I own nothing except the plot line and a few OCs. The Almighty Larson owns the rest.
Collins was still trying to process what he had just witnessed as Connor helped him into bed. He remained in an upright position and kept his eyes on his student. There had to be a rational explanation for his sudden change in behavior. He could be bipolar, but that wouldn't clarify why he'd called himself "Albert." Collins was sure he wasn't going to get much sleep with this on his mind as well as knowing he needed to come up with some sort of escape plan that didn't involve him going into the woods. He knew that was unlikely, but he didn't want to risk staying even one more minute with Connor. The boy had proven himself to be dangerously unpredictable.
"Would you like some soup, Professor?" Connor asked as he leaned the crutches on the wall.
"No, thanks for offering though," Collins replied. There was a silence. Connor was staring at Collins' arm. Fearing that the boy might ask if he left the cottage, Collins spoke again. "Connor, you love me, don't you?"
"Of course I do. More than anything in the world."
"Then you realize you can't keep me here forever, right?"
"I do. I'll keep you here as long as I can though."
"This is kidnapping."
"No, it isn't. I'm protecting you."
"From what?" Connor fell silent and Collins stared at him, waiting for him to speak. The eighteen-year-old sighed sat down in the chair next to the bed.
"I'm protecting you from the person who tried to kill you," he said.
"And who might that be?" Collins asked.
"My mom." Collins' eyes widened. "She knows how I feel about you and she thinks if you're gone . . . my feelings will go away, too."
"So, she thinks I'm the cause of you being gay?"
"It seems that way. I tried to explain why she's wrong, but she never listens to me. I knew she was planning something and that's why I waited for you to come out of the building. I brought you here because I know it's a safe place for you to lay low for a while."
"And severing the phone line was part of my protection?"
"I didn't sever the phone line. I don't know what happened to it." Collins studied Connor's face for any signs of deceit. He found nothing but innocence in the boy's eyes. He had to be telling the truth.
"Well, thank you for saving my life."
"Anytime." Connor smiled at his professor. Another silence passed between them. Collins went back to his thoughts. If Connor hadn't severed the phone line, could that mean Albert had? Who was Albert anyway?
"Connor, does the name Albert mean anything to you?" Collins asked. A look of confusion replaced Connor's smile.
"Not really," he answered.
"Are you sure?"
"Well . . . I had an imaginary friend named Albert when I was younger, up until the age of twelve."
"Tell me about him."
"Why?"
"Just curious."
"What's there to tell? He was invisible, I decided he was older and stronger than me, not to mention braver. He was like my invisible guardian angel."
"Did he protect you?"
"He was imaginary, so no."
"I'm not speaking literally. I mean, when you played with him, was he protecting you?" Connor thought for a moment.
"Yes. When I felt like being creative, I would often make up games where I would be captured and Albert would have to save me. He never failed." The boy smiled a little as he thought of those happy moments from his childhood.
"Did you ever . . . pretend you were Albert?" Collins asked.
"Sometimes." Another silence passed between them. "Can I share something with you, Professor?"
"I suppose."
"I'll be right back." Connor then stood up and left the room.
Collins looked around as he continued to think of possible reasons Connor's personality had changed so much. He noticed the tray of food that had been on the bedside table was gone and the medical bag was in its place. It was open. Collins stared longingly at the small bottle of morphine that was peeking out of it. He forced himself not to reach for it even though the desire to do so threatened to overpower him. This was exactly what he feared would happen. His body was becoming reliant on the drug.
"I can't give you anymore, Professor," Connor said as he reentered the room. Collins tore his attention away from the morphine and looked to Connor. He had a manila envelope in his hand. "I've given you two doses already."
"I wasn't thinking about it," Collins lied. "I was thinking of something completely different." Connor sat down in the chair. "What's in the envelope?"
"Information about my real mom. My dad gave it to me a few weeks ago."
"That's what you want to share with me?"
"Yes. I haven't actually looked inside the envelope yet. I've been too afraid."
"Why?"
"Because . . . what if I open this and find out my life used to be worse than it is now? I want to know why I was adopted, but I'm afraid of what I'll find out. I've been contemplating throwing it away."
"Connor, if you do that, you'll never know the truth and you'll be doomed to wonder forever." Connor stared at the envelope. "I could read it for you and tell you what it says, if you want me to."
"You would do that?" Collins nodded and held his hand out. Connor placed the envelope in his professor's hand and waited patiently as he opened it. As he slid the papers out of the envelope, a photograph of a woman holding a small baby fell onto his lap. He picked it up and looked at the back of it.
"Carrie, twenty-two, and Conner, two months, 1972," he read. He then looked to Connor. "Your name is spelled C-O-N-N-O-R, isn't it?"
"Yes," Connor replied. "Why?"
"It's spelled with an E on this picture." Collins gave the photo to Connor, who frowned at the words on the back.
"That's odd." His frown became a smile when he turned the picture around. "She's beautiful . . . why did she give me up?"
"I don't think she was ever fully out of your world." Collins was flipping through the papers, skimming them.
"What do you mean?"
"Your dad's name is Arthur Gibson, right?" Connor nodded. "There are copies of letters between him and your mom here."
"Really?"
"Yes. She must have been keeping tabs on you. From the looks of it, she knew about the abuse." Connor looked away from the photo of him and his mother.
"She knew?" Collins nodded as he skimmed a few more letters. "Then why didn't she come for me? Why didn't she try to help at all?"
