Messalina Munroe, Jimmy Duran, Russell Holland, and any others you don't recognize are mine.
Rated R : Strong but brief violence, language, m/m sexual contact. Some scenes are intense.
This story includes slash, which involves sexual situations between two men. If you're uncomfortable with the idea, don't read this.
Reviews are always appreciated.
He was cold. Cold and lying on something hard. It was dark, and quiet. For a few moments Wes tried to focus, not understanding how he had gotten in this cold, hard, silent, dark place.
When he reached out, his hands found a rough surface under him. Hard and flat, but textured, then a tiny crack... Wood, he realized, planks of wood. He reached farther, until his fingers bumped into a wall. As he rolled toward it his head spun sickeningly, but he tried to ignore it and pressed his hand against the vertical surface. More wooden planks, the same as what he was lying on. A floor, somewhere? In a dark room?
Cautiously, he pushed himself to a sitting position. As he straightened, his head hit something, starting another wave of nausea in his stomach. Wes sank back down to one elbow, trying to take deep breaths. When the sickness subsided he looked up, and raised a hand to feel. Another surface, wood, cracks, more planks. He became conscious of the dank smell of earth... digging... a foggy memory floated into his mind... the men he had seen, they had been digging a hole...
"No..." It was just a whisper. Recklessly he sat up again, hardly feeling it this time when his head knocked against the surface above him. Frantically he felt around -- flat, hard surfaces, on all four sides, above, below. "No!" he cried, louder this time.
A coffin... They had buried him alive! Blind panic poured ice water through his heart as he pounded his fists against uncaring wood, shouting in a frenzy of horror. The darkness seemed to close in, thick, suffocating. His mind blanked into the primitive need to escape, to get out and away from this trap, this box...
When Wes could think again, he was huddled in a corner, panting, his knuckles raw, splinters under his fingernails. But something had brought him back from the terror that still lurked at the back of his mind. This wasn't a coffin. He clung to the thought, examining it carefully. It was too big, for one thing. About six feet long, maybe, he had been lying full length with at least a couple of inches to spare. Three feet wide, about. High enough for him to be almost able to sit up straight. Coffins weren't this big. They weren't made of wooden planks, not anymore.
A box, then. He was still fairly sure he was buried underground, but he was in a box, not a coffin. And he had felt something while he was clawing and pounding on the walls. Carefully, he ran his hands over the bottom again. They found something hard. A large object, about a foot long, almost square, with a handle. One end was round, with a curved, glassy surface. What felt like a switch. It slid as he pushed at it.
Sudden whiteness, and Wes shielded his eyes as light flooded his small prison. It was a flashlight. One of the large utility types, he saw as his vision adjusted. The sheer relief of being able to see... It took a few seconds before he collected himself enough to notice what was around him.
It wasn't much. A large bottle of water lying against the wall. A package of something in plastic near it. Beef jerky, he saw when he picked it up. A folded gray blanket. An empty bucket in the corner. It didn't take long to figure out what that was for.
He felt relief, at first. They obviously didn't mean for him to die; they had provided food and water, even light and a blanket. And air. With the help of the flashlight he could see the end of a pipe coming through the roof of the box. It was maybe four or five inches across -- when he put his eye to it, he could see faint light at the other end, a glimpse of what could be a rosy dawn sky though the branches of a tree. Couldn't tell how long it was -- but it meant he could breathe, and he felt an irrational comfort at the tenuous connection it gave him to the outside world.
But then the sobering thought came that even if they intended to keep him alive, it was also obvious that his captors had no intention of letting him go anytime soon.
Eric looked up hopefully, and a little apprehensively, at the tap on his office door. Just the way he had been doing all morning, at every footstep, every voice, every time the phone rang. Each time hoping it would be Wes, standing in the doorway with a hesitant smile; or his voice on the phone, a little unsure, and then the way his eyes would light up when Eric smiled, and when he apologized...
But there was the other possibility too. Wes, walking in with a serious and unhappy expression, closing the door before he said, 'It's just not working out...' Eric shook his head. Big, strong, tough Eric Myers, reduced to mooning around like a lovesick teenager. Pathetic.
And of course it wasn't Wes. Close, though, it was his father, Alan Collins. Eric started to get out of his chair.
"Don't get up, Eric. I'm looking for Wes. You know where he is?"
"No sir." Eric carefully kept his face blank. "I haven't seen him since yesterday."
"Yesterday? I thought he was..." Collins glanced over his shoulder, then stepped in and closed the door. "I thought he was with you last night."
"No, sir. He went out for drinks with the new guy, Holland. Then I assume he went home."
"He never came home last night." Collins hesitated, perhaps considering the same possibility that had crossed Eric's mind more than once. But then his eyes narrowed with real concern. "No one's seen him this morning, either."
