Justice by InSilva
Disclaimer: no one you recognise belongs to me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Missing
Livingston sat on top of the toilet seat and wiped his eyes and hugged his knees and stared at the door. Outside, there was noise and voices. Inside Livingston there was immense distress.
Eventually, there came a hesitant knock and when he didn't answer there was a "Bloody hell!".
Basher. Livingston sighed but didn't move. Then the door broke open and Basher stood there with Yen.
"Livingston…? Mate…?"
"Just leave me for a bit, will you, guys?"
Basher showed no signs of going away and Yen walked further into the room and stood in front of Livingston and gestured with a couple of sharp questions. Livingston shrugged in response.
"No one's blaming you, mate," Basher said softly.
"I am, Basher," Livingston replied. "And Danny will be."
"Aw, fuckin' 'ell, no!" Basher wasn't having any of it. "Danny knows you did your best. Everyone knows you did."
"My best just wasn't good enough."
Basher had been there. They all had. Virgil and Yen and Reuben had been with him when Yen's phone had rung and they had heard background noise and realised. And while Livingston's fingers had flown over the machinery to record and to track down the signal, Frank and Basher had been summoned and Reuben had thought to invite Tess to join them.
He'd listened to the phone conversation with a simultaneous professional and personal ear. He'd had to focus and try and try to pin down the elusive signal that slipped and slid and wouldn't stay still. He'd had to ignore the circle of faces watching him and silently begging. He'd had to listen to Rusty being taken away to his death and not – not - give in to how scared he was for his friend. And he'd had to handle Danny. Helpless Danny listening to helpless Rusty. Livingston would have moved mountains to save Rusty: and he knew that didn't even come close to what Danny would do.
And the long and the short of it was he'd failed. Miserably. Even with the second phone all he'd been able to do was narrow the area down to the South of Rio. Ipanema. Copacabana. And all the beaches around and between. Laughable.
The only good thing was that Danny's text message seemed to have done the trick. They couldn't be completely sure but it sounded like Vincente had changed his mind and pulled Rusty out of the water. That had been over an hour ago. He'd listened for twenty minutes or so and then all the emotion of the evening washed over him and he'd left Virgil listening with instructions to call him if anything happened and he'd come and shaking, locked himself in the bathroom. He supposed that when he hadn't come out, they'd eventually realised he was missing.
Blinking, he looked up at Basher and Yen and saw Basher sigh.
"Don't be a stupid tosser, Livingston." And Basher was ever so slightly furious. "Look, you and I do all the technical stuff, don't we?"
"I guess…"
"Guess my arse!" Basher stood, hands on hips. "Technology is technology is technology. And sometimes it shits all over you. Believe me, I know. You can only do what you can do. Danny don't blame you. Nor does anyone."
Yen let loose with a tirade and Livingston rolled his eyes at him. Sometimes Yen could be funny and angry and comforting and right, darn it.
"What he said," Basher nodded.
"You don't know what he said," Livingston pointed out. "But thanks."
He looked over at Yen. "Thanks."
Yen gave a shrug of acknowledgement.
"C'mon, mate," Basher said. "Come and find him."
Livingston stood up and drew a deep breath. "OK…"
At that point in Rio, they were poring over Linus's maps.
"There are hundreds of private villas along the beaches," Santos said apologetically. "We can't just go charging into each and every one of them."
Danny looked as if that was exactly what he wanted to do.
"We need to narrow it down," Linus said needlessly.
"Livingston?"
"I'm back, Danny."
"What can we do to find him?" And part of Danny was seriously impressed that the part of him that was screaming at full voice wasn't doing so out loud.
He heard Livingston take a deep breath.
"I can run what I've recorded through the filters and see what comes up in the background. And Rusty's phone and yours are still switched on. I mean I don't know what life there is in the batteries but if you get near to them, I can use one of your phones to triangulate the signal and-"
"OK, Livingston," Danny said hurriedly. He really, really didn't need the detail.
"Danny…?" There was a pause. Then Livingston said hesitantly, "I'm sorry I couldn't find him."
