Title: High Society

Chapter 32: On the Move

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie very nearly didn't make it back to his cell. The walk back from the exercise yard was exhausting, and brought home just how weakened he was. It wasn't just the walk, however, that tired him out.

Charlie spent most of his waking hours lying on the bed, curled on his side, as if by closing in on himself, he could close out what was happening to him. He would lie there for hours, only moving or eating when he was told, and then doing so numbly. Don't think, don't look, don't interact. Don't do anything that pulls your mind from its trancelike state – that makes you remember where you are, and what he's done to you…

The talk with Star at the exercise yard had pulled him out, made him think again, and that in itself was exhausting. He knew he should just put it out of his mind, try to get back into his twilit world of oblivion, but he couldn't help it – she had invaded his mind, and he couldn't get her out. She was just a child; she should be playing hopscotch, not trolling for johns. All of them, all of the performers he had met – considering the sordid things they'd seen and been involved with- were naïve, even the older ones. They had no idea what real life was like, what they would be facing when they left.

As he moved toward the entrance to the building, supported by the arm of the friendlier guard, he caught sight of Mercury, leaving the building by another entrance, carrying a satchel and accompanied by two men. They were heading towards an SUV, and as Mercury caught sight of Charlie, he gave him a thumbs-up sign and a cocky grin.

Charlie remembered the conversation of two days ago at the lunch table, and as one of the guards held the door for him to enter, he said, "Mercury – he's graduating, isn't he? He's leaving today."

The guard holding the door snorted in derision. "That's what he thinks."

"Quiet," admonished the guard holding Charlie's arm, looking down the hallway to make sure no one else had overheard them.

The other guard scowled, but said nothing further, and they guided Charlie back to his room. The brief stint outside made Charlie realize suddenly how much he detested that prison-cell of a room, how hopeless his situation was. The sour guard sneered at him. "No one leaves this place – not the performers, and not you. When your fag producer friend's finished with you, you'll find out firsthand what we're going to do to Mercury. Oh, and by the way – your lover boy's coming back to visit this afternoon."

"Shut up," growled the other guard, as they moved out into the hallway and shut the door. Charlie could hear the first guard whining. "What? It's not like he'll ever get out to tell anyone…,"

Charlie heard the click of the lock as he sank onto his bed with legs that trembled with fatigue, and something more visceral. He rolled to his side and lay curled, suddenly taken with a fit of shaking, fighting back a wave of despair. He'd been lying there for five minutes, when he heard a distant rifle shot, then another, and he realized abruptly, with shock, what had happened to Mercury.

"Oh, God," he whispered, as the wave of despair that had been threatening his consciousness engulfed him, drowning him. He couldn't do this anymore – he couldn't handle this hell. He was on the verge of cracking, and to face Morrison again – the fear, the pain, the groping hands, the humiliation – could very well put him over the edge.

"Someone, please," he whispered, closing his eyes, and all of the agony inside spilled out into the words. "Help me."

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Colby and Lieutenant Walker had just returned from Resin's house and from viewing his body at the coroner's office, and were in the midst of relating what they had seen there to David, when Don appeared, making his way through the bullpen, on his way back from Wright's office.

"It definitely looked like an execution," Colby was saying. "Three shots, any one of them a kill shot. Whoever was doing the shooting was making damn sure he was dead."

Walker gave them a nod. "And we think we might know who the 'whoever' was." As the group looked at him quizzically, he said quietly, "I think we should speak privately."

Don stared at him for a moment; then indicated a conference room with a jerk of his head. "Okay, in there."

They filed in, and David closed the door as Walker faced the group. "We found a fired .38 in the alley outside Resin's home. It was unregistered. We handed it over to ballistics, and they confirmed that it was the gun that shot Resin. It looked like it had been wiped clean, but the shooter must have been in a hurry – there was a partial print on it. When we ran it against the database, we brought up Jack Timmons."

They stared at him, dumbfounded, and he added, "His MVA happened only a few blocks from there."

"Holy shit," breathed Colby.

"I think we just found our spy," said David, shaking his head in disbelief. "Timmons – my God, who would have thought it?"

"Fat lot of good it's going to do us, now that he's dead," said Walker, grimly. "We're going to send some men over with a warrant to look through his place – or maybe you want to do it."

Don shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "I have enough on my plate, especially with being down an agent. I'll let you guys handle Timmons' apartment."

Walker nodded. "You got it." He looked at Don, meaningfully. "I'll let you report this one to Wright."

