First of all, I'm not sure being a douche can really be classified as an modus operandi," he informed me, shutting the gun locker key in the desk draw and locking it with a key from his own keyring. "Second, I noticed you didn't mention Steph in that list. What's her MO?"
See, this is what I'm talking about. Lester or Hank would have steered the conversation in a what-about-you direction. But Bobby pointed the other way. How am I supposed to trust him if he doesn't do what I expect and doesn't answer questions directly? It would have been so easy for him to tell me his MO or make an obvious deflection – "Oh, you know, the usual." But he didn't. Instead he made a more subtle attempt to distract me. Well two could play at that game, sort of.
"I tried calling my Mom this morning," I told him. I hadn't planned on telling anyone about any contact I had with my mother since it's none of their business whether I talk to her or not, but she wasn't picking up. I know she had her cell with her when the car was blown up; it lives on her belt. But it wasn't even connecting. I'd found the phone waiting for me on the end table by the couch in the living area of my temporary accommodations when I got home last night and tried calling her for a good twenty minutes this morning before deciding I needed to get some breakfast, but I was left disappointed and worried.
To pass the awkward pause I started fiddling with the few items that were left out in the open on the desk – the stapler, the computer mouse, the keyboard and the monitor; it makes you wonder: why the stapler? I was fiddling with the brightness toggles on the monitor, noting that it made no difference on the screensaver, when Bobby finally spoke. He'd dropped into the chair opposite me, bracing his elbows on his knees, with his hands clasped together, I had a feeling I should have waited for Lester or Hank before kicking into this conversation; there would have been less psychoanalysis.
"I take it it didn't go well," he surmised. "Otherwise you wouldn't be bringing it up."
"She didn't answer at home and her cell didn't even connect," I confirmed, hoping he would just take that and go do some investigating for me to try to get to the bottom of it. I really didn't want him to delve any deeper. I didn't want to talk about my feelings. I didn't want to go back to hating this place.
"I'm sure she's fine," he assured me. "She probably just forgot to charge her phone."
I shook my head. That didn't even seem plausible where my mother was concerned. She was completely OCD about everything running exactly to plan. Having a phone with a flat battery was never in her plan. I couldn't see her allowing that to happen. She had emergency chargers everywhere to avoid a flat battery. "She wouldn't have," I said simply. "It's not like her."
"But she was stressed, wasn't she?" Bobby asked. "People do things that aren't their norm when they're stressed."
I shrugged, feeling worse all of a sudden, like somehow it was my fault that she was so stressed. All I'd wanted was the perfect summer holiday at the beach and here I was stuck in a building with a bunch of BBMs, remotely firing paintballs at guys I hardly know and getting them into trouble. I'd caused a fight between a married couple, one half of which gave birth to me, but isn't at all related to me. I'd been stalked, and kidnapped, had my head knocked and been almost blown up. My favourite clothes were gone, and I couldn't even play my favourite songs on my iPod because that was blown up with the clothes, instead, I had an iPod with no music and no way to set it up. Despite the fact that I was pretty much in a four star hotel for all the services and accommodations they provided me with, I felt like I was camping out in the wilderness completely cut off from electricity.
"What if something bad has happened to her?" I asked, surprising even myself with the sudden question. I hadn't even realised I was thinking it, but it popped out of my mouth none the less. "What if whoever killed Dad is behind all the crazy stuff that's happened this week? What if he wants to kill Mom as well?"
I had to stop talking as my throat constricted and my vision blurred with tears. I didn't want to cry anymore. I needed to stay positive. There was no use freaking out when I didn't even know if what I was thinking was right.
There was a long moment of silence while I attempted to get my emotions under control. I was grateful to notice that instead of watching me awkwardly or perhaps looking everywhere but at me, Bobby had immersed his attention in his phone, seeming to ignore me for the time I needed to find my composure.
"Thanks," I muttered, when I'd finally calmed down enough to speak.
"I didn't do anything?" Bobby replied, sounding bewildered.
"Exactly." I stood from the desk and made my way toward the door. "That's exactly what I needed."
Bobby stood and followed me out, casually stretching and scratching the back of his head. We'd made it all the way to the elevator before either of us spoke again.
"Where are we going?" he asked curiously as I pushed the up button.
"To see what hell Hank and Lester have been subjected to," I replied. "I need some distraction from these awful thoughts in my head, and while Hank and Lester can be a little smothering, they're also kinda fun. Fun is good, right?"
The elevator doors opened and Bobby motioned for me to enter first. "Lay on MacDuff," he murmured, sounding vaguely Scottish. When I glanced his way, he explained with a grin, "Shakespeare." He pushed the button for the gym and his grin widened. "And I heard your Scottish accent earlier. It's pretty good."
I felt my cheeks warm at his compliment. "Dad and I used to practice all kinds of accents. We'd go out and pretend to be from foreign countries to see if our accents were believable."