Danny smiled briefly. "Livingston, if anyone could have done, you could. And I'm sorry for shouting at you. I doubt it was easy having me at the end of the phone."
"OK…" Livingston sounded reassured. "I'll let you know how what I find."
Ending the call, Danny looked at a white-faced Saul and saw the despair in the older man's eyes; despair which matched his own. Somewhere, there was Vincente. Somewhere, there was Rusty. And neither Saul nor he wanted to think about what the one was doing to the other.
Hours passed. He'd lost consciousness again and he'd woken again and he'd still been bound and Vincente had still been there, watching him. These things were constants. So was the headache; so was the amnesia. At least he'd stopped throwing up.
He guessed he'd been slipped something. GHB or a roofie or some sort of Mickey powerful enough to wreck him and take his memory away. It was the strangest, most disconcerting feeling. Like someone had reached into his mind and run a wet sponge over everything. Like how he'd come to confront Vincente. Rusty really couldn't remember that conversation at all. And he hated that unnatural gap in his knowledge. He couldn't even think of the last time he'd struggled to recollect something crucial.
In spite of everything, little bits kept coming back to him. Most of all, he remembered the water. Lying in the water and knowing death was waiting for him there, death was waiting, almost tangible, to take him away.
There came a point when he awoke and felt mostly in control of himself and his faculties and he faked another lapse. Lying there on the couch, his eyes closed, he waited and he listened. Vincente's breathing matched his own, slow and precise. Rusty's brain was engaged in figuring out why Vincente had changed his mind. It was hardly going to be philanthropy. But why go to the trouble of drugging and drowning him if he wasn't going to follow through? What could have happened to change it?
After a while, he thought it prudent to groan and come to. Vincente was crouching down as his eyes opened, studying his face as he blinked vacantly at him. Rusty kept his expression dull-witted and let a little of the pain of the headache appear on his face.
Vincente straightened up.
"Alright, Mr Ryan. I really, really don't have time for fun and games."
Rusty didn't react above a slurred "Wh-what?"
Vincente delivered a hard slap across his face in one direction followed by an equally hard one in the opposite direction.
"Enough," he said. "I've been watching you every time you've woken up and you just lost the natural. I know you're faking."
Face smarting, Rusty sighed and sat up. Vincente pulled the blanket from him.
"Nothing about protecting your modesty," he explained. "Everything about speeding up recovery. And to be honest, having you unclothed is a short cut for me."
Unsuccessfully, Rusty tried to ignore the meaning in the last few words: he never seemed to have a problem understanding Vincente.
The smell of stale urine rose in the air. He looked down at himself and his nose wrinkled. Then he licked his dry lips and face defiantly neutral, looked over at Vincente, resting up against the breakfast bar wall, foot sitting casually on the bottom of the wide, steep steps that led up to a kitchen.
"That's right, Mr Ryan," Vincente sounded almost approving. "It's only nudity. Nothing to worry a man like you. And it's only a little bodily fluid. Of course, that couch is going to need reupholstering. I guess the owners might have had something to say about that."
Rusty heard the implication and his mouth set in a hard line. Vincente saw it and smiled.
"They were artists. Of a sort," he qualified. He gestured behind Rusty. "Look around."
Unwillingly, Rusty turned his head and his eyes focused on a leg emerging out of the wall at an unlikely angle. And a pair of arms reaching towards him. And then his brain which was still recovering made sense of it all. Body casts. Abstract paintings were also dotted around the place and he realised that the lumps of twisted metal on display were in fact pieces of sculpture.
"Not my taste," Vincente said conversationally. "I like my art to look like something I couldn't do myself."
Rusty wasn't listening because he'd finally seen them. Two bodies. Impossible to tell whether they were male or female. Piled up neatly at the bottom of the room underneath the plasma on the wall and wrapped and tied in plastic sheeting.
"In a way, I suppose their deaths are down to you, Mr Ryan," Vincente said musingly but without any malice. "I'd buried myself in the nastier part of the city waiting for the man with my money to get in touch. But after you followed me that night, I thought it prudent to move further away."