"He didn't check in with Steve?"
"No. Missed an appointment with a client, that's why I'm looking for him."
A cold trickle of fear began to ice its way into Eric's heart. "I called him last night. Left messages. He never called back."
"I've tried calling him this morning. It's not like him not to answer."
"Neither is disappearing without a word." With only a moment's hesitation, Eric raised his arm, eyes on Collins' face as he called, "Wes! Wes, can you hear me?" into his morpher. Nothing. Wes would never ignore a call on his morpher, no matter how angry he might be. Eric jumped to his feet. "Come on. Russell Holland was the last person we know he was with. Let's start there."
"I'm right behind you."
"Wes didn't come in today?" Holland stared up at them, eyes wide. Genuinely surprised? Something in his reaction impressed Eric as not being quite right, but he couldn't pin it down... and it might be just his new-found dislike of the man.
"No," Collins said. "Where did you go last night? When did he leave?"
"We went to the Green Table for happy hour. Had a couple of beers and some food. He left just before eight o'clock; I stayed for another half-hour. That's the last I saw of him." He paused. "You think something happened to him?"
"Wes wouldn't just not show up without telling anyone."
"What happened last night?" Eric interrupted. "Did Wes say anything about going somewhere else?"
"Well... he seemed a little nervous about something. I don't know what. Actually, he mentioned wanting to talk to you."
"He did?" Eric knew why, or thought he did, but wasn't about to say anything in front of Holland. With a frown, he went on. "Did he say he was going home?"
"He didn't really say anything. Sorry I can't be more help."
"Where was he parked?"
"We were both in the parking lot behind the bar."
"You've been very helpful," Collins said. "Thanks." He headed for the door, Eric following. They both stopped in the hallway and looked at each other. "What now?" the older man asked, his voice beginning to crack with strain.
"I'll put out an alert to the Guardians, then get out to the Green Table, look for Wes's car, and ask some questions. Meanwhile -- I think it's time to call the cops."
Lina Munroe stopped for a moment after climbing out of the car to stare up at the tall building she was facing, up rows of windows reflecting the early afternoon sun. A big building, speaking of money, power, and prestige. She could have known just by looking at it, even if she hadn't known the kind of people who had made their careers inside.
A car door slammed behind her, and footsteps approached. "Have you ever been here before?" a voice asked.
Lina glanced up at her partner's face. Jimmy Duran, a good fifteen years younger than her own mid... well, late forties. A good-looking man, olive skin, dark hair, warm brown eyes. Just a kid, of course. They all looked like kids to her now.
"Nope. Twenty years in the SHPD, and I've never been inside Bio-Lab," she answered. "Kinda strange, when I stop to think about it."
"Not much call for us here, since the mutant attacks stopped. And of course, they have their own people."
The Silver Guardians. Yes, Bio-Lab tended to take care of their own problems, with a little manpower to spare for the PD. They had been quite a help in the aftermath of the mutant problem, and since then. Most of the Silver Hills cops considered them almost a part of the force. That was why they were here so quickly, for a person who had been missing less than a day. Not because Wesley Collins was Alan Collins' son, but because he was a Silver Guardian, and someone both she and Jimmy knew personally, although they had never worked together.
"Well, let's go," she said. A quick walk took them through a small parking lot and up a pathway to a set of glass doors. Then inside, into a large lobby, a few scattered people looking up curiously, eyes immediately focusing on the badges they had clipped to their jackets. And a man, middle-aged, tall and imposing, his air of command marred by a face creased with anxiety, obviously waiting for them.
"Are you here from the police?" he asked.
"I'm Detective Munroe, and this is Detective Duran," Lina said. "Are you Alan Collins?" Not that she needed to ask, she had seen him on the news often enough.
"Yes. It's my son who's missing."
"I know. Is there someplace we can talk privately?"
"We can start on the way to my office." Collins turned and took off at a brisk walk.
Lina lengthened her own stride -- not easy, considering he had almost a foot on her -- and caught up, Jimmy taking his place on Collins' other side. "Mr. Collins, when was the last time you know that anyone saw Wes?" she asked, a little breathlessly.
"Last night he went out for drinks with our chief accountant, Russell Holland. Eric Myers and I already questioned him. He says Wes left just before eight. Then..." Collins slowed a little, the worry he must be feeling showing in his voice. "He never came home. Didn't show up at work this morning." He led them past a secretary's desk and opened the door to a large, rather dark, and bare-looking office.
"Did you try to locate him last night?" Jimmy asked as they filed in.
"No." Lina thought she saw a shadow of what might have been evasiveness cross his face. Guilt, at not having tried to find his son sooner? "Wes goes out fairly often. He's an adult. I didn't worry until he didn't show up at work."
