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.
It was raining again. Wes woke to the sensation of cold and wet, a slow drip of water coming from the pipe and hitting his leg. Enough had already come down to turn a patch of the dirt on the box floor to a thin coat of mud. The light coming from the world above was thin and weak, but after putting his eye to the pipe Wes decided it was because of the clouds. The water was welcome; the bottle was almost empty again. He sat quietly and let it drip into his mouth until he had had enough, but decided against taking the time to collect more in the bottle.
One way or another, this was going to be his last day in the box. His hands trembling only slightly -- because of hunger, he told himself -- he reached up and grabbed the end of the pipe, trying to get a good grip on the four or five inches it protruded from the soil above the box. A pull resulted in nothing. A moment of near-panic passed as he wondered if it was fastened to something, or just held tight by the pressure of the soil around it.
Wes took a breath to steady himself, wiped his hands dry on his clothes, and tried again, pulling at an angle, working it back and forth, twisting it, feeling it start to give a little. Then he pulled down again. This time it moved, sliding farther into the box, very slowly. He tired quickly and had to stop after what felt like a long time, leaning against the side wall, watching the water still dripping out -- but now it was dirty, muddy. The pipe's upper end must be below ground.
Again. More pulling, and it came faster now. Maybe the rain was helping. Just as he needed to take another rest, the pipe bumped against the floor of the box. Wes stopped and waited for his dwindling strength to return. Everything depended on the next step. If he could pull the lower end of the pipe sideways, it would act as a lever, putting pressure on the planks and, hopefully, breaking one. The upper end was still above the roof, and how long it was he had no way of knowing. If it was very long, if he was very deep, he wouldn't have a chance.
Wes switched on the flashlight. It should last a couple more hours, and now there was only a faint circle of light on the floor where the end of the pipe rested. He uncapped the water bottle and finished what little was left in it. Then, with a deep breath, he got a firm grip on the pipe, and pulled it toward the end of the box, putting his back into it, bracing his feet against the other end. It moved, fairly easily at first, must not be much of the pipe still sticking up into the soil. Encouraged, Wes pulled harder as the boards began to creak.
The gray, overcast sky was dreary and depressing. So was the squad room today, a rundown place crowded with too many desks and noisy with too many voices. Lina crossed to her desk, glanced out the window, and sighed. It fit her mood. No progress in the Wes Collins case. Just suspicions, and her confrontation with Eric had left her with the uncomfortable conviction that they were on the wrong track, pursuing an innocent man.
But if Eric hadn't done it in a fit of rage or jealousy -- who had killed Wes? Why? What were they looking at here? A crime of personal revenge, as implied by the savagery with which the body had been treated? Or something else? Alan Collins was a very rich man. There had been no ransom demand, but that didn't mean it couldn't have been a kidnapping gone wrong.
"Lina!"
Jimmy's voice. He had been in and out all morning, going over his notes, pestering the lab people for progress on evidence analysis. Now she saw him coming her way across the room, his face alight with excitement. She sat up. It took a lot to shake Jimmy up, and he looked thoroughly shaken.
"What is it?"
"You're not going to believe this."
"Eric, why don't you sit down? You're making me nervous."
The voice startled him. Eric looked up from the carpeted floor of the Collins' large, expensively furnished living room, where he had been pacing for the last several minutes. Alan Collins was standing in the doorway, watching him, a slight smile not hiding the marks of fatigue and grief. After a quick glance, Eric looked away again and obediently sank onto the sofa, hands clasped between his knees. "Sorry, sir," he said.
"My name's Alan, you know, at least when we're not at Bio-Lab."
"Yes, sir." Again he became aware of Collins watching him, waiting, and hastily added, "I mean Alan."
Collins settled into the armchair facing him. "I wanted to discuss tomorrow. The funeral."
"I understand." Eric looked down again, swallowing. "I guess you don't want me to go."
"What?" The word sounded genuinely surprised.
"A lot of people think I did it. I understand if you don't want me there. And the cops found out about Wes and me. I could understand if you don't want me to come because of that, too."
"Are you ashamed of your relationship with Wes?"
"No, but..."
"Did you kill him?"
"What?" Eric looked up again, surprised into an angry reaction. "Of course not!"
"Then don't insult me by thinking I'm going to keep you away from Wes's funeral. You -- you loved him, and I know he loved you. It's only right that you should be there; in fact I want you to speak. Just a few words, nothing fancy."
"Really?" Eric blinked at him, feeling his throat tighten. Collins seemed to understand, he only smiled again. "Thank you." He swallowed. It didn't seem like enough. "I guess I never said how sorry I am about Wes," he went on awkwardly.
"Thanks." Collins looked down, then glanced around, eyes losing focus, perhaps remembering better times: all the hours Wes must have spent in this room, in this house. "I know you miss him, too..."