*o*
She could hear people walking past the alley where she lay. Could hear them chatting merrily in groups and pairs. Desperately, she tried to call out to them. To get their attention. To plead for help. But her voice was failing her. Her throat ached from her strangling. Her mouth was dry as she spit out yet another mouthful of blood that had begun to pool. The lingering coppery taste causing her to retch, starting the cycle once more. Her throat ached. Her head pounded. She attempted to pull herself up on the dumpster nearby only recall anew that it caused her a great deal of pain to lift her left arm and even more agony to put any kind of weight or pressure on the right wrist. She couldn't even seem to locate her legs to assess any damage that may have been done there.
What she wouldn't have given to have two of those muscled he-men that seemed so plentiful in Trenton with her at the time of the attack. She'd been a fool to go alone. Walked straight into a trap. That's what happens when you work alone, you have only your own opinion and your own subconscious telling you to forge on.
One minute she'd been approaching the food court, rehearsing what she would say to the women in order to free herself and save her daughter, the next she was being forcefully escorted from the shopping centre and into the deserted alleyway nearby. That's when the beating started. Her arms had been held behind her back by one man while another used her as a punching bag, pummelling every inch of her body before slamming her to the ground under all his weight and strangling her.
Eventually, she'd slipped into unconsciousness, the black haze swimming over her vision until finally there was nothing. It seemed like such a long time ago. Days. How long had she laid in the filth unaware of anything at all before the pain wracking her body had caused her to vomit?
The moment she'd regained control of her stomach she had reached for her cell phone clip at her belt only to find it empty. Injured and beyond contact in every way. There was no way anyone would here her calls from this deep in the alley with the noise from the street crowding in. The constant honking of car horns and squealing of teenage girls enjoying their summer vacation.
As consciousness again began to waver, she thought of her own teenage girl. Hundreds of miles away. Safe and sound under the ever watchful eye of the best security company in the country. It brought her a small amount of comfort knowing that she no longer needed to fear for the girl's safety.
*o*
Lester dipped the toothbrush into his bucket of lukewarm water for what must have been the gazillionth time that day and surveyed his handiwork. So far, he had managed to clean exactly five square feet of the large expanse of mat that had been covered in paint. Probably, the cleaning process would be going a lot faster if someone – cough-Hank-cough – hadn't spoken out of turn, inviting Ranger to revoke their sponge, cloth, broom and scrubbing brush privileges. Instead they could use only the toothbrushes they now held and the buckets of soapy water to attempt to remove the multicolour mess from the area.
As he once again began to scrub at the mats he felt a splatter of something wet on the back of his head. Jerking his head to the side to glare at the only person who could possibly be the culprit, he saw Hank busily working on his own patch of mat, as if nothing had happened. Lester narrowed his eyes and went back to work, only to have a repeat of the droplets hitting the back of his neck. Hank wasn't so fast this time. When Lester glanced up Hank's toothbrush was still poised in mid air.
"I saw that," Lester announced.
"Saw what?" Hank asked innocently. "I was just flicking excess water off my brush."
Lester glared. "Yeah, and onto me."
Hank shrugged his shoulders, wiped some sweat from his brow (smearing more paint across his forehead in the process) and returned to his scrubbing. Lester, too, continued cleaning the mat until yet another sprinkle of water hit the back of his neck. That did it. First, he caused this situation, and now he wanted to annoy him even more by constantly flicking water at him? It wasn't bad enough that he seemed to have Mab eating out of the palm of his hand this morning with that prank. Somehow he had managed to drag Lester into the punishment to clean it up and he was antagonising him.
He didn't even flinch as yet another cascade of water met his neck. He refused to give Hank the satisfaction of seeing him annoyed. Another light rain fell. Followed quickly by another. And another. And one more after that. Lester was letting his wrath build up, rolling it into one giant ball ready to be released at a moment's notice in order to wreak havoc on the man they call Hank.
As more droplets of water met his skin, he snapped. In one swift move he'd leaped across the space separating them and crash tackled Hank to the ground. Lucky for Hank, they were still on the mats otherwise it could have hurt a whole lot more than it did.
"Cut it out!" Lester growled, pinning him to the ground and punching him in the shoulder. "It's your fault we're here!"
"I'm just trying to lighten the mood," Hank responded calmly. His eyebrows drew together and he glanced down past Lester, letting out a soft curse. "How do you suppose we clean that up using just our toothbrushes?" he asked of Lester, nodding his head in the direction he was looking.
Lester turned to see what the matter was, distracted by the sight of a bucketful of water steadily spreading itself across the floor for just long enough for Hank to dump him on the floor. Simultaneously, both men removed their tees and dumped them on the ever increasing puddle, trying to soak up the mess. It took mere seconds for the shirts to be completely drenched and they quickly scooped them up and squeezed them out into the now empty bucket. The process was repeated several times before Lester noticed a considerable difference in not only the amount of liquid on the mat but the amount of paint.