"Do you know anyone he might have visited last night? Anyone he might have stayed with?"
Again that trace of discomfort, but he answered quickly enough. "No."
Lina took over again. "We'll need to talk to his friends."
"Of course. His closest friend is his partner, Eric Myers."
"Yes, we know Eric." She traded a glance with Jimmy. They both knew Eric; both of them respected and even liked him despite his somewhat prickly personality. "How about enemies?" she asked next. "Anyone you know of who might want to harm Wes?"
Collins shrugged, his face darkening. "He's a Guardian. And a Ranger, even if he's not very active anymore. He's worked with the PD; you probably know better than I do what kind of enemies he might have. Plus..." He sighed, raising a hand to rub his face. "I have my own share of competitors, rivals, people who might use him to get at me."
Lina gave him a sympathetic look, but all she said was, "See if you can get a list together for us. We'll need to talk to some of your people, including..." she consulted her notes, "Russell Holland. And we'd like to see Eric."
"He went to try to find Wes's car."
"Where?"
"The Green Table. That's where Wes and Holland went last night." Collins looked from one to the other of them. "The Silver Guardians are at your disposal. Everyone at Bio-Lab will cooperate completely. Just find my son."
"We'll do our best, sir."
Their interview with Holland was brief, and produced nothing more than what Collins had told them. Then they were on their way, back through the hallways, to the lobby with its people trying not to stare obviously, then out to the street where they headed for their car. Jimmy was opening his door when he said it, his face grim.
"I have a bad feeling about this."
"You ain't the only one, kid."
Eric was about to go back into the Green Table when they arrived. He stopped and waited, watching them approach, seeing how they surveyed the area, looking for anything out of place. Both detectives were familiar faces, Lina Munroe and Jimmy Duran. Good cops, smart and efficient. The SHPD had sent their best, and he was grateful.
"Hello, Eric," Jimmy said as they came face to face on the sidewalk.
"Jimmy." He nodded at Lina.
"Found anything?"
"Nothing. No sign of Wes's car. What Holland told us checks out; the owner remembers seeing the two of them yesterday, says they had a couple of drinks, Wes left around eight and Holland stayed a little while longer."
"Which means we get copies of credit card receipts and start tracking down customers who were here last night," Jimmy said with a sigh. "See if anyone saw Wes outside."
"And if no one did?" Eric muttered. He didn't really expect an answer. And he didn't get one. "The Guardians can help with that, or anything else you need," he added.
"Good. We also have to get back to Bio-Lab and do some interviewing there." Lina sighed. "Going to be a long day." She and Jimmy headed inside.
Eric followed more slowly. It had started to sink in. Wes was gone. He must be in trouble, he'd never just take off like this. Eric turned in the doorway to look back out at the street. Where are you? he asked silently. What's happening to you?
Wes sat with his back propped against the side of the box, chewing on a mouthful of beef jerky. It would be night soon. With the sun high in the sky there had been enough light coming through the pipe for him to see dimly but clearly, and he'd spent some time going over every inch of his small prison, looking for weaknesses, and found nothing. Then, still feeling tired and groggy, he had slept, until hunger had wakened him to find the light fading into darkness again.
Night. What was Eric doing now? And his father. They must be worried. Must be looking for him. They'd find him. Somehow. He clung to that thought, trying not to wonder how long it would be before someone came.
Exactly what had happened to him? It was foggy, unclear... he must have been drugged... he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to bring back the images of the night before, a blond head bending over him in the moonlight... Russell. They had gone out for drinks, had some food, talked for a couple of hours. It had gotten late, Wes had been uncomfortable all evening, wondering if Eric would call, wanting to make up after that ridiculous fight. He had decided to leave, to call Eric himself, maybe go to his house. Russell had said he was staying. Then outside, the parking lot. His car. There had been a man, walking up behind him as he unlocked the car door. Wes had moved aside, assuming he wanted to get past. Something had hit him in the back of the neck, a sharp jolt of pain, and then nothing.
After that -- the next thing was a vague memory of waking up, lying on hard ground, seeing those two men digging a grave. Noises and voices. Faces bending over him... Russell. Yes, it must have been Russell. Blond hair, the face indistinct but recognizable, and his voice... But why?
Eric had been right about him. Just one more reason to get out of here; to tell him that. To tell him... just to see him again...
Russell Holland was angry. He stared at Chris. Just can't get good help. The thought should have been funny, but this was no laughing matter. Chris had screwed things up, and now he refused to put them right. Chris, his old friend from high school, Chris who had always been so willing to do anything Russell wanted, who had helped him with a little theft and embezzlement here and there in the past -- and profited from it very nicely -- who had agreed to this more ambitious plan with hardly a question. If only it hadn't been a two-man job, if only he could have done it alone... Chris, who was going to force him into doing something desperate.