Don gave him a brief nod. "Will do." He waited until Walker exited the room, and looked at Colby and David, and spoke quietly. "I talked to Wright about adding surveillance – putting a tail on Ramon. He gave me the go ahead – well, not directly – I think he'd like to keep it under the table. I thought the three of us could cover it – it means working double shifts – one in the office and one eight-hour stint on surveillance. Considering the fact that we aren't officially sanctioned to do this, there probably won't be overtime. It's up to you."

The agents nodded, and David spoke softly. "We're in. I couldn't give a damn about O.T. – this is Charlie."

Don was silent for a moment – they all knew that the recent developments didn't bode well for Charlie. Mr. X had apparently seen to it that Resin had been taken out, and could very well have engineered Timmons' death somehow. The odds that Charlie was still alive were beginning to appear astronomical. He swallowed, and went on. "We'll start tonight. David, you take this evening – four until midnight. I'll run home and catch a couple hours sleep and pick up midnight to eight a.m. That will put the two of us in the office during regular working hours. Colby, you take eight a.m. to four, and come into the office in the evening." He fell silent again.

Colby and David glanced at each other, and looked back at Don. He was slouching with a hip against the table, his shoulders sagging, discouragement in his face. David reached out and gripped his shoulder. "We're gonna find him. You know that."

Don raised tortured eyes to them, and managed a husky, "Yeah." It was acknowledgment in word only – his voice rang with defeat. They left him there that way, slumped against the table.

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Ramon hit play again.

He had returned to the estate after his FBI interview only to find Morrison gone, and Ramon was certain he knew where his employer, his former – and if he had his way – future lover, was. He'd spent a tortured afternoon in his quarters, stewing over it, and finally had emerged, made his way upstairs, and slunk into Morrison's study. He knew that J.T. had the video that Ramon had recorded at Fantasy – Ramon had walked in on him the day before while he was playing it. Like a moth to the flame, Ramon was drawn to it, and much like his employer, kept hitting play again and again, drinking in the scene like poison. That look on J.T.'s face was something he never saw anymore, but he knew that he'd been able to make J.T. look that way once. He played it until the afternoon sunlight faded, and day turned into night.

As he watched, black jealousy and rage filled his heart. If he knew where the professor was being kept, there was no doubt in his mind – he would kill him. That, however, seemed impossible – even if he managed to trail J.T. to where the professor was being held, it had to have insurmountable security. The place was probably as impenetrable as Fort Knox. His eyes roved over J.T.'s face as the video played on. God, he loved him so much it hurt – loved him and hated him at the same time. How could J.T. do this to him?

"Enjoying yourself?"

Ramon jumped at the words and whirled, to find the object of his desire standing in the doorway, with a cold, amused smile. Ramon stared, speechless for a moment, trying to come up with an excuse. "I missed you."

J.T. snorted with derision, and sauntered slowly into the room, his eyes locked on Ramon's. "You missed me," he repeated, sarcastically. "You're getting soft, Ramon. You like it too much, the attention, the pain. You are no longer a challenge. You bore me. Is it any wonder I find the professor more interesting?" His smile broadened, turned calculating. "And he was so good, today. I dispensed with the guards; it was just him and me. He fought me; Ramon, with the last bits of his strength, and I beat him for it, before I proved my dominance. It was better than anything that I ever had with you." The smile faded, and anger took its place. "Now get out."

Ramon moved toward the door, throat swelling with tears. "You'll be sorry," he hissed, as he passed J.T.

J.T. took a step towards him, stopping him in his tracks. "Are you threatening me?" His voice was soft, deadly, like the hiss of a cobra.

Ramon swallowed. "No," he protested, and the anger on his face turned pleading. "Someday, you will wish for me again, and I will not be there."

J.T.'s lip curled, and he jerked his head dismissively. "Perhaps. And perhaps not. Leave me."

Ramon put his head down and went silently, making his way down the hall, trembling with pain and rage. He couldn't bear this anymore; couldn't bear the thought of J.T. with another. Somehow, he would stop it, he vowed, no matter whom it hurt. If he couldn't have J.T., no one could.

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Colby showed up a half hour early the next morning and pulled in behind Don's SUV, parked on a small cul-de-sac off Mulholland. He got out and stretched, then grabbed two cups of coffee in cardboard containers, and strolled toward Don, who had slid slowly, stiffly, out of his SUV. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before, and looked like hell, and Colby wondered if he'd gotten any sleep the night before. He stuck out a cup, and Don accepted it gratefully.

"Thanks."

"Anything?"

Don sipped and shook his head, ruefully. "The place was quiet. David said there were a few cars in and out during the early evening, but it looked like hired help coming and going. He didn't see either Morrison or Ramon."

Colby grunted, and eyed Don with sympathy. "Get any sleep before you went on?"