"Wipe up the paint with your shirt and then we might actually make some progress," Lester instructed, already having started doing so himself. They worked silently for five minutes or so before he felt a torrent of water hit his back. "What the hell, man?" he exclaimed, sitting back on his heels, sopping wet shirt in hand and glared at his friend.
*o*
For a moment I was immensely confused by the sight that confronted me as I pushed through the doors of the gym. Two grown men, wearing only their pants were running around on the still multicoloured mats. They themselves were multicoloured as they swung their wet t-shirts around and whipped each other with them. It was oddly reminiscent of watching my seven year old cousins Derek and Josh flicking their towels at each other at the family pool party we'd had last year. Of course, there were definite advantages to this particular sight, given that these men had abs, whereas my cousins had nothing.
"Like I said," Bobby commented from behind me. "Ranger's too messed up to be trusted with punishments at the moment. Ordinarily, these two idiots wouldn't be allowed to stay in the same room armed with buckets of water. It's bad enough trying to get them to actually work when they have their iPads out." He led me over to the bench that ran around the perimeter of the room and I sat down to watch. He remained standing, however, adopting what I like to think of as the Peter Pan stance – to hell with what it's actually called. His feet were braced firmly apart, and his fists were propped on his waist; all that was missing was his chest puffed out. "Drop your weapons," Bobby commanded.
Lester and Hank immediately let go of their t-shirts – Lester's flying halfway across the mat, since he was in mid swing at the time – and raised their hands above their heads in surrender. Bobby had just opened his mouth to give another order when the doors burst open and Tank hurried in. He shook his head at the scene before him before beckoning the guys over. He set his iPad on the bench and they all crowded around.
"Cal and Hal are in the Hathwicks' house and they think they may have found something," I heard him explain. I was on the outside of their little huddle, but that definitely got my attention. I quickly sidled my way along the bench, attempting to squeeze my way in next to the iPad so I wouldn't miss anything. Tank looked at me as I appeared under Bobby's arm. "Amabel, I think you should leave," he said. "This is official business."
Crossing my arms, I raised a single eyebrow at him. "That's my house they're snooping around in," I told him. "I have every right to be here."
After a brief staring contest, he returned his attention to the iPad beside me and tapped a small icon. "Alright Hal, tell us what you've got."
"We're in what looks to be an office," came a disembodied voice. I glanced at the iPad screen and was treated to a panorama of my Dad's old office. Mom and I hadn't gotten around to doing anything about it yet. I think both of us were just hoping that if we ignored its existence long enough it would simply disappear. A lump formed in my throat seeing it for the first time since Dad died. "Lots of photos of the kid and the wife, so I'm assuming it belonged to the vic."
"Dad's office," I confirmed.
"Anyway," another voice emanated from the device as a beefy man appeared on the screen. "We found a disposable cell phone in the desk draw along with a name scrawled on a scrap of paper." He held up both a phone and the scrap of paper. "We'll express the phone to you so that Hector and Hank can have a look at it and I've already texted the name to you."
As if on cue, Tank's cell bleeped from his pocket. He took it out, glanced at it and held the screen out for me to see. "This name mean anything to you?" he asked.
Martin Hughes
It sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite pinpoint how I knew the name. I tried to think of everyone I've everyone I'd ever met, but nothing was standing out. After a moment I just shrugged. "It sounds familiar," I offered.
"Maybe something will spark your memory when we search it," Bobby said supportively, earning him dual narrow-eyed stares from Lester and Hank.
Ten minutes later the call ended and Tank tucked the iPad into a protective sleeve. Apart from the phone and the name, Hal and Cal – the guys snooping around in my home – had found a safe behind the family portrait in the living room that they were working on cracking. I was a little shocked by that, who were my parents? Wealthy villains? Why do we need a hidden safe? I kept my opinions to myself though, waiting until they were preparing to ring off before asking the favour that had been niggling at me since I found out they were in my house.
"Can you check if my Mom's been home?" I asked quickly, speaking up for the first time since the text message.
All the men around me looked at me as if I'd grown an extra head and I knew what they were thinking, how could they possibly know if she'd been home or not? What they were forgetting, though, was that Mom was a creature of habit. Every evening when she came home from work or on the weekends after we'd had dinner, she would cross the day off on the calendar by the back door. If Mom had been home since we left for this trip she would have crossed off all the days we'd been gone. If not, there would be about a week's worth of days leading up to the current date that would be missing their little x's.
It only took a moment for Bobby and I to convince Hal to check the calendar for me and I was so grateful that he actually pointed the camera at the calendar so I could see for myself that he wasn't lying about it. "Everything's all crossed off until the day before yesterday," he announced, telling me what I already knew.