"He saw my face. He said my name. I can't afford to let him go," Russell repeated.
"Like I said already, he was all doped up. Might not even remember. And who's going to believe him anyway?"
"Alan Collins' son? A Guardian, a Ranger? Everyone'll believe him."
"Well, shit. I never heard of anyone being convicted of anything just 'cause one guy thinks he saw him do something. You always worry too much."
"That's because I have the brains to worry." Russell eyed him coldly.
"Just relax, will you?" Chris said. "We'll send his old man the morpher, just like you planned. We'll get the ransom. Then, if you're so worried, you can just split. You won't need a job anymore, anyway, not with your half."
Russell frowned. Chris didn't deserve half of the ten million dollars they expected to get from Wes's father. Should never have promised it to him. And now -- maybe there'd be no need to give it to him... "I don't want to spend the rest of my life being a fugitive," he muttered.
"Don't worry about it," Chris repeated.
"Easy for you to say. He didn't recognize you."
"Look, I don't want to spend the rest of my life with a murder rap hanging over my head. So forget about killing him. We'll get the money, we'll take off; I'll call the Guardians and tell them where to find him."
"You won't change your mind?" Russell asked softly. Last chance.
"Nope. Nothing's gonna change my mind." Chris frowned. "I wouldn't let a dog die locked up in that box like that."
"Okay. Maybe you're right." Russell moved a step, to the side of the small table at which Chris was sitting, pretending to look more closely at the device they had removed from Wes's wrist to send to his father as proof that they had his son. It was no secret around Bio-Lab what it was, and what it could do. Unfortunately, it would only work for Wes.
They were in a small shack they had found in the woods north of Silver Hills, a cabin someone had once used for hunting or as a home base for hiking or camping. It was falling apart, but sufficient for Chris to live in for a few days while he kept an eye on Wes's hiding place and took him food and water. They had brought in supplies: a small refrigerator stocked with food and beer, a box filled with packages of food small enough to drop down the pipe they had put in Wes's box, and bottled water they could pour down it. But what concerned him now was the small portable generator and its extra fuel. That would come in handy. And there were the shovels, a pickaxe, and a crowbar, at the back wall where they had left them after burying Wes. Handy... if he had the nerve to do it...
"Look," Chris said, grinning in his usual stupid way. "Nice, huh?" He held up his hand, displaying a gold class ring on his finger.
Russell had no trouble recognizing it; he'd seen it often enough over the last weeks as he had made friends with Wes. He had let Chris take it, along with Wes's wallet and cellphone. "Does it fit?" he asked, moving again, edging behind Chris's chair and nearer to the equipment leaning against the wall.
"Yeah. Fits perfectly."
"Makes sense. You're the same size as Wes." Another step. Chris wasn't even looking, just admiring his stolen property.
"Yeah. Figured I might as well keep it."
"Why not? It looks good on you."
Chris picked up the morpher, fastening the strap around his own wrist and holding it up. "Wish I could keep this too."
"Yeah..." Russell picked up the crowbar. It was long enough. Heavy enough. Chris was still looking at the morpher on his arm, his back turned.
Before he could think about what he was doing, before he could think of all the things that could go wrong, Russell swung the crowbar as hard as he could. It hit solidly, right on the back of Chris's head, with a sickening sound between a thud and a crunch. Chris's body jerked spasmodically a few times. Then he slowly toppled out of the chair onto the floor.
Easy... that was all he could think for the first few seconds. It had been so easy. Only a moment of time, just one moment, and he had turned a living person into a dead one. Committed murder. Now... now he had more to do, had to make sure no one ever found out. Fighting back his own revulsion, Russell pulled Chris onto his back. He raised the bar again. And brought it down. Again. Again. A frenzy of pounding, bone cracking, brains splattering, blood, blood... so much blood, it was getting all over. But he couldn't afford to let Chris be identified, it could lead the police straight to him, had to wipe out anything that could do it. Teeth, jaws, shattered to bits. Skull, a pulp of bloody flesh and bone. Disgusting, disgusting...
Russell staggered back, exhausted and trembling. Only one more job to do... He stumbled to the generator, picked up a can of fuel, splashed it around, desperate to finish and get out of there, trying to go slowly enough not to get the stuff on himself. The second can, poured over Chris. Then he could leave... a moment at the door to find his matches, to strike one and throw it in.
He waited only long enough to be sure the shack was going to burn. The light from the fire seemed to follow him, glowing against the darkening sky as he drove away as fast as he could. It was only later that it occurred to him that he had forgotten the morpher.
TBC...