Title: High Society

Chapter 27: Hurry Up and Wait

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Star sighed as she waited in line to board the semi that took the performers back to the complex. Performance nights generated mixed emotions – she looked forward to being out of the complex, and enjoyed dressing up in costume and wearing makeup. She absolutely loved to perform on stage – dancing for an audience under the dazzling lights, she could forget for a moment, transcend all the other aspects of her life. The only detraction from the night was the work after the performance – the time she spent entertaining clients in the back rooms. Tonight she'd been lucky – only one man had asked for her. Of course, that would mean reduced rewards for her in the week to come. It was okay, though, she told herself; a light week once in a while didn't hurt anything.

She saw heads turning; the performers in line in front of her were looking back past her, and she turned to see two of the guards, half-carrying a stumbling young man to the front of the line. He was wearing the uniform they all wore when not performing – baggy black knit pants, cut at the calf, and an olive colored cotton tunic, just as shapeless. He was not one of them, though, and her eyes widened in surprise as she got a better look. That dark curly hair … he was the young man from the week before – a customer – she was sure of it. She wouldn't forget him – she'd been highly embarrassed when he'd fled after she propositioned him in the back room. Someone told her later that he'd just run to the restroom because he was sick, but she was sure she'd seen a look of revulsion in his eyes. She'd felt ashamed the entire following week, and this week had taken extra care with her makeup – clearly she wasn't pretty enough. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing that only one man had asked for her this week, she fretted. What would happen to her if no one asked for her, if she couldn't earn her way? She had to prove herself worthy enough to graduate; she just had to!

She gave the young man a dark look as he passed, but her resentful look turned to one of grudging pity as she got a closer look. He was in pain, had obviously been beaten; had undoubtedly spent time with one of the rougher customers. He had also apparently been drugged, but even the dazed look on his face couldn't hide the expression in his eyes – confusion, fear, shock. She watched as the guards hustled him up the ramp into the truck, and they disappeared into its dim recesses.

When she boarded, she spotted him in a far corner, slumped against a side, and she got as close as the crowd would allow her, then positioned herself so she could watch him.

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Don sat hunched over his knees, head up, studying the pencil sketch of the man Resin called 'Mr. X,' which was taped to the white board. Colby and David sat with him, contemplating the artist's rendering in silence for a moment. "Doesn't ring a bell," said David, finally. "He's got to be a bigwig in the L.A. area, considering his clientele, but he doesn't look like anyone we're watching."

Don could feel impatience and fear rising, clawing their way up his insides. During the night, they'd been on the move – first in pursuit of the truck, then returning from San Francisco and heading straight to Morrison's estate. He'd already ordered a surveillance unit to be stationed outside Morrison's estate, and they were still waiting for the techs to analyze the GPS from Resin's semi. It was now ten a.m., all the movement and action had ground to a halt, and there was nothing they could do at this point but wait. The forced inactivity gave him time to think – and the more Don thought, the more frightened he was becoming.

Part of him kept hoping that Charlie would turn up somewhere. He couldn't understand why Mr. X would have let him go after finding the GPS chip in Charlie's wallet, but Morrison's story that he'd dropped Charlie off at home had given him hope. Maybe Mr. X had given Charlie a slap on the hand, and let him off the hook. After all, the man probably didn't know that Charlie had made it into the back rooms – Mr. X might think that Charlie didn't know about the illegal activities. Maybe Charlie had been able to spin some kind of story about the chip to get out of the jam. Then again, maybe Mr. X had just been waiting until Charlie was away from the other guests, and had let him get home before he'd dealt with him. Or maybe, Charlie's disappearance had nothing to do with the chip. God only knew, Don had a hard time predicting what he'd do next, lately. Hobnobbing with high society, drinking – maybe Charlie had simply gotten an offer to go to another party.

That seemed highly unlikely, even given his brother's recent unpredictability. Charlie would know he'd need to report out on the evening as soon as he got back. Something had to have happened, and knowing what was at stake, knowing what Mr. X had to lose if Charlie talked, made Don fear the worst. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and jerked upright as his cell phone vibrated. He flipped it open in a flash, and put it to his ear without checking the number. "Charlie?"

"No, Donny, it's me," came his father's voice, and it was all Don could do to suppress a look of dismay. God – Dad – what was he going to tell Dad?

"I'm at the airport – I was wondering if you could come and give me a lift home. I tried Charlie, but he wouldn't pick up."

Don shot an uneasy glance at David and Colby. "Uh, yeah, Dad, I'll come get you. Give me fifteen." He flipped the phone shut, and rose slowly from his seat. "Hold down the fort, okay? I've got go get my Dad at the airport."

Colby looked sympathetic. "I can get him if you want," he said. "I know you want to stay on top of this one."

