John was worried.
He'd told Chas that he'd give him a call before he left for the airport, but when he called, there was no answer. He called Chas's cell phone twice, then called his apartment number twice, and then even went as far as to call Ferguson, Kenya, and the Country Club clubhouse. No one had heard from Chas since he left the party the night before.
John looked at the clock and sighed. If he didn't head for the airport now, he'd miss his flight for sure. But…Chas was missing in action. And that wasn't Chas-like.
He left his suitcase sitting in the middle of the kitchen and headed for the door. Maybe Chas was too sick to get to the phone. Or maybe he'd never made it back to his apartment- what if he passed out in a hallway or something, and was lying there, all alone?
John took a cab to Chas's apartment building and marched inside, heading down the hallway to the elevator. Halfway there, though, something on the floor caught his eye.
He kneeled down and picked it up, looking it over. It was definitely Chas's cell phone- and the small screen on the front of it was cracked. The jumbled, pixilated clock had stopped at 11:32pm.
John cursed loudly. Chas either had been too sick to realize he dropped it…or he hadn't actually dropped it.
Don't think like that. He's in his apartment, just sleeping. Really deeply.
He ran the rest of the way to Chas's apartment, then spent three minutes banging on the door and yelling at Chas to get up and open the door. There was no way Chas could sleep through that.
For one of the first times in his life, John actually called the police.
He spent fifteen minutes arguing with the dispatcher. The dispatcher insisted that despite Chas's celebrity status, that didn't change the fact that he had to be missing for 48 hours before they could take any action. John wasn't having any of that- he put up such a fuss that she finally agreed to send a unit to the building to have a look at the security camera tapes.
The police couldn't come fast enough for John. He paced in the lobby, and when they finally arrived, he pounced on them like a starving dog.
"Listen, sir, we'll do what we can, but if they don't want to show us the security tapes we can't force them to. We'd need a court order, and with no evidence of foul play that's not going to happen," one of the officers said, heading for the front desk. He spoke briefly with the girl there, who said that Chas had come in the building at around 11:30 last night, and he hadn't looked too good. She would've offered help, but her boss had forbidden her from speaking with the celebrity clients unless they spoke first.
"Did he leave later? Did anyone come in after him?" The officer asked.
"He didn't leave. The only people who came in after him were the vending machine guys."
"Vending machine guys?" John repeated, stepping forward. The receptionist shrugged.
"Yeah. They usually come in about 10:30, but they ran late yesterday. They came in and went out the back to their truck."
Now even the cops were beginning to look suspicious. One of them cleared his throat. "Ma'am, may we have a look at the security tapes from last night?"
The girl shrugged. "Sure, whatever. The security room is right over there, just tell Steve what tapes you need to pull up."
When they entered the security room, 'Steve' was leaning back in his chair, mouth side open, fast asleep and snoring loudly. John would've given him a strong slap if he didn't think the guy might refuse to show them the tapes then.
"Sir?"
Steve snapped awake, and immediately began fumbling on his computer when he saw the policemen to hide the paused porn video. The policemen rolled their eyes and gave each other a look.
"How can I help you, officers?" Steve asked, loosening his collar nervously.
"We need to see the security tapes for last night, around 11:30. The lobby, the main hallway, and the 9th floor hallway."
Steve mumbled and rolled his chair over to a wall full of shelves of tapes, picking out the right ones.
"Main lobby," he explained, popping in a tape and cuing it up. Just like the receptionist had said, Chas walked in the door at just about 11:30 on the dot, looking dazed and quite ill. He stopped, wavered, and then stumbled on toward the hallway. A few moments later, two men in blue jumpsuits walked in, nodding to the receptionist before continuing on.
Steve moved on to the next tape, seeming unconcerned. He popped it in and cued it up.
Chas stumbled into the hallway and fell against the wall, and moments later, fumbled around for his cell phone. He wavered again, this time falling to the floor.
John's throat tightened as he watched the men in jumpsuits walk up to Chas. One kicked the cell phone away from Chas's hand, and then grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him up backwards, covering his mouth before he could scream. Chas was struggling, but it just wasn't enough- the other man grabbed onto his feet. The men said a few quick words, and by the time they started toward the back door, Chas was completely limp in their arms.
John was seething, his fists clenched tightly. He couldn't handle this. He had to take this out on someone, anyone.