"She mentions Lavender Meadows a lot."
"As in Lavender Meadows Mental Hospital?" Collins looked to his student.
"You know that place?"
"It's just past the market. Is that where she is?"
"I guess. If she is, maybe she wasn't allowed to be by herself or travel anywhere and that's why she couldn't help you." Collins passed the letters to Connor and the boy began reading them. The only thing in the professor's hand now was a copy of a police report. He began carefully reading through it.
"She's left-handed like me," Connor said. Collins looked up at him. "I can tell by the way her letters slant when she writes." The professor nodded and went back to reading the report. Once he finished, his eyes were wide. He didn't know how to tell Connor about what he had just read. The boy was smiling at the kind words in his mother's letters.
"Connor . . ." he said. His student looked to him. "Your mom . . . she didn't give you up . . . you were taken from her."
"What?" Connor replied.
"This is a police report and according to it, Anna Gibson, the woman you've been calling 'Mom' for fifteen years, is actually your aunt . . . and she kidnapped you." Connor didn't move or blink. He didn't even seem to be breathing.
"That . . . that can't be true."
"It's all right here."
"It can't be! I don't believe it! I won't . . ." Connor closed his eyes, dropped the letters and the photo of his mother, and clutched his head with both of his hands. He then began rocking back and forth. "It's not true . . . it's not true . . ."
"Connor . . . are you having a headache?" Collins asked his student. Connor gave a slight nod as he continued to rock in the chair. "Just calm down, okay?"
"It can't be true . . ." the boy said.
"Connor . . . would you like to see her?" Connor stopped rocking and opened his eyes. He kept his hands on the sides of his head. "You can meet her. You know where she lives. Would you like that?"
"I . . . I would." Connor slowly took his hands away from his head. He blinked a few times. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"My headache is gone."
"Do you normally get them when you're upset about something?"
"Or frightened. Pretty much whenever I don't want to be somewhere or in a certain situation." Collins nodded and watched Connor pick up the photo he'd dropped. He stared at it for a long moment. "Will you come with me? I don't think I can do this by myself." Collins took hold of Connor's hand.
"And I won't make you," he promised.
Arthur, Ed, Baker, and the bohemians traveled in three cars to get to the Gibson household. Sanders was back at the station manning the tip line. The first thing Arthur noticed as they walked toward his house was that his car was still missing. Knowing what could and would happen if his wife got to Connor and Collins before the police did made him more anxious with each passing minute. He led the eight others up the stairs and down the hall to Connor's room. The door was wide open. Arthur turned on the lights as he entered. Inside the room, there were folders, notebooks, and textbooks scattered about. The bed had even been moved.
"Whatever your wife has, she turned this room upside down to find it," Baker commented.
"Okay, there's nine of us, so this shouldn't take that long," Ed said. "Let's get to work."
Everyone took a section of the room and started looking through the mess Arthur's wife created. They looked through the drawers of Connor's dresser and desk, in his closet, and in the lock box that had been broken into. They weren't even sure of what they were looking for, but they didn't want to leave anything in the room unchecked. Mimi and Roger decided to look through the many notebooks that were lying around to see if they could find an address to Connor's safe house. Among the notebooks was a red one, which Mimi picked up. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.
"Oh. My. God," she said, not able to tear her eyes away from the page. Everyone looked at her.
"What is it?" Baker asked.
"This is probably the most disturbing thing . . ." Mimi turned the page of the notebook and her mouth dropped open. She slammed the notebook shut as Angel tried to peek at the page.
"I want to see it," the drag queen said.
"No, you don't, chica. Trust me. I'm saving your eyes." Mimi tossed the notebook aside and the search resumed. An hour went by and they still hadn't found anything, but since this was proving to be their only option, they refused to stop. Angel noted that if the bed was moved, something had to be around it. She got down on her knees and looked underneath the bed. Finding nothing, she stood up and lifted the mattress. A small card was under it. She picked it up. It was a business card. She recognized the name on it.
"Mr. Gibson, has Connor ever come in contact with Helen Adams?" she asked. Arthur walked away from the bookshelf he was searching with Mark and over to her. He studied the card.
"The realtor?" he replied. He shook his head. "Not that I know of."
"Keep it, Angel," Baker said. "She could have helped Connor get his safe house and we may need to question her." Angel nodded and Arthur went back to the bookshelf, which Mark was pulling books off of and opening them. Arthur took the books Mark checked and rechecked them. The two of them used this system until they were down to five books, a dictionary and four encyclopedias. Mark picked up the dictionary and immediately noticed a magazine had been placed inside it. He took the magazine out and looked at the title.
"'Dream Homes,'" he read out loud.
"I remember this thing," Arthur said taking the magazine from Mark. "Connor was always looking through this when he was younger." He flipped some of the pages while he and Mark skimmed them.
"Wait, go back!"
"What?"
"I saw something!" Everyone's attention was now on Mark and Arthur as Arthur turned back a few pages. Mark suddenly pointed at one of the houses on the page. "Right there! That one's circled!"
"And the realtor who sold it is Helen Adams," Arthur said. Ed took out his mobile phone and dialed Sanders' number.
"Connor had to have gotten this place before he was eighteen," Joanne pointed out. "Why would she sell a house to a minor?"
"She's the only one who can tell us," Baker responded.
"Sanders," Ed said into his phone. "I need a home address for Helen Adams."
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