Title: High Society

Chapter 29: Anticipation

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie moved slowly down the hallway, each step small, painful, weak, shaking. He could smell food wafting from the doorway in front of him, and hear the din of voices. The guard next to him stopped him at the door. "Remember, you need to limit how much you speak to them. You can listen, but you can't tell them about the outside. We don't need you putting any ideas in their heads."

Charlie nodded blankly, so immersed in misery, he scarcely heard the man. His mind was telling him he was in a state of semi-shock, and in no mood to eat, but his body was telling him he needed food – he wasn't sure what day it was, but he knew that more than one had passed since Saturday, which was the last time he'd eaten. The world was a blur of pain – he couldn't even think straight, and as the guard guided him toward the doorway, he hobbled forward dazedly.

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Star set her lunch tray on the cafeteria table and slid onto the bench seat next to one of her friends, an older girl named Hyacinth. As Star picked up her spoon, preparing to dig into her lunchtime portion of tofu vegetable stew, she heard the normal din of the room suddenly lessen, and saw heads swivel toward the doorway. She glanced sideways and froze, staring, as the young man she'd seen the night of the show shuffled slowly in, accompanied by a guard. She hadn't seen him since that night, although there were rumors that some of the male performers had seen him being helped into the shower room early that morning. They said he looked as though he'd been beaten; that he could barely walk without help, and that appeared to be true; the young man moved slowly, painfully. Star watched, fascinated, as he got a tray, and was escorted toward the seats. He stopped for a moment, staring dully at his tray, as the guard looked for an empty spot, and Star suddenly scooted over, butting up hard against Hyacinth. "Move over," she hissed, and then looked back at the guard.

To her satisfaction, he'd seen the opening, and they moved toward the table. The stranger set down his tray – his hands were shaking, Star noticed – and then with agonizing slowness, lowered himself onto the seat next to her. The guard retreated, backing up to the wall behind them, but he kept his eyes on the young man, who was staring down at his lunch, in dumb misery. His face was unmarked, Star noticed, except for two faint dark circles under his eyes, but she could see bruises on his wrists and arms, and imagined, from the way that he was moving, that there were more under his clothes.

The others at the table were staring at him with undisguised curiosity. Star waved her spoon at him. "Hi, I'm Star," she said, and then pointed to her left with her spoon. "This is Hyacinth, and," she pointed across the table to a young man of about twenty-three, "that's Mercury. What's your name?"

The young man had slowly raised his eyes while she talked, as if it hadn't occurred to him right away that he was being spoken to, and he stared at her a moment blankly, then shot a quick glance behind him. "Charlie," he said, quietly, and then looked down at his food.

Star cocked her head at him. "Oh, you still have your outside name," she said. She paused, reflecting for a moment. "I used to have one, but I can't remember it."

Mercury snorted sardonically. "I can't even remember having one. Of course, you're only ten."

Star sniffed at him, and then looked at Charlie, who had taken a spoonful of his stew with a shaking hand. "You're old," she said. "Everyone usually graduates by your age."

Charlie had managed to get the spoonful of stew into his mouth, and he swallowed; then looked at her, a look of faint surprise seeping through the pain in his face. "Graduates?"

She looked at him as if he were stupid. "Of course. Once you reach twenty-five, or before, if they think you're ready, you graduate. You get to go back out into the outside."

The young man was looking at them doubtfully, sadly, and Star bristled a little. "It's true," she insisted. "We learn dance and performing arts, here, and when we work after the show we earn credits. Our credits add up to money – when we graduate, they help us find a job performing, and we get our money to start out our new lives." She pointed her spoon at Mercury. "Mercury's gonna graduate in a couple of days."

Mercury grinned cockily. "Yep. Can't wait." His eyes glinted slyly as he looked at Star. "Of course, the rate you're going, kid, you ain't never gonna graduate. How come no one's askin' for you after the show – you givin' them the evil eye or something?"

Star scowled. "Jasmine says I'm just in that in-between age. I don't have boobs yet, so the guys that want older girls don't want me, and I'm too old for the ones who want younger girls."

Beside her, the young man named Charlie choked, and she glanced at him defensively, thinking he was laughing at her. Instead, he looked upset, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw the same expression she'd seen the first night they'd met; there was horror and revulsion in his eyes. Maybe she was disgusting, she thought sadly, then sighed, and jutting out her jaw resolutely, dug into her stew. Maybe if she ate enough, she'd get some curves.

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J.T. Morrison waited until he was halfway back to his estate, well away from the FBI offices, before he pulled out his cell phone. He sat there for a moment, hesitating. He really should tell Markus that the feds had found one of the Fantasy performance sites, but he was afraid that Markus would get cold feet, and refuse to let him visit Charlie. Morrison had seen the young professor Sunday after the show, and had snuck out again on Monday, again dressed as Sami, the gardener. Today was Tuesday, and he had too many meetings to make the visit – and the knowledge was nearly killing him. The professor was like a drug, and the more J.T. had of him, the more he wanted. He spent the hours away from him playing and replaying the video that Ramon had taken at Fantasy on Saturday night, and it was barely enough to keep him sane until he could visit again.