Eric had his own memories. Wes sitting in that armchair smiling at him; Wes looking up as he walked in; Wes standing at the windows, looking out over the garden. And of course the memories that haunted his own house were even more painful, more intimate and intense. Perhaps someday the pain would fade, and he would value those images; he would remember the good times and not the way they had ended. But not yet.
The doorbell interrupted their thoughts. Both Eric and Collins were silent as they listened to the faint sounds of Philips, the Collins' butler, answering the door. Then footsteps approached, and Lina Munroe and Jimmy Duran appeared in the doorway. Eric frowned and watched their faces for some clue to their purpose as they paused, exchanging a glance. They seemed excited about something, nervous. Here to arrest him? But no, no handcuffs appeared, and instinct told him that wasn't it.
"Detectives?" Collins said, as they both stood. "Has something happened?"
"Well, yes," Jimmy said. He gave Lina an uneasy look, obviously urging her to take over.
"Mr. Collins, I think you should sit down," she said. "You too, Eric." Eric's knees felt suddenly weak as he complied. With another strangely uncomfortable glance at her partner, she went on. "We've received the results of the DNA analysis on the body in the cabin. Now, keep in mind this may not necessarily be good news-"
"Just tell us," Collins said.
"The DNA doesn't match the samples you gave us from Wes's hairbrush and toothbrush. The body we found isn't Wes."
Eric sat still, not feeling much beyond numbness, barely aware of Collins saying something and the two detectives answering. Only one thought trailed through his mind. If the body wasn't Wes, then maybe he was alive. He turned the concept over a few times, letting it sink in, and then found himself on his feet, saying it. "Wes may still be alive!"
"We don't want either of you to get your hopes up. He's still missing, and has been for almost a week."
"But it's possible he's alive."
"Yes, it's possible."
"But the man in the cabin," Collins said, his voice bewildered. "He had Wes's morpher and ring. And his wallet."
"He must have been involved somehow," Eric said. "Maybe he's the one who kidnapped Wes."
"That seems like the best explanation," Jimmy agreed. "He took Wes's things. Then someone killed him. Possibly a partner. It wouldn't be the first time criminals had a fight over money, or whatever, and ended up killing each other."
"Maybe he beat the guy's face in to keep us from identifying him."
"Could be. Either that or some personal reason."
Collins broke in. "But where's Wes? That's what's important right now!"
Yes. Where. "They must have hidden him," Eric muttered, mostly to himself. Or his body. He refused to consider that possibility.
"Hidden him. Where?" Lina asked. "The body was out in the forest. That cabin was a good hiding spot."
"But Wes wasn't in the cabin."
"Then what were they doing out in the middle of the woods? They must have put him somewhere nearby."
"Somewhere safe. Where no one would look."
"Somewhere he'd be unlikely to escape from."
"Somewhere we still haven't found, after searching the area."
"But where? The only building around there is the Warren house. We interviewed the housekeeper; she's been with them twenty years, don't think she'd be involved."
"The Warren place..." The burned out cabin. The shovels... pickaxe... And then it hit him. Eric looked up at them, feeling a surge of excitement, and then a flash of horror. "Holy fucking shit! That coffin!"
"The coffin?" Jimmy said blankly.
Lina stared at him, her eyes narrowing. "A couple of uniforms searched the old Warren graveyard this morning. They couldn't find where it came from."
"What are you talking about?" Collins asked.
"A coffin I found on the hill above the cabin. It had to come from the Warren graveyard," Eric explained tensely. "If someone dug it up for a joke, they wouldn't have bothered to fill in the hole. But if they wanted to bury something in its place, if they wanted to hide something, and took out the coffin to make room..."
"It would still look like someone had been digging, wouldn't it?" Lina asked.
"There's not much grass in the woods, under the trees. All they had to do was smooth the surface and scatter some leaves and rocks over it."
"Wait a minute!" Collins exclaimed. "Are you saying they buried Wes? You mean he's..."
"No point going to all that trouble if he was dead. They would have just dumped his body in the nearest river," Eric said bluntly. "No, they did it to keep him hidden. And we've got to find him." And fast, he knew. Almost a week now. They could only hope he had been given enough food and water to survive. And that they could find him before it was too late.
Wes ducked his head as more dirt fell. Progress had been slow at first; he had stopped to rest several times, trying to save his strength. Then he had hit on the idea of pulling the pipe out completely, resting the end on top of the side wall of the box, and using it to pry up one end of the board. That had worked well; it had come loose almost immediately. If he could get the other end free, the opening in the top of the box would be big enough for him to get through. He didn't know how deep he was. Didn't know if he could dig out. Didn't know what waited on the surface if he did. It was a gamble every way he looked at it.