"She didn't go home last night," I murmured to myself, feeling a lump forming in my throat. The knowledge was spinning around in my head. She'd been home since I'd last seen her, but she wasn't home last night. Where had she been? More importantly, where was she now?
"She'll be alright," Bobby assured me, easing into a crouch in front of me. "Hal and Cal promised to scout around town to see if they can find her. Tank is sending them your license plate number right now. If they can find your car she probably won't be far." He placed a hand on my knee and looked up into my face. "Is there anywhere that she might have gone?"
It's hard to imagine what she was thinking when she got home yesterday. She'd been pretty secretive all week. I had no idea where her thoughts were anymore, let alone what she was planning on doing when she got home. I felt so useless right now. I couldn't help Mom, and I couldn't even offer any useful information to help the Rangemen help her. I shrugged again and let my head fall against the wall behind me. "I don't know," I moaned. "I've got no idea what's going on with her."
"That's okay," Bobby said. "We don't need you to know, just give us some ideas. What are the places she frequents?"
I thought about it for a moment, and let out a sigh. "The office, the supermarket-."
"Which supermarket?" Lester interjected. "The same complex as your dad's froghurt shop?"
"IDK," I said automatically before wondering why I was reverting to IM at a time like this. "It depends on what she's after. Some things she can't get at our regular supermarket."
"So they'll check both."
Everyone stiffened at the sound of the voice that filled the room. Authoritative. Masculine. Familiar. Carlos's.
"I thought I told you to wait in the break room," he said when he spotted me.
I really was not in the mood to deal with him at the moment. I had bigger things to worry about, like my mother. I rolled my head to the side to send him a look. "I thought your wife sent you to the time out corner," I retaliated.
"Touché," he returned, almost smiling.
"Boss!" Lester exclaimed, throwing his arms wide and –probably not by accident – catching Hank in the chest. "You're back!" He was grinning maniacally and taking slow steps toward him. "Come 'ere."
"What are you doing," Carlos questioned. Lester kept coming. "Don't you dare touch-."
He didn't even get to finish his sentence as Lester jumped at him from three feet away, wrapping his arms around him and smearing him with as much paint as he could possibly manage. There was a moment of silence as we all took in what was happening, wondering if we were in some kind of dreamscape. Surely no one ever even thought about touching this guy. He practically exuded can't-touch-this vibes. As we watched Lester somehow dragged Carlos over to the mats and pushed him down, landing on top of his boss.
"Dog pile!" Hank cried, taking a running start and leaping into the air in order to belly flop on top of them with a resounding THWAP! Bobby was a second behind performing a fancy flip through the air before landing on the top of the pile. Already, I was giggling at the sight, but when the doors burst open and half a dozen men came soaring into the room each one landing on top of the previous, I was doubled over with guffaws. This company was like a massive frat house.
They were still rolling around in the paint when I'd almost regained my composure and noticed that Tank was still standing right next to me.
"Why aren't you in there?" I asked, getting to my feet.
Tank had his hands behind his back and his feet spread at shoulder's width, like he was on parade. "I'm not immature," he informed me without even glancing in my direction.
I smirked up at him even though he wasn't looking. "Suuuuure you're not," I drawled.
"I have work to do," he announced and turned on his heels, fairly marching from the room. He thought he could get away from me? It wasn't that easy.
"Or are you just shy?" I asked, skipping my steps as I caught up to him at the doors. He kept walking. A grin spread across my face. "So that's it?" I insisted. "You're shy?"
"Of course not."
We'd reached the second set of doors by now and I was really enjoying teasing him. "Really?" I asked. "If you're not shy, then why aren't you joining in with your friends? Those guys are your friends, right? Friends usually join in with that kind of thing." He remained silent. "Unless you're not their friend," I reasoned as we walked down the hall toward the elevators. "In which case this whole situation is a little junior high. It's a bit like the cool kids were forced to work with you during class, but now that it's recess they want nothing to do with you... or you with them for that matter."
"There's an intern upstairs waiting to be inducted," Tank announced, like it was some kind of explanation.
"Yeah, you're totes shy," I informed him knowingly, pressing the button for the elevator and chuckling when he simply glared at me. "Maybe not emotionally," I conceded. "Which is what most people think when they hear the word shy. But physically. You're a pretty big guy. You're probably insecure about your size."
The doors dinged open and he stepped inside, so I followed in time to see him press the button for the communications floor. We stood quietly waiting for the doors to close so we could get going, me still grinning stupidly, him glaring straight ahead. Just as the doors began to close he dashed out, leaving me alone in the little box.
Yep. He was most definitely shy.
Shreek has requested that we formally dub Carlos "Mood Swing Ranger." Of course, I can't say no to Shreek. So Carlos is now Mood Swing Ranger. Don't forget to review.