Don lifted a shoulder. "Got a couple of winks at Char – my dad's -," he broke off, and ran a hand over his face. "Shit."

"Maybe you ought to take another couple. David can hold the office down for a while."

Don shook his head. "Nah. I'll catch up tonight – maybe I'll leave a little early this afternoon if it's quiet."

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Amita sat at her desk and stared into her cup of tea. She could feel fingers of tension clawing at her insides; the same nearly unbearable tension she'd felt since she found out that Charlie was missing. She was afraid, and upset, to be sure, but most of all, she was angry. She was angrier than she'd ever been in her life.

She knew it was inappropriate, but she couldn't help it. She and Don had both warned Charlie about hanging out with Morrison's fast crowd; he'd ignored them, and now here she was – mourning a life together that was just starting to blossom, mourning the intellectual presence she knew he could have become. She'd been secretly thrilled that he wasn't consulting for law enforcement anymore; she'd been convinced it was keeping him from greatness. Now, she'd found that not only had he not listened when he was told that hanging with Morrison was not a good idea, he'd apparently gone back to consulting, without consulting her. Now the life she'd envisioned for them was gone, and it was his stubborn, pig-headed fault.

A big tear plopped into the tea, and she blinked and sniffed, impatiently dashing the moisture away from her eyes. A voice at the door startled her. "Hey, are you okay?"

She looked up to see Dane Rastenbaum, and his comforting presence tipped her over the edge. She could feel tears welling up in earnest, and she looked down. "Yes – no – oh damn, I don't know." She buried her face in her hands, trying to stifle the sobs, and a second later felt a strong arm around her shoulders.

Dane was leaning down next to her, and he whispered in her ear, "Come on, now, it's going to be okay, you'll see."

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Larry Fleinhardt hurried down the hallway of CalSci; it seemed so familiar, yet oddly different, as if his time away had given him an objective view that he hadn't had before. That crack in the paint, the uneven sheen of the floor where the finish had been worn away by students' feet – odd little bits that he'd never noticed while he was there, suddenly jumped out at him. If he'd had time to reflect, he might have tried to relate the phenomenon to some obscure theory of the relativity of objects in the universe, but he was in a hurry. He was fresh from the airport, and he had a colleague who was in need of support. He had no doubt that the news of Charlie's disappearance had been unbearable for Amita. Hell, it was unbearable for him - the news that Charlie was missing had prompted him to take an immediate leave, at least a week, perhaps more if he was needed.

As he stopped in the doorway of her office and took in the scene, he was stunned. Amita was upset – she was crying; he could see the tears running down her cheeks. As far as being in need of support, however, it appeared she already had plenty. He stood there, staring with his mouth open, and watched while Dane Rastenbaum kissed her, slowly, tenderly. Their eyes were closed; they were unaware of his presence. After a split second that seemed to take an eon, he realized that not only was she not protesting, she was returning the kiss, and he sucked in a quick breath and backed away. Whirling, he bumbled down the hall, bumping blindly into a group of students on the way, as a hand crept toward the top of his head. "Oh, dear," he muttered to himself. "Oh, my."

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Colby's eyes narrowed as Morrison's limousine passed the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and he sat up a little in the driver's seat. He could just barely make out the outline of Morrison himself through the darkened rear window of the limo, wearing a Panama hat and dark sunglasses. If Walker's boys were on their toes, they should be along next. Sure enough, a short moment later, the unmarked dark sedan went smoothly past. The LAPD boys taking this shift of surveillance had picked him up, and Colby settled back in his seat, with a glance at his watch. A little after one. Damn. He'd just eaten his packed lunch at noon, and it seemed like hours ago. He reached down and opened his small plastic cooler, and pulled out a diet cola. A little jolt of caffeine was in order.

He took a swig, then immediately lowered the plastic bottle as another car went past, older, battered. The gardener's car, if he remembered correctly from the list they'd been given. He got a quick look at the driver before the vehicle vanished behind a manicured hedge. Damned if the guy didn't look a lot like J.T. Morrison, from this distance. He frowned, fumbling for the folder on the passenger seat and flipped it open, finding a photo of the car first, and then its owner – the gardener all right – a man named Sami Adjani. Yep, the guy did look kind of like J.T. – not the eyes so much, but he had the same dark hair, a similar jaw. "Huh," said Colby, and lifted his head and stared vacantly at the road in front of him. What if…

The thought forming in his brain vanished in the next instant, as another car, a silver Toyota, flashed into view, with a familiar figure at the wheel. Colby plopped his drink into the cup holder, started his vehicle, and threw it into gear. Ramon Mendez was on the move.

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End, Chapter 32