His fault. Right. Rusty looked again at the bodies and swallowed then turned back to Vincente.
"What do you want?" he asked harshly.
"Well, now, you have to understand," Vincente went on, "that this little conversation is one I did not expect to be having. And the fact that I filled you full of a drug that's known for its effects on the memory does not help. Plus, I ruined my damn suit carrying you up here from the water. So do know that all in all, I am really not in a good mood and that I would like quick answers."
"What do you want?" Rusty repeated.
"I want to know who knows and where they are and how close they are and whether I have to leave."
The back of Rusty's neck prickled. He was having a whole "Is it safe?" moment and didn't want to mention it because he had a nasty feeling that it was one of Vincente's favourite movies.
"What are you talking about?"
"Who are you working with, Mr Ryan? Whom do I need to be worrying about?"
Vincente's eyes were burning into Rusty's and Rusty was sure he must be reading genuine bewilderment because that was what he was feeling. Vincente frowned.
"Look."
He held out the phone – Danny's phone, Rusty thought with a sudden jolt – and showed Rusty the text message. Rusty read it and gave the slightest of frowns followed almost immediately by bewilderment again. This time of a semi-genuine nature. Because the pool of people who knew Vincente had Danny's phone was limited to two and he'd been otherwise engaged. So, Danny…and Rusty's heart simultaneously leapt and fell with joy and fear. How had Danny known? Because if he was near by, if he was in touching distance of Vincente and him, if Danny even came close to here…
Vincente was talking again.
"Oh, how I wish I had you for longer, Mr Ryan. How I would like the time to spare to break you properly. To rip away the confidence that's embedded so deeply. To tear your marvellous control to shreds. What an elegant challenge you would present. And so many ways to try…sensory deprivation… starvation… dehydration…and other ways… But sadly, time is pressing and I must confine my actions to the physical. Not nearly as elegant." Vincente sounded genuinely disappointed. "And of necessity, I have to cut out the gradual and leap straight to the extreme."
Rusty thought back to the warehouse and what Vincente had done to him and the adrenaline started flowing faster.
"Haven't we been here before?"
Vincente grinned.
"Well, that was when I was planning on leaving no marks and when it mattered what shape you were in at the end of it all. This time I need not be so restrained."
Restrained… Rusty could taste the pain before it happened. The anticipation was killing.
Vincente was looking thoughtful and moved up into the kitchen area. "Did you ever think about how terrifying ordinary household objects can be in the wrong hands?"
"Like a…" Rusty stopped. He didn't want to give Vincente any ideas.
"Like a deep fat fryer. Like a nail file. Like a light bulb. Like a cheese grater and a tub of salt, if it comes to that."
Vincente was busy rooting through cupboards and drawers.
"I mean, it's not like people have a convenient Iron Maiden lying around or a rack or anything."
"You really were born in the wrong century, weren't you?" Rusty said and he heard Vincente chuckle.
Vincente dropped down to the cupboard under the sink and Rusty couldn't see him now, only hear his voice as it floated up.
"The thing is, the movies and Shakespeare have it about right. Do you know "King Lear"?"
"Saw "Hamlet" on Broadway. Does that count?"
"Gloucester's blinding," Vincente elaborated. "Do you know how much pressure to apply to put out a man's eyes, Mr Ryan? I do. Do you know about sawing an ear off? Or drilling in to a healthy tooth?"
Marathon Man. He knew it.
"What the hell did you read as a kid?"
"Brothers Grimm. Very enlightening. Ah!"
It was a noise of satisfaction and Rusty's heart sank.
"OK, Mr Ryan, let's find out what you know."
Vincente reappeared, smiling and Rusty really didn't trust that smile. His gaze moved to the items in Vincente's hand. A plastic funnel and a large water jug. Slowly, he met Vincente's eyes and set his jaw. Vincente wasn't going to insult him by explaining and Rusty wasn't going to bother saying anything out loud either.
It was obvious. And it was happening.