He grabbed Steve by his jacket, pulling him up and slamming him against the wall.
"Too busy jackin' off to notice a kidnapping, Steve?"
"N-No, I-"
"You're lucky I don't cut off your-"
"That's enough," one of the officers said, pulling John off Steve as the other officer called in the kidnapping and asked for a crime scene unit and an all-points bulletin.
"Mr. Constantine, we need you to go home immediately," the officer said, dragging John out of the security room.
"What? Why? I have to-"
"You're close with Mr. Kramer, aren't you?"
"You could say that…"
"So if these people want a ransom, they're going to either call you or Kenya. We need you to be at home with a few officers so we can record and monitor any calls you get."
John sighed heavily. He would've liked nothing better than to do the job himself, chasing down those guys and blowing their brains out for touching Chas, but kidnappings weren't his thing. Half breeds and demons were his thing.
Reluctantly, he let the officer drive him back to his apartment. But it ended up that they didn't even have to wait for a phone call. There was a plain, small cardboard box sitting against his door, and the officer with him opened it up after putting on gloves. Inside was a videotape.
A couple more officers showed up there with phone tapping equipment just before they put in the tape, and John and the three officers stood around the TV as John pressed play.
There was just static for a few moments, then the picture came up. The same men from the apartment building were there; they hadn't even bothered with masks. Chas sat in a chair onscreen, strapped to the chair with leather belts, his hands tied behind him, and gagged and blindfolded.
At least they haven't hurt him, John thought, his throat tightening.
There was some shuffling off camera, and then one of the men stepped over to Chas with a knife, yanking his head back and putting the knife to his throat. Chas made a muffled sound of protest, his body tensing.
"On Monday night, at midnight, we want Constantine to deliver 2 million dollars in cash…small bills…to the backlot of WB studios. Studio 94. Any sign of cops, Kramer's dead," the man said, obviously reciting scripted orders. The other man stepped forward, and before the tape cut out he punched Chas hard in the stomach. Then…static.
John turned around and threw a chair across the room with a cry of frustration, startling a couple of the cops.
"I'll take this down to the station and get those two jokers ID'd," one of them said, taking the tape out and leaving the apartment.
"I'm leaving," John growled out. He knew exactly where to start in looking for the man behind this - his biggest clue was that Monday was the day after the Masters. Only one person would benefit more than any man in America that Chas may miss the Masters. Why else would the kidnappers wait so long for their money?
"Wait, you can't leave!" A cop said, and John gave him a glare that could melt steel.
"You go ahead and try to stop me."
Nobody did.
A door opened, then closed. Chas lifted his head, listening carefully.
"Did you deliver the tape?"
"Yep. He was still out lookin' for the kid."
"Too easy."
Silence for a few moments. Chas shifted in his seat, trying to loosen the ropes on his hands; it felt like his circulation was being cut off.
"Is he still trying to get out?"
No answer. Then a hand tangled in Chas's hair and yanked back roughly, inciting a muffled cry of pain from Chas.
"I told you to stop movin', kid, or I'll shoot you right here and now."
Chas would've given anything to be able to shoot back a snarky response, but the gag was still in. The man let go of his hair, and Chas jerked forward from the sudden movement.
"Why can't we just kill him now, bury him in the mountains before he causes trouble?"
"We have our orders."
"Yeah, but-"
"Listen, Tyler, I'm not takin' any chances. That 5 million is sounding better and better every second."
Five million? Chas thought, confused. They only told John two million. Where's the rest of the money coming from?
"I still think we should just kill him now. It's not like we're planning on actually turning him over with the money."
"We wait till Monday. Then, we kill him, get our money, and get out. No arguing, Tyler. What's he gonna do? We've got him strapped down so tight he can't even lift a finger in our direction. And he'll stay that way until Monday night."
The other man, Tyler, snorted. "Unless he starves to death. I tried to get him to eat earlier, he wouldn't."
"So we'll force feed him. We have to get the other two tapes out to let the cops know we've still got the kid and he's not dyin' or nothin'. Don't worry so much."
The two men became engrossed in a card game, leaving Chas to his own thoughts. Mainly thoughts of how the hell he was going to get himself out of this one, thoughts of not being found in time.
He needed to come up with a plan.
He needed John.