Don shook his head and sighed. "No – if anyone's gonna break the news to him, it ought to be me. Just let me know right away if anything comes in."

He had just climbed into the driver's seat of his SUV when the phone rang again. He flipped it open and put it to his ear, and Amita's voice emanated from the earpiece. "Don – hi – do you know where Charlie is? He was supposed to pick me up at the airport this morning." She sounded a little perturbed. "He must be very busy -- did he get his clearance back? I sent him an e-mail and left voice mail on his phone with my flight details, but I never heard a word from him!"

Don's shoulders slumped, but he managed to reply, avoiding specifics as much as possible. "I'm heading there to pick up my Dad right now," he answered hurriedly. "I'll get you." He endured her thanks, plus another jab or two at his irresponsible brother, before he flipped the phone shut, and let his head hit the headrest, with a groan.

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Ramon watched through narrowed eyes as the limousine swept down the driveway. To the feds stationed on Mulholland, it would look as though J.T. Morrison was riding in the rear seat; in fact, it was J.T.'s gardener, Sami, decked out in one of J.T.'s jackets, wearing sunglasses and a straw hat. The limo windows were darkened, and Sami would easily pass for J.T. – possibly even in daylight, from a distance; he had the same color dark hair, the same muscular build – even their chins were similar. J.T. had set up the ruse, and Ramon wondered why. He made his way quietly into the hallway outside J.T.'s den, and listened as Morrison spoke into the phone. "They followed it? And you think there was just the one surveillance vehicle? Good."

Ramon slipped down the hallway, brooding, and after a moment's thought, headed for his own car. He was in it and waiting when he saw J.T. come out and instead of going toward his private garage, head for the servant parking area. Ramon actually had to duck down in the seat to avoid being seen. When he heard an engine, he lifted his head just enough to peer over the dash, and saw Morrison in Sami's battered gray Ford, wearing a baseball cap and Sami's cheap shades. He gave Morrison a few minutes, and then followed; speeding until he caught sight of him on Mulholland, and then dropping back to a safe distance.

J.T. was tough to follow - in spite of the fact that the FBI stakeout car had followed the limousine; Morrison was obviously keeping an eye out for a tail. Fortunately, Ramon's silver Toyota was so common a vehicle as to be unremarkable; it blended in with the city landscape. He managed to keep sight of J.T, although as the gray Ford headed toward the outskirts of the city, he was forced to drop back even further. Finally, at a remote truck stop, the Ford pulled over. Ramon drove past and parked several yards down the road, pulling up in front of a shabby liquor store, where he waited and watched. After a few moments, a van pulled up and two men stepped out; Ramon recognized them as bouncers from Fantasy. Morrison got out of the Ford and spoke to them briefly, then climbed in the back of the van, which was windowless.

Ramon's jaw clenched. He could guess where Morrison was going; he'd known it in his gut all along, but he hadn't wanted to admit it. J.T. was undoubtedly going to visit the professor – wherever they'd taken him. Sorry little puke – and J.T. was obsessed with him, Ramon could see it in his eyes. J.T. had looked at Ramon like that once upon a time.

Biting his lip, he sat there while the van drove past him. His inclination was to follow, but the landscape was getting increasingly remote, and he'd be easy to spot. Plus, what would he do once he got there? There would undoubtedly be security – it wasn't as if he could enter. Brimming with frustration, he threw the Toyota into reverse, swerved out of the lot with a screech of tires, and headed back to L.A.

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Don had planned to break the news at the Craftsman. He'd decided he would tell both of them at once, and he would need a quiet private setting to do that. They actually made it as far as his SUV in the short-term parking lot at LAX.

The luggage was loaded into the vehicle, and Don had helped a now-anxious Amita into the back seat. Alan climbed in the passenger seat, and immediately fixed him with an accusing glare, as Don slid in behind the wheel. "I can't understand what there would be to tell," protested Alan. "Don't tell me he's too hung over to function again."

Don sighed, and his shoulders slumped with surrender. "Okay, okay." He took a deep breath. "Charlie's missing."

"Missing?" Alan and Amita both asked at once. Don could feel their eyes on him, trying to gauge the severity of the situation.

"Did you call Morrison's estate? Maybe Alan's right – he had a little too much again." Amita's voice held a mixture of tension and sarcasm.

"No, he's not at Morrison's estate." Don hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words, then gave up, and went right to the point. "Look, Charlie was working an undercover assignment. While-,"

"What?" interrupted Alan. "Undercover assignment? For whom? His clearance was revoked!"

"The NSA offered to help him get it back if Charlie worked with them," Don responded. The thought that Charlie had actually wanted to quit, and had only kept working the case because he thought it would help his brother, reared its ugly head, and Don's gut twisted at the reminder. His voice tightened. "While he was hanging around with Morrison, he found out about an illegal party that rotates to different locations. When he actually got an invitation, the NSA stepped in, and asked him to help them track it down. I guess they've been working the case for months."