He peered up at the earth above him in the fading illumination of the flashlight. It hadn't given way, so far, just rained bits of soil on him until the bottom of the box was covered in it. He didn't want to think about the possibility of it all falling on him, trapping him, suffocating him in darkness. No choice, no choice. Wes reached up and pulled on the pipe, moving it to the other side of the box as a fresh shower of dirt fell.
They gathered in front of the old Warren house, huddling against the rain in coats and hats. Impatiently, Eric looked uphill at where he knew the graveyard was, and then back at his companions. Collins, anxious and tense. Lina and Jimmy. Another cop, Officer Fredricks, whom they had managed to locate in the half hour they had taken to get here. And a dog.
"We'll have a search team here in a few hours," Jimmy was saying. "But in the meantime, we can get started." He nodded toward the uniformed policeman and the dog.
"You realize the rain today and the other night washed away most of the scent," Fredricks said. "Ginger's going to have a hard time finding anything, but we'll give it a shot. Do we have a sample for her?"
"I brought a shirt Wes wore just before he disappeared," Collins said. He held it out, a red t-shirt Eric remembered seeing on his partner recently. The dog snuffled over it for several seconds and then raised her nose into the air and began to whine.
"She's got it."
"Then let's go," Eric said.
They started uphill, silently, quickly reaching the area of the graveyard. Eric remembered it from his previous visits, but he hadn't taken much interest then. It wasn't much to look at, just a few old headstones and crosses here and there among the trees; not all together like most cemeteries but scattered through the woods, someone's idea of returning to nature probably, but all it meant now was that it would be harder to find Wes. Assuming he was really here at all.
The board came loose, almost hitting Wes as it fell. Dirt rained down, a lot of it this time. Coughing, Wes covered his head with his arms and waited, heart thudding. It stopped. Cautiously he felt for the flashlight and looked.
There was enough room now for him to get out. But the hardest part was still to come. He had to dig his way up through an unknown amount of earth. And he had to do it fast, the hole where the pipe had been had stayed open until now, but as soon as he started to dig it would almost certainly be blocked, cutting off his air.
Wes wedged the flashlight in a mound of dirt and braced himself under the opening. The battery would be gone soon, he'd have to work in the dark. But maybe he'd be free by then. Not letting himself think of the other possibilities, he raised his hands, fingers clawing at damp earth. It was fairly loose, not as hard to get through as he had feared. He knelt and lifted the pipe, poking it up to break up the soil, trying to keep his face out of the way as it crumbled and fell in on him.
Ginger whined, sniffing at the roots of a tree, then circled and doubled back. "Good girl," Fredricks said. "She's got something," he added to Eric.
"You mean Wes was here?" Collins asked, eagerness struggling with anxiety in his face.
"Yes, he was definitely here. She's picking up traces." They all watched as the dog set off across the ground, hesitated, and then stopped and whined. She sniffed the air and headed in a new direction.
Dirt. It seemed like forever he had been surrounded by dirt, digging his fingers into it, the dank smell of it in his nostrils, pieces of it falling on his head and shoulders, particles of dirt making him cough and choke, all darkness and dampness now that he had left the dying flashlight behind to be buried.
Wes struggled to dig farther, faster. He was numb with fatigue, his arms trembling, muscles aching. Could hardly move anymore. But he was on his knees, his head and shoulders out of the box at last, in the tunnel he had dug upwards.
He had managed to keep a hold on the pipe which had served him so well, and now he jabbed it up again. It had become an endless, numbing routine. Jab with the pipe, break up the soil, protect his head as chunks dropped on him, push it down and kick it away into the far end of the box. Don't stop to think. Just keep going.
"Damn!" Fredricks exclaimed as Ginger stopped again and began to sniff in circles. "With all this rain there's no trail to follow. She can't find him." The dog wagged her tail, looking up at them with what almost seemed like an apologetic expression.
"Shit. We'll have to look for any place that looks disturbed. Anywhere someone might have been digging," Eric said.
"If Wes is alive, there must be some way for him to breathe." Lina was beside him, blinking rain out of her eyes. She looked around, then back at them. "Look for -- for a hole, a pipe, a hollow branch sticking out of the ground. Anything unusual."
"Good idea," Eric said.
"We'd better split up. Cover more ground that way."
There was the usual resistance -- Wes tried to push harder as he thrust the pipe into the soil -- and suddenly it moved up abruptly, breaking free. Before his tired mind could wonder at that, the dirt cascaded over him in a fresh wave, hitting hard enough to disorient him for a moment. It settled all around him, thick and heavy -- the collapse he had feared had happened, he was buried, suffocating...
Wes coughed, choked, pushing muddy soil away from his face, trying to dig it away from his head, reaching his hands up to push it off -- and felt air. Cool, fresh air. Frantically he struggled to climb to his feet, and found some hidden reserve of strength, pushing upwards, freeing his head at last. Turning to look up, he saw light. Drops of water hit his face. A gray, dreary, rain-swept sky arched over him, laden with dark clouds. Wes thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
They had separated, each moving on his or her own through the woods, searching. Eric tried to keep hoping, tried not to let his heart sink farther with each step, with each grave he inspected. Nothing so far. The search team would arrive soon -- but what if they did no better? What if they had to give up, what if they never found Wes...?