At length, he decided that he needed to come clean – Markus still had an agent in the FBI offices, and the man would probably report that J.T. had been there. With a sigh, he slid his phone open and punched in Markus' number, and as the man answered, said, "I just came from an interview with the feds."

"I heard," replied Markus, dryly. "And?"

"And nothing," replied J.T. smoothly. "They don't suspect me at all – although I think they are checking into Ramon a little more closely. It doesn't matter – he has an alibi. They won't get anywhere." He took a deep breath. "I do need to tell you, however, that they found last Saturday's Fantasy site."

"What?" exclaimed Markus. His voice sounded tight, angry, and J.T. could imagine the expression.

"They found the GPS with the semi – the route was still programmed into it."

Markus swore. "I told the men to tell that idiot truck driver to take the GPS with him and dump it!" There was thump, as if he'd thrown something in anger, and more cursing.

J.T. paused for a moment, trying to figure out his next statement. "It's not a big deal – I don't think they have anything, or they wouldn't be dragging me in again." He decided not to tell Markus about the blood – anyway, that would not be an issue, after his brilliant lie about Charlie cutting his hand on a glass. Even if the DNA showed the blood to be Charlie's, he'd covered that neatly with the story. The thought brought back memories of what he'd really done to make the young man bleed, and he closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. Then he spoke into the phone, his voice husky. "I'll be out again tomorrow as planned. There are no issues on this end."

"I don't know," said Markus crossly. "I think you should lay low for a while."

"Nonsense," responded Morrison, his voice brisk. "They have no idea – the gardener disguise works like a charm. And if you don't let me visit, I may just have to rethink my position with the feds."

The statement was met with silence, and he held his breath for a moment – perhaps he'd pushed things too far. Then Markus' voice came on the line, disgruntled, but calmer. "Don't be ridiculous. You know that wouldn't do either of us any good. All right – just be careful."

"Of course I will," said J.T. "Tomorrow, then." He slid his phone shut, and sat back with smile, and a sigh of relief. Tomorrow – he couldn't wait. Of course, the pent up longing would make their reunion all the more enjoyable.

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Alan sat at the kitchen table, an untouched mug of tea before him, and stared at Charlie's empty chair. He had been looking at it for so long, his eyes had gone slightly blurry – and the tea had long-since grown cold. Yet he had somehow achieved an almost Zen-like connection to his youngest son, and he could no more look away from the chair than he could blow his own brains out.

He could feel his son's physical pain, his emotional distress, an almost mind-numbing fear. He concentrated on absorbing it all, as if he could psychically transfer the burdens from Charlie to himself. He tried to send Charlie images of peace to replace the images of terror: The koi, languidly completing their patterns in a protected ecosystem that was nearly danger-free, where all their needs were met. The night sky on a clear evening, through the lens of the high-powered telescope set up in the solarium. Ocean waves, breaking solidly and constantly against the cliffs at Carmel. The smiling and loving faces of those Charlie depended upon the most; himself, Margaret, Don, Amita, Larry. Memories. Good memories, that Alan was sure were seared into Charlie's brain as much as they were his. Don and Charlie building a sandcastle – using plans drawn out in crayon by Charlie the night before – while Alan and Margaret shook their heads and watched, the entire family baking happily in the sun at Pismo Beach. An older Don and Charlie, seeing snow for the first time, the winter they spent Christmas in Seattle with Margaret's cousin. The holy trinity of Alan, Margaret and Charlie, perched in the stands watching a uniformed Don play ball on the diamond below, bursting with pride.

Oh, how Alan longed for Charlie to feel only these things. Safety, love, happiness…above all, hope. A tear rolled down the father's cheek, as he tried his best to send his son hope.

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Uncomfortably full, Charlie rolled over on the thin mattress and stared miserably at the wall, waiting for J.T. to make another appearance. He had been so wrong about the movie producer – and everyone else had been so right. He sniffed, his nearly-healed broken nose barely protesting, then gasped a little as an image of Donny entered his mind.

He could see the two of them together, as if watching a home movie. Don was eleven, Charlie was six, and they were at Pismo Beach. Don was seriously consulting some plans Charlie had scribbled for a sand castle, and Charlie was working from memory. It was serious business. The two of them took turns running out to the water's edge with Charlie's pail, bringing back buckets of water so that they could compact the sand. Their mother and father lounged under a beach umbrella about twenty feet away, smiling and holding hands, watching their sons' progress. Occasionally, their little hands would meet as they sculpted. Donny's nose was sunburned, but he dimpled at Charlie and tousled his unruly hair when they were finished with the main castle. "Let's add a moat," the older brother suggested, and the younger eagerly nodded his head, digging his hands into the warm and giving sand.

Twenty-five years later, Charlie slowly closed his eyes but continued to watch the video play on in his mind, and for the first time in a week, fell into a restful sleep, with a smile on his face.

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End, Chapter 29

A/N: This was a short chapter, so be on the lookout for a bonus!!