He could see Amita's eyes narrow in the rearview mirror, and Alan was staring at him, his brow furrowed. "You'd think the NSA would have bigger fish to fry than tracking down a party," he huffed.

Don shook his head. "This wasn't just any party, Dad. It was by invitation only, and many of the guests never even made it past the front area, which from the sounds of it, only offered legitimate entertainment. The back rooms are another story – the patrons who are approved to enter have access to illegal gambling, drugs, and prostitutes. The NSA believes that the people who run it traffic in not only drugs, but humans – the prostitutes are slaves, some of them children. The NSA has been desperate to track down a location, but the guests are all handpicked, by invitation only – they're all wealthy, and most of them would probably rather die than admit they attended the event. Morrison got Charlie an invitation and Charlie went in last night in order to get the location for the NSA. According to Morrison, he was brought home at around 11:45 a.m. Mr. Henderson was taking his trash out when we stopped by at 4:00 a.m., and confirmed the story – he said he saw Charlie getting dropped off."

"He was taking out his trash at four in the morning?" asked Amita.

Alan grunted. "I've seen that man out gardening in the middle of the night." His expression brightened. "So, maybe Charlie went somewhere else after he was dropped off."

"No, Dad." Don looked at him regretfully. "Something's wrong. The NSA had put a GPS chip in Charlie's wallet so they could follow him to the party. They ship the guests to the location in a furnished semi. We followed the semi that was emitting the signal, and found the chip and Charlie's cell phone, but no guests – and no Charlie. Someone had apparently discovered the chip, and sent us, the NSA, LAPD, and SWAT on a wild goose chase, all the way up to 'Frisco. We got the driver, but he doesn't know much – says he gets his driving orders by pre-programmed GPS. Plus, Charlie never called in a report. We haven't seen him since he was taken to the pickup point last night."

Alan had paled, and Don was so consumed with watching his father's reaction, he was completely unprepared for the rolled up magazine that descended on his head. He flinched, and looked in the rearview mirror to find Amita's eyes in the reflection, filled with fury. "How could you?" she hissed. "How could you let him do something like this?"

"I tried to talk him out of it," Don retorted, and slightly disconcerted that she'd actually hit him. "He wouldn't listen." 'At least, I didn't think he did,' he thought to himself, sadly. 'Face it; he's in this because of me.'

Alan was staring at him. "So what's going on? What are they doing to find him?"

"We already talked to Morrison – his story checks out, and he's got an alibi for the time period after he dropped Charlie off. We're watching him, and they're trying to see if they can find anything programmed into the semi's GPS that might tell us something. The truck driver gave us a sketch of the man who runs the party. We're doing everything we can."

Alan had turned to stare out the windshield with a dazed expression. "He's all right. He's just still out somewhere, maybe had a little too much again, and is sleeping it off. He'll turn up."

Don was silent. The more time that passed, the less likely that scenario was becoming, and he could tell by the fearful look in Amita's eyes, that she thought so, too.

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Charlie tensed as footsteps sounded in the hallway, frozen curled on his side on the mattress, and slowly relaxed as they receded. The drug had gradually worn off, and as his consciousness had sharpened, he'd been able to take stock of his surroundings. He was in a room, about sixteen by thirty feet. It had a wooden floor, and no windows, one door, and was furnished simply, with a bed and a chair, and a tiny table that held a plastic pitcher of water and a plastic cup. A bedpan sat in the corner; he'd used it once, and the smell of urine was a faint undertone in the air. They'd dressed him in something that made him think of Chinese peasants – cropped knit pants and a tunic, but at least he was dressed.

He had no idea of what time it was. He had no watch, no view of the outside, and his sense of time had been completely muddled by the drug they had given him. The door was locked; he'd already tried it, and he could tell by the occasional sound of the feet that passed by that it let out into a hallway of some type.

He hurt all over. His body was a collection of bruises, cuts, and blisters, and judging from the sharp aches, he possibly had at least one broken rib and a broken ring finger on his left hand. He felt heavy, weak, full of pain, and most of all, dirty. If he could, he would crawl out of his body and leave it lying there, like a soiled piece of laundry on the bed. He could still feel the shame, the humiliation of the assault, and he closed his eyes at the memory.

Why he was still alive, he had no idea. He suspected he was being held at the same place that the Fantasy performers were kept; he had a dim recollection of being unloaded from the semi with them, although where they had gone after that, he didn't know. Not that it mattered – he was miserable, too miserable to be concerned. No, he had no idea of why they'd kept him alive, but he really didn't care. He wanted to die.

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End Chapter 27