No, that wouldn't happen. Even if they had to dig up every grave on this mountainside; if he had to spend the rest of his life searching. Eric's fists clenched as he turned away from yet another headstone and looked around for more. Where was he? Wes was here, somewhere close, lost and alone, suffering. He could feel it. But where? How were they going to find him? Suddenly the pressure of that question was unbearable, suddenly he couldn't help it as he filled his lungs and shouted into the rain, as loudly as he could.
"WEEEEEES!!"
He slumped, too dejected to even be embarrassed at his outburst. But then... Had that been a voice, half-heard through the soft patter of raindrops hitting the dirt? Eric froze, listening. The dog yelped eagerly somewhere nearby. Then it came again.
He had reached the surface. But he still wasn't free; the soil around him had collapsed into the tunnel he had dug, leaving him still trapped in a small pit, buried up to the shoulders. Wes reached up again, tried to get a grip on something solid, tried to get out. But the surface was muddy and slippery, and he was so weak he could hardly raise his arms, let alone climb out.
Frustration gave him the energy to try again. Wes stretched up, tried to lift a foot, searching for a toehold, struggling to move in the tight confines of the hole he was stuck in. His hand found the pipe, and he braced himself with it, managing to move up enough to get his upper body out and his eyes above ground level, to look around at trees and bushes. With a groan he reached out for a nearby rock, whimpering when it only came loose in his hand. He was too weak -- even if he got out, how was he going to find help, with no idea of where he was...?
And then he heard a voice. Like the voice in his dreams, it seemed to drift to him on the breeze, faint and indistinct, and yet he recognized it at once. Taking a deep breath, he shouted.
"Eric!" It came out as a hoarse croak. Wes tried again, this time louder. "ERRIIC!" There was another sound, a dog barking. He shouted again, scrambling frantically to get free.
Sounds. More voices shouting, running footsteps. Wes twisted, trying to look in that direction. Someone was coming, a man, dark hair, his face blurred by the rain, but Wes knew him. "Eric..." he said one more time, before hands were pulling him up, dragging him out; arms were around him so tightly he could hardly breathe, but he didn't mind at all, and cool raindrops were mingling with warm tears when Eric released him into his father's embrace.
It was later, how much later Wes didn't really know. Long enough for him to be taken home, and to start feeling human again after a good meal and a much-needed shower. Long enough for the Collins family doctor to arrive and examine him, treat his various scrapes and bruises, pronounce him starved, dehydrated, and exhausted but otherwise not seriously damaged. The police had wanted to take him to the hospital, but all he had wanted was home, his own room, his own bed; and with his father to back him up that was what had happened.
"Maybe it's just as well you didn't go to the hospital." Lina Munroe was looking him over thoughtfully as he lay back in bed with a sigh. They were all in his bedroom, Lina, Jimmy, his father, Philips fussing with the pillows, the doctor putting his instruments away after giving Wes an antibiotic and a mild sedative, even Fredricks, although he had left his dog downstairs. And of course Eric, who was standing silently beside the bed, his eyes on Wes's face.
"Yes, of course he feels better at home," Collins said.
"Probably. But that's not what I meant." Lina paused. "Wes. You're sure it was Russell Holland you saw in the woods?"
"I'm pretty sure. I saw blond hair, couldn't see his face very well, but I recognized him. And I heard his voice."
"Still, you were drugged. That identification might not hold up. The other man you saw, any idea who it was?"
"No."
"I have a feeling he's the one who ended up dead in that cabin, with his face bashed in and burned so we couldn't identify him and find a connection to Holland. We need time to get more evidence... need to look into Holland's background, try to identify the dead man, get a search warrant for Holland's house before he has a chance to destroy anything he may have there. From what you say, he knows you recognized him. That's probably why he left you to die. And as soon as he knows you're alive, he'll know he's in trouble. He might bolt before we could get an arrest warrant."
"What are you suggesting?" Collins asked.
"I called off the search team, but I didn't say why. At this point we're the only ones who know Wes has been found. I'm suggesting we keep it quiet. Give us a chance to get enough to arrest Holland. With luck it'll only take a day."
"But -- the funeral's tomorrow."
"You can quietly call off the burial. But go ahead with the service. Holland will be there, won't he? We'll try to execute the search warrant then, when he's not home."
"Wes? Eric? What do you think?"
"I think it's a good idea," Eric said. "Anything that'll help put Holland away."
"Sounds good to me, too," Wes added, fighting off a yawn. "Always wanted to go to my own funeral."
TBC...